‘Very well Master. Do you require a beverage?’
‘Tea, as usual.’ Then to appease the robots need to fill me with vitamins: ‘I’ll have a vegetable crush as well. The greenest, healthiest one you come up with.’
‘Calculating nutritional value of 200 of the most popular crush recipes…’
‘I don’t need to know P400! Calculate on your way out.’ I say, with a shooing motion that it doesn’t understand, so continues to make the bed. ‘Oh, and find and press my suit for tonight. I have a dinner date with Heather Rhodes at 8pm. As part of my own mental health management plan, I’m attempting to leave the house again.’
‘Very good Master.’
It made sense to prepare as if I would be going. And given that P400 now understands that my ‘symptoms’ relate to fear of LOSERs and public places, it won’t seem strange when I cancel.
I threw on a jumper and jeans, then pulled the notebook out from under the bed only to discover that what I’d written in the night was utter nonsense. I’d drawn a couple of diagrams and arrows pointing to and from words that I couldn’t read; an attempt to apply method and clarity to my midnight scribbling fit. But in the cold light of day, it made no sense whatsoever. I wondered if I had in fact still been asleep whilst writing it; experiencing a dream in which I believed I was awake. However, amidst the hastily jotted words and shoddy half constructed sentences, I’d written and circled a name ‘Arthur Luvel’. The reclusive son of Howard Luvel, the Shoreham MP who Elaine had mentioned in her letter. I realised then that Arthur and I have something in common; a reluctance to leave the house and an indirect connection to the organisation PEACE. Me through my discovery, and him through his father's involvement. I was absolutely certain that investigating the MP’s hermit son would prove useful, so I ripped out the page then hid it in the back of my office drawer.
I ate my late breakfast whilst working on an article for my new column ‘My talented pet.’ When I returned to work two months ago, it was suggested that I ease myself back in with something ‘manageable’. I had no desire to write about LOSERs of course, so it made sense to abandon human affairs. The Adapt then scrapped my column, claiming that they’d actually gained readers in the past few weeks, on account of it having been abolished. I’d had no choice other than to accept. I brought up a screen and checked my inbox for new stories before setting to work on an article about a rabbit with circus skills. I watched the interview with the proud owner and short film of the performing fluff ball. I then extracted some commonplace quotes and scraped together a few desperate paragraphs to mildly entertain someone with five minutes of their life to waste. I knew that writing these superficial non-news stories that roll across subscribers’ eyes, contribute to maintaining the illusion of a super-safe, happy society and I wasn’t happy to continue doing it. However, as reporting on non-events was pretty much all I’d been doing lately; I had to keep it going.
It was the only story in my inbox that morning so by midday, I was rapping my finger on the underside of the desk and scanning the shelves crammed with my old toy collection, contemplating remodelling some of my ships. Building models used to help me think. I considered that it might help me now with retrieval. I desperately wanted to pick up the diary. But I couldn’t afford to suffer another headache, so I put in a request for another story.
The assignments came it fits and spurts, but I dragged out writing the articles and felt better for leaving the diary in its place, in the draw of my office desk. At one point it crossed my mind to move it to somewhere safer. But I couldn’t think of anywhere better than the draw that I never use. It’s been empty for years; nothing belongs in it so P400 has no need to open it.
At 5 pm, I messaged Heather and explained that I was snowed under with new stories so wouldn’t be able to make dinner. She messaged back almost immediately saying that she understood perfectly; apparently work had been busy today for her too. So with that loose end tied, I relaxed and allowed myself another break from hardly working at all.
I leave my office and walk downstairs to the library where it’s warm. I sit in my favourite chair, watching the fire. The two greyhounds occupy the rug in front of the flames, both fast asleep. I love this time of year for the necessity of gathering around the hearth. There’s something nostalgic about an open fire. It must be instinct to huddle around a source of light and heat. I watch the dogs twitch as they dream. They sleep a lot since we got the P400. Three times a day they’re led into fields by a drone controlled by the domestic robot, and return thoroughly exhausted. They’re fitter than they’ve ever been. I hadn't realised how much weight they’d put on in the past couple of years. Evelyn used to feed them titbits and leftovers before scrapping the dinner plates. P400 has no concept of treats and spoils.
