‘So do you like her?’
‘She’s eight years my junior mother.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘It does if it shows. Can we please change the subject?’
‘Yes of course. I didn’t mean to pry.’ She says gingerly, because enquiry into my love life was absolutely her intention. And then, because she simply can’t help herself: ‘It’s just that you’re perfectly matched according to Genie and as she stayed over, I thought you might be more forthcoming like when you were seeing…’
She stops suddenly. I swallow my mouthful and look up. My father readjusts his focus from the text on his eyes, and looks askance at his wife.
‘When I was seeing who?’
‘Well…’ She begins, shaking out the folded napkin on her right, then carefully dabbing her mouth with it. She glances quickly at my father with culpable timidity. ‘Before the incident, you’d been seeing a young woman. Her name was Starla Carr. But you had no recollection of her when you woke up.’
The atmosphere is suddenly tense. I watch her closely, waiting to see if there’s more. I can feel my father's eyes assessing us both.
‘As you know, they gave you drugs at the scene to stop the haemorrhaging. You had multiple skull fractures. The drugs saved your life but your short term memory was affected. You’d only known the young woman for a few days, which is probably why you’ve forgotten her. We decided there was no point telling you as she’s now moved on. I’m sorry.’
She eagerly awaits my response. For the first time in my life, I’m forced to consider if my mother is a good liar. She looks nervous, which could be a sign that she’s lying and no good at it. But if she was in on the CIA, would she have allowed this crucial piece of information to slip so easily? She shuns me with her eyes then starts eating again.
The worst part of waking from a comma, aside from learning that your best friends are gone, is the realisation that the people who remain have changed more than you have. I don’t recognise this attentive female who wears her heart shamelessly on her sleeve. My mother was extremely fond of Jessica and Hero, and for a while she thought she might lose me. She told me that whilst sitting by my intensive care pod waiting for me to wake up; she’d had an epiphany - a moment of absolute clarity in which she came to terms with her own mortality. She realised that the health implants give us a false sense of security. They make us feel that we are invincible; immune from premature expiration. Bodyguards also create the illusion of living in a bubble of security, safe from injury. That bubble burst when she was forced to consider that I might never wake up; that death is still a possibility and that risk cannot be completely eliminated. The result of this revelation appears to be a softening of her nature and newfound appreciation for life. Since the incident that never happened, she works less. At home and with friends, there are more displays of affection, more emotionally charged interactions. I’m aware of her desire to know me better than she did before the attack. She longs for a closeness we never had and makes every effort to enjoy time in my company. It’s uncharacteristic and the strongest indicator yet that she knows nothing.
I pretend to give the matter of my forgotten fling some serious thought. Despite her new disposition, my mother is a woman who’s used to speaking her mind and not having to censor the content. Sooner or later, the truth would have come out regardless of whether or not she was told to keep quiet. I must have trusted her if I told her about Starla. Or was it necessary in order to make the relationship believable? I could pretend to suddenly remember the young woman. But if they are in on the brainwashing, they might be forced to contact whatever agency or individual is responsible for wiping my mind again. So I decide that it’s safer to deny all knowledge of the affair:
‘Well, she can’t have been that important to me if I don’t remember her.’
My mother looks relieved. Her shoulders drop and she starts eating again. The bright green glow returns to my father's eyes. He hasn’t changed since the incident. There’s still an impenetrable veil which makes him virtually impossible to read. Returning to the data rolling across his eyes is no guarantee that he’s satisfied with my answer, but for now I’ll accept it as a sign that the answer I gave was sufficient.
‘Let’s talk about what kind of day we’ve had.’ Says my mother, moving on cheerfully. Then turning to my father: ‘Edward, do you want to go first?’
He doesn’t answer. She glares at him disapprovingly. ‘Edward! What’s so important that it can’t wait until after dinner?’
