‘Alright.’ replies Starla, wondering what on earth that has to do with anything. ‘I went for a run early. I came home then roasted a protein loaf and played virtual scrabble with my pet parrot...’
‘Honey.’
‘How do you know his name?
‘Honey was uploaded with care instructions for your father when you still lived in Shoreham and worked at Greenlees. The parrot also contains his favourite books, games and music from his youth.’
‘Have you been spying on me?’
‘No.’ He replies, shaking his head.
‘Then how could you know that?’
‘Because I know who you are Starla. And you know who I am.’ He says, gazing into her eyes.
Before long, Starla begins to believe that possibly she does know this ‘Hero’ person and so without thinking, says: ‘Yes. You’re the dark stranger in my dreams.’
He raises one eyebrow questioningly.
‘No, that didn’t come out right....’ She says, blushing. ‘What I mean is... ‘
‘Ask me what I did for Christmas.’ He says, cutting her off.
Starla squints up at him, wondering if she might now be dreaming. She definitely remembers getting up this morning and leaving the house. But maybe she dreamt that too. ‘What did you do for Christmas?’ She asks nervously, anticipating a non-standard reply from the mysterious stranger.
‘I wrote something.’
‘Oh?’
He reaches into his jacket and retrieves what at first appears to be a black notebook. On closer inspection, Starla sees that it is in fact an electronic pad. Her father owned one many years ago. He’d kept it since his teens but as it no longer connected to the network, it was more of a keepsake - a retro gadget. Hero passes her the pad and she lifts the cover. The screen is blue and there is only one icon; a white square with the year date ‘2078’ written underneath.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s everything you need to know.’
Starla taps on the icon to bring up the document then silently reads the first few lines. ‘A diary?’ She says, looking up briefly.
Hero nods in reply then sips his apple juice through the straw. She speed reads the first few paragraphs, not really taking in the detail. Hero looks around the cafe, in the way a person might if they were waiting for somebody. Surely he doesn’t expect her to read the entire thing right now? A few lines further on, she stumbles across a name. The words appear to jump off the screen. ‘Who is Inigo Jones?’ she asks, peering up at the side of the dark giant’s face.
‘The other man in your dreams.’
Chapter 1
Shadows possess the element of surprise. They’re trained to be silent and invisible. That's why I didn’t hear the footsteps as Hero crept into the house and placed the electronic pad on my office desk.
I woke this morning from an unremarkable dream. I vaguely recalled the visions I'd had in a series of fleeting glimpses and flashbacks. I’d been plagued by nightmares since the incident which I now know to be a lie; a three month personal history invented by the government, then uploaded to my brain in attempt to keep the truth buried. I’d checked the time on my eye then laid there a while, listening out for noises in the house and trying to summon the will to get up and take a shower. Little did I know then that it would be my last morning waking up in ignorance.
I’d spent the past few weeks moping. My parents words not mine, but I don’t deny it to be true. The festive season came and went with little joy or revelry. I was lost without my Shadow. However the last couple of days had marked an improvement in my condition, much to their approval. The lovely Heather Rhodes had entered my life. Was she lovely? It was hard to determine. She presented well; twenty three years old, polite with a pleasant face and rare natural red hair. PA to a north London based marketing executive and the niece of an MP with whom my father associates. In many respects, formulaic, predictable. Nonetheless we arranged to meet in a restaurant for people who don’t like food or atmosphere. Ideal for a first date with a Genie match which is basically an interview. Notwithstanding my terror of being out in public these days, I'd felt strangely optimistic about the meeting. If you can’t beat them, join them I’d told myself. The upper class that is; the wealthy few whose lack of struggle makes them dull, unimaginative and generally lacking in empathy. But you can’t paint them all with the same brush I suppose. I’d tried to concentrate my efforts on my date but before long I became distracted by the heat, the sound of cutlery clinking on china plates and other people's conversations. I’d tried hard not to look agitated as the noises grew louder in my ears. It became almost unbearable. But then something occurred, sometime between the empty dinner plates being cleared away and the baked fruit desserts arriving, that made extending our first meeting seem increasingly likely. I became temporarily fixated on her only other distinctive feature; the cute freckles on the bridge of her nose.
I’d requested a bottle of Merlot to be brought to the library ahead of our arrival back at the house. In my experience, a guest’s first impression of this room is often revealing. Ms Rhodes neglected to pass comment on the awesome collection of books; their rarity, historical value or weighty significance in a paperless world. I’d asked her to call me Jo but she’d insisted on Inigo. I think she’d already decided that it suits me better. She might have said as much but I don’t remember. The more I drank, the better I’d began to feel. I almost managed to convince myself that I could settle for a relationship that is satisfactory. I’d watched her mouth as she’d talked tennis and a desire to travel to exotic places, then allowed my eyes to roll over her toned, naked shoulders. After grappling with the idea of going to bed with the best match that Genie could come up with, she’d boldly taken the initiative, which thereafter made the deed inevitable.