My head sinks back into the chair and I close my eyes to the sound of crackling firewood. I can’t resist trying to revive memories in this room. I attempt to recapture some of the time spent with Starla, but all I can see on the inside of my eyelids is something like the remnants of a recurring dream. There’s no substance. Every time I think I remember something; a snippet of a conversation or something she was wearing, it slips away like sand through my fingers. I have to meet her again. Increasingly, I get the feeling that we made a connection. She was genuinely attracted to me, which made the deception easier. But would she have done half the things she did, had she not hoped it might be reciprocated? And in the end, was it? And why would she, given that I behaved so badly? I used her. But with good reason - the best possible reason in fact. And her motives weren’t altruistic; she was set to benefit from the services of a solicitor. That was the deal. But then I lost Jess and there was no reason for her to continue helping me. Unless of course, I was the reason. No, that’s arrogant. Or is it? She hardly knows me and I don’t know her. Yes, of course it’s arrogant. She did what she did for her parents. For the sake of exposing these appalling crimes. It took courage to re-enter the Health Farm; no doubt she surpassed herself in doing so. Her bravery underpins my thoughts of her right now, but I wonder how deep my admiration of her goes...
Chapter 5
I’m interrupted from my meditation by an urgent message from P400:
‘Unscheduled vehicle requesting entry at the gate. One passenger; Ms Heather Rhodes.’
‘For pity's sake!’ I proclaim, jumping up from the chair. ‘She’s persistent. Access granted. Show her to my office.’ I say, hurrying out of the library. ‘And put the kettle on.’
‘You’d like me to boil some water Master Inigo?’
‘Yes please. Then make tea with it.’ I reply sarcastically.
‘A colloquial term?’
‘Yes, a colloquial term.’ I retort, hastily marching down the hall. ‘Evelyn used to say it; the human housekeeper who you replaced. Add it to your vocabulary.’
Three minutes was just enough time to make myself look busy before I heard her heels on the stairs. She didn’t knock. I didn’t expect her to; she’s more brazen than any young woman I’ve met before.
‘What are you doing here Heather?’ I say, swivelling round on my desk chair.
‘I brought you gift.’ She replies, striding into the room then putting the small crate she’s carrying down on the desk. ‘Raspberry cider, brewed on the family estate.’ She pulls out one of the bottles. I inspect the charming handwritten label that appropriately reads: ‘Rhodes Raspberry Cider.’
I watch her long slender fingers as she puts the bottle down on the desk, then straightens her dress. Her skin is a creamy colour where there are no freckles and her nails are painted chrome. I then notice the silver bracelet studded with glistening green stones that adorns her left wrist. The floral detail in the silver is exquisite. It looks old, authentic. Her taste in jewellery surprises me. I’d assumed her to be thoroughly modern; all body art and holographic adornments. Perhaps I judged her too quickly.
‘I take it you had no hand in the production.’ I remark, in relation to the home brew.
‘Absolutely not.’ She says adamantly, but with a sense humour. ‘Picking and boiling berries is not my thing. I prefer to enjoy the fruits of other’s labour. And don’t tell me you don’t; I’ve seen you demolish homemade apple pie and I’m pretty sure you’ve never set foot in the orchard and have no idea how to cook anything.’
Actually, I can cook reasonably well, but I don’t have the patience to explain. P400 does most of the cooking now. The apple pie is not as good as Evelyn’s. As the robot doesn’t bake spontaneously, its on-demand deserts are bland because they lack passion. She stands facing me with her hands on her hips. She’s dressed for dinner in a silver halter neck dress that matches the nail polish. Her hair is pinned up and intricately plaited. She looks stunning, in a high maintenance way. Exemplary of elegance and classic style. Her eyes are decorated with tiny green gems, in keeping with the theme of her other jewellery, rising from the outside corners of her eyes to her hairline. She’s gone to a lot of trouble. I feel a pang of guilt. But it’s not enough to stop me asking her to leave in the next fifteen minutes. Somehow I’ve got to get the message across that this relationship is unworkable and inconvenient, or we won't be parting amicably.