Reluctantly, he taps too fingers on his left hand then picks up his knife. ‘My day was fine.’ He says, then puts a forkful of fish into his mouth. He has a knack for dampening her enthusiasm - more noticeable now than ever.
‘How was your day Inigo?’ She asks, without looking up.
I wish I could answer that it’s been the strangest, most confusing and yet totally liberating day of my life. ‘Good, thanks.’ I reply.
She conveys with a weary sigh that we’re both hopeless.
I promised Hero that I would carry on as if nothing has changed. But I don’t think I can keep up the act without a subtle attempt to find out if they’re both in the dark. I believe that my mother's mistake just created an opportunity to test them, as following her disclosure about my brief affair with Starla Carr, wouldn’t it seem strange if I didn’t ask more questions?
‘How did I meet this woman - Starla was it?’
There’s a pause before she answers. It’s possible that she’s choosing her words carefully. ‘It was in a cafe, I believe.’
‘She wasn’t a Genie match then?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘Yes, I did. She was also young, like Heather.’
‘Did you approve of the relationship?’
‘What does it matter?’ buts in my father. ‘She was a nobody. She didn’t wait around, which tells you everything you need to know.’
‘You can’t blame him for being curious about his own experiences Edward. But your father’s right Inigo; it serves no purpose.’
I shrug; neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Rapid fire responses tend to be genuine, especially when the subject matter suddenly changes.
‘Whose idea was this?’
‘Whose idea was what?’ She asks.
‘Family date night.’
‘You know whose idea it was.’ She answers, her brow now furrowed with concern. ‘It was suggested to us as part of your rehabilitation.’
'Yes, of course.’ I say, pretending to suddenly recall.
‘It’s not such a bad idea is it? To connect every now and again.’
I study her expression, searching for signs of insincerity as she picks at the pile of green vegetables on her plate.
‘You were very confused when you woke up.’ She continues. ‘The doctors thought it might help speed up your recovery if we made time to talk regularly.’
‘Does that include asking questions about what happened?’
‘I suppose…’ She hesitates. ‘If you think it would help.’
‘Yes, I think it would.’
‘You know what happened.’ Says my father, as if jaded at the thought of going over it all again.
‘For heaven's sake Edward! Ignore him Inigo.’ She tells me. ‘What would you like to know sweetheart?’
He looks briefly annoyed, then resigns himself to the inevitable.
I put my knife and fork neatly together, then fold my arms and look at them both: ‘Why didn’t Hero protect me?’
My mother takes a deep breath. ‘He tried his best. The attack was almost impossible to pre-empt. By all accounts…’
‘Eye witness accounts.’
‘Yes of course…’
‘Is there any footage?’
‘It happened in the final lap of the Shoreham District Challenge. It was crowded, so wasn’t captured fully by CCTV. And thank goodness; I couldn’t bear to watch it. Or even know that it exists. And I don’t
see how it couldn’t possibly help you, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Yes it is. I’d like to know where Hero was?’
‘He was shadowing you, of course!’
‘But he didn’t see it coming.’
‘No.’
‘Wasn’t that his job; to see it coming? Isn’t that what shadows do?’
‘Oh Inigo!’ She says, sighing heavily then rubbing her brow with her fingertips. She then continues in a gentler voice, as if trying to explain a very complicated matter to a small child. ‘Despite his modifications, Hero was only human. Exceptional but still only flesh and blood.’ She looks down suddenly; a poor attempt to hide a look of utter devastation that flashes across her eyes. If only she knew he was alive and well, living under her house. ‘A LOSER striking during a local sporting event with hundreds of participants is unheard of. But Hero did protect you and he paid the ultimate price in doing so. I know you’re angry and feeling lost still. But blaming him for not getting there fast enough won’t bring him back. And you mustn't feel guilty either. He did his job; he saved you by getting in the attacker’s way before that wretch could do any more damage. To think, I used to pity LOSERs. I could understand their struggles to some extent but now I...’