The contact made me feel alive for an indeterminable amount of time owing to the amount of alcohol I’d drank, after which came the obligatory post coital embrace; the need for her to confirm that what we’d just done had been in some way meaningful. ‘I’m not much of hugger’ I’d felt the need to say after a few conscious-stricken minutes in her beautiful bare arms. I’d wished that I’d had more to offer; a charming lie or an adoring gaze that implied that she gave me butterflies or something of the kind. But the effects of the wine had already worn off by then. Blasted implants. A thought entered my head as I lay there staring up at the ceiling with her head on my chest; that the next woman I went to bed with would be more...familiar. I couldn’t shake the feeling, or the sense of ineptness about the situation.
Heather Rhodes stayed over. As by mid morning she’d made no attempt to leave the bed, I’d asked her what she’d like to do with the day ahead. She’d replied that she didn’t mind, so I’d found my favourite cartoons in the hope that she might then decide to leave. Her indifference to my animated hero’s quirks and quips irritated me more than if she’d actually complained. So I’d requested the news. She’d tutted appropriately at the announcement of another citizen brutally murdered by a LOSER, then rubbed my leg with her foot sympathetically and I’d remembered myself again. I’d remembered that I felt hollow and this is why:
The upload, part of a procedure called Clinically Induced Amnesia or CIA, had convinced me that I’d been the victim of a LOSER attack eight weeks previously. I’d survived the bloody assault in Shoreham, a district on the south coast, where apparently I’d travelled to interview a prize winning dog breeder, but woken from a week long coma to find that Hero had been killed defending me. A Mr Sam Steele, who’d been suffering from a terminal illness, had been committed to a Health Farm and died hours later. So deeply repressed were my memories, that the name had not triggered an instant recall. I’d then learned that in the time I’d been unconscious, my oldest friend, the highly respected solicitor Jessica Flax, had drowned river-canoeing - a fact that I’d apparently blocked out. As if things couldn’t get any worse, the housekeeper Evelyn who I’d known for most of my life had retired and been replaced w
ith the latest model of upright Bug; the P400.
Heather’s being there suddenly infuriated me. Her presence was no longer required. I wasn’t sure that it had ever been and as far as I was concerned, the previous night’s frolics were inconsequential. But the trace of the floral perfume on her skin reminded me of Jess, so I’d resisted the urge to ask her to leave. I’d pulled her in closer instead. Oblivious to my bout of nostalgia induced by her odour, she’d fallen soundly back to sleep. I’d listened to her breathing and for a while, felt grateful to not be completely alone with my recently acquired emotional baggage. But the novelty of a stranger in my bed whose only likeness to a woman I truly cared for was her scent, eventually wore off. So I’d lifted her arm like a dead weight on my rib cage, then wandered downstairs to the kitchen to make a sandwich. Shortly after, she’d returned to London. .
The following morning (this morning) I found myself sitting in my office staring at the mysterious device that had appeared on my desk. I felt nervous and excited, as if somehow I’d known to expect it. I lifted the cover then tapped on the only icon on the screen; a white square with the date ‘2078’ written underneath. There was a foreword and a set of instructions to follow after I’d finished reading. Apparently I’d started the diary six months ago. Hero had taken over writing it after we’d found Starla Carr; our unassuming undercover operative. Starla. The name resonated with me. I knew it had meant more than the unconnected article I’d pulled it from a few days ago. But I had absolutely no recollection of the woman in this diary, or for that matter, the document itself. Only an inkling that it's the sort of thing I'd do under those highly unlikely circumstances. That and my innate curiosity, kept me reading. In spite of the horrors revealed, I wanted to believe that every word of it was true. Almost every word. Jess was still dead. That much I had to accept - again. But believing that all these things really had happened wasn’t enough; I needed to know for certain that they had. The documents authenticity, validated at that point only by its existence, did not provoke a sudden awakening. The memories didn’t all just come flooding back - not after twelve weeks of believing another version of reality entirely. The upload still dominated and my fear of LOSERs remained. I felt disoriented; in limbo between an uncertain ‘now’ and a highly implausible recorded account of ‘then’. But it did explain where my leather jacket went. No doubt confiscated by agencies of the oppressive state whilst I was unofficially in their custody. My vivid, disturbing dreams now made sense in a way that dreams aren’t supposed to because they hadn’t been dreams at all. The visions I’d had almost every night since the incident had in fact been splinters of the truth.
I thought about the flu epidemic of the last six weeks; the thousands dead over Christmas and I felt sick. Sick over the loss of life. Sick that I’d been so brainwashed that the reports about Health Farms filled to capacity and the escalating body count hadn’t re-established the facts; the grim findings of our investigation that had led to Starla being erased from my mind.
It seems that psychopaths’ talents are being redirected. It explains the lack of chaos and the reason why most people comply. There are no outliers. No risk takers. No troublemakers. They’ve been put to work, murdering the masses. Criminal minds working against humanity. Weapons in a war on the poor; the great cull of the twenty-first century.