‘I’ve cancelled the tea and requested a couple of glasses.’ She says.
‘I’m not in the mood to drink. I’ve got an article to finish.’
‘Okay. Then why don’t I make a start on the cider and you can catch up when you’re done? I can amuse myself in the meantime.’ She says looking around the office. Her eyes find the shelves to the right of the door. ‘My goodness; look at all these toys!’
‘Vintage collectibles, actually.’
‘If you insist.’ She says, smirking playfully. ‘I’m not judging. Shall I stay here, or wait for you in your room? I’ll be very quiet while you're working, I promise.’ She says with a giggle, suggesting that she won’t.
‘Heather…’
‘I’ll wait in the bedroom then you can concentrate...’
‘Heather.’ I say again, this time more sternly. ‘This isn’t going to work.’
She folds her arms and lowers her eyes. ‘How did I know you were going say that?’
‘I tried to tell you last night. I’m not ready for this.’
‘I can help.’
‘No you can’t.’
She bites her lower lip and turns her head to the window blind. I really don’t want her to cry. Perhaps I should try a softer approach, appeal to her sense of compassion.
‘Heather, sit down a minute.’
She looks behind her and finds the other chair. She then sits and crosses her long lissom legs, highlighting her two tone, three inch heels. I lean forward then begin in a forced despairing voice.
‘Two months ago, I woke from a coma to learn that my skull and ribs had been smashed with a hammer by a maniac. I narrowly escaped with my life.’
‘I know.’ She says softly, looking deep into my eyes. ‘A dreadful ordeal.’
‘Though sadly, that’s not the worst part. When I woke up, some of my memories were gone. I’d forgotten that only days before the attack, one of my best friends had drowned canoeing. I had to grieve for her all over again. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse, right?’
Her eyes widen in anticipation of the next horrifying part of the story that she already knows.
‘When I asked after my Shadow, I was told that he’d been killed defending me from the attacker. It was his job to protect me but I never thought he’d have to. And if he ever did have to save my life, I never dreamed it would be at the expense of his own. Heather, I’ve been broken. Literally. But the pain of my injuries was nothing compared to the agony of losing these two very special people. I must now contend with the anger I feel towards the person who took Hero from me and put me in a coma, as well as the crippling fear I have of LOSERs. These are daily struggles.’ I sit back slightly on my chair. ‘So, we could go out to dinner again and I could smile and pretend that everything’s fine; that I’m totally at ease surrounded by complete strangers, any one of whom could be a crazed killer. I could hide my paranoia about every new person who walks through the restaurant doors, as I did on our first date. Then we could go back to yours, spend the night together and for a few minutes I could forget that I’m still a broken man. On the inside. But before long Heather, the cracks will show. I need time to heal. Do you understand?’
‘Oh, you poor thing.’ She says with pout, then unexpectedly rises and comes to sit on my lap. As if my personal space wasn’t compromised enough, she then pulls my head gently to her chest. I don’t resist. It was a heart wrenching speech; I sense that she needs to do this. Besides which, her fragrance is once again comforting.
‘You really are a sensitive soul, aren’t you?’ She says, gently stroking my hair. ‘But you know wallowing in grief really is very unhealthy. It’s okay to feel hurt and angry, but you must accept death for what it is. The end of someone else’s life.’ She pulls away slightly, then smiling down sympathetically: ‘Don’t let it eat you away Inigo, or your life will be wasted. Look at this.’ She then says, holding up her wrist and showing me the bracelet that I’d already admired. ‘It’s a family heirloom. One of these emeralds is my grandmother. Or rather, her compressed ashes.’
‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know.’ She replies with a shrug. ‘But it doesn’t matter. The point is that I remember her, but she’s not centre of my focus. Do you see?’