Her voice crumbles and her eyes fill with water. I prepare for the outpouring by bringing to mind some words of comfort and consoling phrases. But she gives a little cough and pulls herself together.
‘It was a tragedy.’ She says quietly and as if in summary, then brings her glass to her lips.
The point of a Shadow is to identify potential threats. Hero is near impossible to knock to the ground; I’ve tried many times in sparring sessions with him. Am I really expected to believe that an exceptional Shadow, one with eyes in the back of his head, would not have seen the attack coming? Even if taken by surprise, the idea that he couldn’t break through a crowd, stop and disarm a much smaller, weaker man with no combat skills is farfetched to say the least. Furthermore, that he could be pummelled to death; that a hammer could shatter his reinforced rib cage and kill him before paramedics or police arrived at the scene is utterly absurd. The story we were fed is preposterous and if she hadn’t been told it was the truth, she wouldn’t believe it either. I accepted it because it was uploaded as a memory and could not otherwise have accounted for that day in November. But it now seems totally ridiculous.
I look her in the eye and I’m almost certain that she believes she’s speaking the truth as she was told it and doesn’t know about the CIA. My father on the other hand...
‘Why are there no press reports about the attack?’ The question is aimed at him, but my mother replies.
‘You know the answer to that question. No-one knew who you were and we wanted to keep it that way. Are you feeling okay?’ She says, frowning hard at me.
‘I’m fine.’ I reply, aware that my headache has got worse. But strangely, I still feel very hungry. ‘Please, continue.’
‘There’s nothing more to say.’
‘Other than to explain why it is that I can’t find anything at all about an attack in Shoreham, three months ago.’
‘If the press had got hold of the story; an assault on a member of a high profile family who just happens to writes sympathetically about LOSERs - the irony - they’d have had a field day. We didn’t want the attention on us, or on you. It was hard enough trying to get through that dreadful time without journalists hanging around or demanding information. So Edward made a deal with the press. Officially, it was a nobody who was attacked that day.’
‘You do know that fake news is illegal? A direct breach of the revised journalists’ code.’
‘We know the law Inigo.’ Replies my father, looking up at me sharply.
‘What did you expect us to do under the circumstances, darling?’ Adds my mother.
I ignore the question and decide instead to press my father. ‘The public has a right to honest and accurate information.’
‘You believe the public had a right to know what happened to you? What about our right to privacy?’
‘The incident occurred in a public place.’
‘And it was reported as such. Only the victim was not you. The reason you cannot find any reports on the attack is that they were blocked from you, in order to avoid any further distress.’
By who? The doctors?’
‘No Inigo.’ he says, in a condescending tone. ‘By me.’
The incident never took place therefore there was nothing to block. This is the strongest suggestion yet that my father knows the truth. I decide to hold fire on the questions for now. My head is pounding and the more I talk, the worse it seems to get.
‘Are you suffering?’ Asks my mother. She’s more in tune with me these days. This is not necessarily a good thing.
‘No. I’m just tired.’ I lie, as my eyes start to ache and now, my vision blurs too.
She rests her knife and fork on her plate then looks me over carefully. ‘Edward, can you do a brain scan after dinner?’
‘No seriously, I’m fine…’ I reply, squinting hard to refocus then panicking because a scan right now would be disastrous as it would undoubtedly show a flurry of brain activity.
'For goodness sake stop codling him Zara.’ Says my father in an irritated tone.
‘No, Edward, I’m worried. You’re looking rather pale Inigo. I really do think…’ she begins, but my father interrupts.
‘A scan is not necessary. The last results were perfect. His symptoms are likely the result of sleep deprivation after a weekend of heavy drinking and frolicking.’
My mother relaxes and grins, though I don’t think his verdict on the matter was intended to amuse her. I relax a little too. It’s safe to assume that if my father does know and suspected a re-awakening, he’d have insisted on the scan.