Hero had very helpfully included photos and videos. They matched, in essence, the characters I’d seen and interacted with in my sleep. Starla Carr; average build, average height, mousy coloured hair, loosely tied. In one picture, dressed in a white shirt and black jeans. I stared hard at the image. I wished I could remember more about her. Apparently I’d taken the photo as she’d walked up a hill in Brighton to meet me. Could by any stretch of the imagination this unexceptional looking young woman really have been capable of stealing drugs from a Health Farm and escaping the clutches of a government agent? I shut the cover on the pad then sat at my desk looking out of the window at the grey February sky, wondering if Hero really was in the secret underground bunker of the house. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter 2
I made sure I wasn’t seen slipping into the narrow corridor on the ground floor, even though it’s my usual route to the kitchen. I knew that the house was empty, but I didn’t trust the P400.
The entrance to the underground bunker is a secret panelled opening to the right of what was once the servants door to the kitchen. Directly opposite is the serving door to the dining room. I’d discovered the secret chamber as a child, though not through exploring the house. I’d found the floor plans to the mansion whilst snooping one day in my mother's office. They showed a room beneath the kitchen with no marked access, as well as several other passages and hidden doors leading off other main rooms. Once Hero had earned my trust, I’d confided in him about the secret underground chamber and we’d made it our mission to find the way in. Once we’d located the lever that opened the door concealed by the panels, we’d decided to keep knowledge of its existence to ourselves. It was empty when we found it, so we turned it into a den. My mother was born and raised in this house and like her father before her, has a professional interest in the design of all buildings. There’s no way that she doesn’t know about the underground room. But the point is, she never found out that I knew about it.
I stand facing the panels, curl my fingers around the metal curve of the lighting sconce, and pull down hard. The door clicks open and instantly I’m reminded of my alias Fred Jones and his companions. I step in then carefully descend the dimly lit stone staircase. The tiny steps wind left under the kitchen fireplace so I have to crouch until I reach the bottom. It’s cool and dark, and smells musty like it always has. I get a flashback on the second to last step; a vague recollection of having been down here recently - carrying boxes I think. The only light is a yellow glow coming from under the door. I hesitate before reaching for the handle, draw a deep breath and prepare to see a ghost.
I find Hero at the far side of the small room sitting on a military style bunk, reading a paperback. Next to the bed is a glossy white cabinet; upon it a desk lamp and a full glass of water. To the right are two free-standing shelving units stacked high with tinned and vacuum packed food, neatly arranged in rows. There are four black metal containers that I now recall, are filled with electrical equipment and a variety of gadgets and weapons. On the closest set of shelves are three piles of perfectly folded clothes and bedding. Beyond them is a door leading to the emergency escape route; the tunnel that comes out in the forest. To the left is a small white porcelain basin. On the sink is a bar of multipurpose soap and an ultraviolet toothbrush. It’s rudimentary. Basic - like something out of the thirties.
‘I like what you’ve done with the place.’
‘Thanks.’ He replies, closing the book then slowly standing.
‘Did I help?’
‘Yes you did.’
He stops before me. He looks the same as he always has; moody, immense and unmovable. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but now consider that a diet of canned food can’t be all that bad for you.
‘How’s the world of journalism?’ He asks.
The sound of his voice is like music to ears. ‘Dull since they pulled my column from the paper. I thought you were dead.’ I quickly add, so there can be no mistaking how overwhelming this is.
‘What else did they tell you?’
‘That it was a LOSER attack. The assailant came from behind which is why I don’t remember anything. His name was Sam Steele. Apparently he’s dead.’
He lowers his head but says nothing, so I continue: ‘Your brother has your ashes.’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘But not possible.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘You took your time.’ I say, noticing now that his skin is the lightest it’s ever been.
‘You try escaping a secret government facility, getting yourself to Italy then back into the country undetected.’
�
�But I’m not a super soldier. You are.’
He smiles and I step forward. I’m not much of a hugger, but there are exceptions.
We sit and the bed creaks with our weight. Rarely can a moment truly be described as surreal. My best friend, protector and partner in crime returned from the grave - as it were. I look up to see on the wall opposite a selection of old glass screens connected by wires, leading to a number of old fashioned plugs. All the screens are on, displaying areas of the outside of the house. One of the cameras is positioned above the front door. I helped him set up this surveillance. I remember now.
‘I’m sorry about Jess.’ he says, quietly.
My mother has talked a lot about her since my incident, but hearing her name now hurts more than ever. If it wasn’t for my actions, she’d still be alive. I alerted her to the suspicious Bug deaths. I struggle to find the words to express myself: ‘There was an expectation when I started reading the diary... I suppose...I hoped that it wasn’t true.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He offers again. ‘You weren’t to blame. She was just doing her job - exceptionally well as usual.’
‘I wish I could believe that Hero.’ We sit in silence for while. I look up at the monitors again. There’s nothing going on outside. I then look down at his hands and notice the scar. ‘You removed your Chip.’
‘That was always the plan, if we got this far.’
The joint line is bumpy and glistens in the light. I guess he had to remove it in a hurry with no access to artificial skin.
‘I remember.’ I say. I’m not sure that I do remember, or if it just stands to reason. Hero is now the rarest of individuals. A stray. A vagabond. Out of the system and under the radar. A ghost.
‘You’ve done well.’ he says, looking up at me. ‘I wasn’t expecting you for another few hours. It’s a lot to take in all at once.’
2079- Beyond the Blue Page 2