I nod as if I do see. I lowered my expectations of people years ago, so it’s no big surprise that this young lady turns out to be just like everybody else; a product of the regime - just another blind follower. A slave to the Manual. A sheep.
‘This is wonderful advice Heather but…’
‘What you need is a new focus.’ She continues, wriggling on my lap because I’ve made no effort to accommodate her. ‘The Guide to Grieving says that the pain and anger of a loss can be utilised in sport, career progression, or even a change of profession. So use it as fuel to drive you forward to achieve your goals. And in the meantime, use distraction.’ She puts her arm around my shoulder and looks down at me invitingly. ‘When you’re done here, why don’t I order us a masseur? Then we’ll snuggle up in bed and watch old cartoons together.’
‘You don’t like old cartoons.’
She pauses before answering. ‘Actually, you’re right. I don’t.’ She says coyly, as if she’s been caught out.
That’s desperate. I’m simply not getting through to her. Is this really how she thinks good relationships start, with unreasonable compromise? Sacrifice of one's own needs and interests to the point of sheer and utter boredom? A merging of two imperfect beings into one barely sufferable union? 'Remind me; why did Genie match us?’
'Well, we both have similar backgrounds…’
‘Yes, obviously. But what else?’
‘You like strong women with a mind of their own. I don’t like cartoons and I’m not afraid to admit it, so we’re a perfect match.’
I stare up into her eager eyes and briefly contemplate explaining where she and Genie are going terribly wrong. But I decide that I have neither the time nor the inclination to do so. I need to wrap this up as quickly as possible.
‘I can’t go to bed with you Heather and watch cartoons that you don’t like, because I have deadlines and, because no amount of pampering or distraction is going to ease the pain of losing my two best friends within days of one another. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must finish writing this article.’
Slowly she removes her arm from my shoulder and stands. 'Okay.’ She says quietly. ‘I understand.’
There’s a pause, after which I expect her to turn and leave but she stands looking at me, then unexpectedly:
‘Aren’t you just a teensy bit bored of your life right now?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh c'mon. Are you seriously telling me that you find this interesting?’ She says, nodding at the headline on the projection that reads: ‘Virtual pet cat chas
es real mice in Sussex barn.’
The title is a work in progress. I’ve been tinkering with the wording all afternoon. ‘It’s work Heather. It’s not meant to be thrilling.’
‘But it’s not exactly challenging, is it? For a man of your intelligence.’
It’s a fair comment. I can’t help but feel flattered by it.
‘You know, you and I aren’t so different.’
‘Aren’t we?’
‘No, we’re not. We need excitement in our lives. You used to write about LOSERs, right? Before the incident? You found these maniac killers fascinating, and I get that.’
‘That’s not why I…’
‘It’s ok, you can admit it. I won’t tell anybody.’ She says, with a wink. ‘But now that you no longer have your column, you feel like something’s missing, don’t you?’
‘I can’t disagree entirely.’ I submit.
‘Here’s the thing; I go to work in an office every day and you know what? Nothing ever happens. Sure, there’s an occasional break from the routine; lunch with a client or a campaign launch party. But other than that, it’s more or less the same day. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t waiting for something to change. Waiting for something to happen.’
‘What do you want to happen?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Anything! Just not what I’m expecting.’
She begins to fidget; flicking her long nails and examining them nervously. I can spot manipulation from a mile. I’m an expert at it.
‘What do you want from me Heather?’
She leans forward suddenly and grabs my hands excitedly. ‘Let’s go on an adventure! Get on a shuttle and see where we end up. It’ll be fun!’
I slide my hands out of her hold and stand. Enough is enough. ‘Heather, we are not going on an adventure. I’m not bored with my life or my job, I’m grieving. And if that process takes a little longer than the Guide for gullible people says it ought to, then I’m okay with that. We’re not like everyone else, right? The lives of the people we associate with matter because we matter. My Shadow mattered.’
2079- Beyond the Blue Page 6