‘You’ve found your appetite again.’ He says, noticing my empty plate as he scoops the last few morsels of his meal onto his fork.
I look down and consider how quickly I finished and that I definitely don’t feel full. The headache and blurred vision are likely the result of stress. Stress makes you hungry, and as my brain is working hard to reconnect the old memories, I should eat more to prevent the symptoms worsening.
‘P400.’ I say, addressing the Bug in the room. The machine moves forward; a smooth action as if gliding from its waiting position by the serving entrance. P400 is a lightweight chrome, upright robot. Its design is loosely based on a praying mantis. The silver head of the Bug is wide and faceless like a black crash helmet and contains the hard drive. The body is essentially a storage compartment with two sets of arms that fold down when not in use. A third pair of arms are fitted with a selection of tools that work like hands to grip, collect, fold or perform whatever task is required. We haven’t yet named the robot. My mother can’t decide between two she’s found on a ‘names for AI’s’ website and my father and I couldn't care less. That robots do not need names is one of the few things we agree on. For now, we refer to it simply as ‘P400.’
I turn to the Bug and speak where the face should be: ‘P400; make traditional cheesecake.’
‘Really?’ Says my mother, with a grimace. ‘You must be on the mend.’
My father glances in my direction but I pretend not to notice. I was mended within ten days of supposedly receiving my injuries. She’s referring to the fact that I appear to be back to my old ways, indicating that perhaps something has changed. I now wonder if requesting more food was a mistake.
P400, with its arms in resting position, responds with: ‘Recipe 10733; traditional cheesecake. Warning: this meal exceeds recommended fat and sugar intake. A small portion is advised; maximum one hundred and fifty grams per adult. Please refer to your daily stats. Would you like me to read them out to you Master Inigo?’
‘Is there any way to turn that off?’ I say, and addressing both parents.
‘Why would we want to?’ Replies my mother, chuckling.
‘Because we have health impl
ants. I don’t need a lecture every time I request food - it’s bad enough receiving bleeps and alerts from my chip.’
‘The implants aren’t a licence to stuff yourself silly. Your body still has to do some of the work Inigo, to get rid of the excess poisons. You won’t live much more than a hundred and ten if you ignore the advice given.’
Longevity is not my concern right now. But seeming out of character because I’m ordering more food, is. The information could be logged. I can’t take the chance.
‘Cancel request.’ I tell the robot. ‘Advice noted.’
With no further instruction, P400 returns to its position at the far end of the table. I’m not happy with it being in the room on account of its ability to assess my behaviour. I don’t think it can tell that I have a headache, but AI’s are updated all the time. Who knows what it’s capable of since it was purchased?
‘Can the P400 be dismissed?’
‘Why?’ Asks my father, taking a sip of sparkling water.
‘Why not? Evelyn would have been.’
‘Evelyn was a person. And she was old. It wasn’t fair to make her stand in waiting whilst we ate. That’s the problem with human labour; it gets tired and wears out. We should have invested in Bugs years ago.’
‘Have either of you heard from Evelyn?’ I ask, resisting the urge to argue that no machine as yet can match the skill and intuition of a human being. But suddenly, I feel light headed. I pick up my own glass of water and try not to guzzle it down too fast.
‘She messaged to say that she’d arrived in Spain.’ answers my mother.
‘But since then?’ I say, my head now spinning. It takes all my strength to act naturally.
‘It’s only been a few weeks darling; give her a chance to settle in.’
‘She left in rather a hurry, don’t you think? She didn’t even wait for me to wake up.’
‘Why would she? ’ says my father, rolling his eyes.
‘Edward.’ snaps my mother, then fires him a look that suggests that my questions are to be tolerated. ‘The truth is Inigo; you might never have woken up. Evelyn has relatives abroad, her real family, whom I’m sure she missed dearly. And it was time for her to retire. I know she lived with us for a very long time but...’
2079- Beyond the Blue Page 4