‘Are you scared?’ The question leaves my lips before I’m able to consider whether or not I should ask it. The truth is I’m scared. I’m scared for him. There’s no point trying to hide it.
He looks at me pensively. ‘I’ll be fine Jo.’
It doesn’t answer my question or allay my fears. But what do I expect from a man about to embark on such a perilous journey? I shouldn't have asked. He has to go and there’s nothing I can do or say to make it any easier. It’s probably best to change the subject; part on a different note entirely. Besides, there’s a sense of finality about lingering goodbyes and for both our sakes, I don't want this to feel like it’s the last.
‘I left Adam in the kitchen examining wine bottles.’ I tell him. ‘Assessing the damage I think, after last night’s session. Is his drinking a problem?’
‘Only if you try to stop him.’ He replies, adjusting his cap. ‘He hasn’t been able to drink alcohol for years. And he misses his wife.’
‘Of course.’ I reply, thinking on it. I remember the emptiness I felt after waking in that hospital bed with a bogus version of the past in my head; a bleak new reality that felt like plummeting to the depths of a gaping black pit. It’s understandable that he’d want to drown his sorrows. Though now that Starla's here, perhaps he’ll feel he has a reason to live again. ‘It explains why LIFE hasn’t been as effective as I’d imagined.’ I say, tactfully referring to Adam's wrinkled skin. ‘But he’ll deteriorate fast if he carries on the way he’s going and we’ll have to buy more.’
‘True. Though we need to consider funds.’
‘I thought there was plenty of money?’
‘There is for now. But it won’t last forever. You might want to discuss the finances with Starla while I'm away.’
He’s right to bring this up; currently there's no end in sight. As well as supporting us, Adam’s money must also cover the cost of this stealth operation, and we have no idea how much we’ll need or for how long. It could be months before the opportunity to earn again arises - before we can live any sort of normal life here or back home. Normality. I can’t picture that right now. The future is a vague concept; an indeterminable landscape that’s continually shifting. We can’t take anything for granted, least of all money. ‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Where is she?’ He asks, grabbing the bag and hauling it onto his shoulder. It’s now a small, dense bundle.
‘On the front porch I believe.’ Then before I know it, the following remark escapes: ‘I’ll say goodbye to you now, as I'm sure you'll want some privacy.’
‘Sorry?’ He says quizzically.
‘I’m sure you’ll want a few minutes alone with Starla before you go.’
I’d had no intention of hinting at the affair. But since I couldn’t help myself, I now watch closely for a reaction. A tightening effect starts to show around his jaw and I realise that he’s applied distortion gel. I wait patiently for his expression to change to one of realisation that I've worked it out, but he’s clueless.
‘Alone?’ He says, sliding his hands into his pockets.
I struggle to flesh out my comment with the necessary detail. The words stick in my throat like they’re covered in glue, causing an embarrassing delay. I have no idea why I’m struggling. It makes no difference to me if they’re seeing one another. I have no agenda. I locked my feelings for Starla away...
‘Jo?’
‘Well clearly you’re involved!’ The words are brutishly expelled, taking us both by surprise.
‘You mean romantically?’
‘Well are you?’ I retort, astounded by my lack of control.
‘No.’ He slowly replies, looking me in eye. ‘No, we're not.’
I stare up and allow the revelation to sink in. He’s telling the truth. He always does. I can’t quite believe my luck or stupidity, or both. I instantly feel lighter - if not a little foolish - but not as good I thought I’d feel if it turned out that I was wrong. It’s not an anticlimax as such; more a postponement of that joyous liberation from the emotional prison I’d half constructed, because I think it stopped mattering as much around half an hour ago when I realised there was a possibility that I might lose him. I already know what it feels like to believe that he’s dead and I don’t ever want to go back there again. So I’m not jumping for joy, and this discussion is uncomfortable - not least because it’s bad timing. However the alternative to divulging my feelings for Starla in the remaining minutes before he leaves, is the prospect of expressing my fear of him never returning.
The gel is working rapidly. Were it not for the dazzling green eyes and unmistakable silhouette, he’d pass for a stranger. I can’t tell exactly what he’s thinking, but there's a trace of amusement on his now puckered lips.
‘Jo, you did read the entire diary?’
‘Yes, of course I did. But that was then. A lot has happened since. And you seem to get on well so I thought...’
‘No.’ He says again. ‘We only got this far because Starla did things against her better judgement - because of you.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ I say, nodding. ‘Love is blind.’
‘No, it’s just pheromones.’
‘‘So you think she knows?’
‘You haven’t exactly been discreet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean everyone knows.’
‘I see.’ It seems I’m utterly (and disconcertingly) transparent. I look down at the floral patterned stone floor. ‘The thing is Hero, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me. I know she hasn't forgiven me for...well any of it. But if there’s a chance, then how do I proceed?’ I look up again, now hoping he’ll give me some advice to follow; something reassuringly straightforward and easy to grasp. Problem solving is after all what he does best.
‘Do what you’d normally do.’ He says finally, and as if arriving at that answer took considerable thought and effort.
‘Is that it?’
‘What did you expect me to say?’
I respond with a blank stare. Perhaps it was a mistake to ask a man who, according to Genie, last dated in 2065. ‘Nothing about this situation is normal.’ I contest, holding his gaze, because I want it also to mean that it’s not normal to be thinking that I might never see him again. However, I sense from his manner that something has changed. I sense a shift in his thinking. It’s indifference. He doesn’t care. No it’s... resignation. He’s telling me that it’s up to me now. Not just this, but everything else too. He doesn’t think he’s coming back... Perhaps sensing my desperation, he puts the rucksack down on the bed and folds his arms.
‘Okay Jo, you have two options. You can either find a way to overcome your differences with Starla and act upon your instincts. Or you can ignore the attraction and focus on the task ahead.’
‘That’s the sort of advice I’d expect to find in the Manual, or receive from a soulless P400.’
‘So which is it?’
‘The first option - obviously! But I can't do what I'd normally do. This isn’t one of my usual flings. Starla is...different. And given the circumstances, I can’t afford to mess things up.’
He appears to mull it over. This time I'm certain the guidance will be no less than what I've come to expect from my mentor and best friend; shrewd insight and a clear strategy. ‘So do things differently.’ He says at last.
I let out a sigh, then fold my arms. He picks up the bag again and walks around the bed.
‘Here.’ He says, holding out his hand.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, looking down at the tiny badges in his palm shaped like the leaves of a grapevine.
‘Four NFC tags.’ He replies as I take them from him. ‘One for each of you. Pin them to an item of clothing, in the event that you need to pass on the story.’
I put the badges in my pocket. He lays his hand on my left shoulder. The weight of it is almost too much to bear.
‘Take care of everyone Jo.’
Chapter 20
The wait for Hero�
��s return was agonisingly slow. We’d calculated that we could expect him back in five days at the earliest (based on travel time and provided he could enter the Luvel’s house almost immediately) but six days was more likely. On the seventh day, we'd decided, we would start to worry. But with no means of contacting him, we were at a loss as to what to do if one week passed without word. We resolved that we would cross that bridge if we came to it, but hopefully we never would. So we tried to get on with normal, everyday things to distract from the mounting tension. Evelyn took Starla to a small town at the foot of the hill to get some new clothes as her father had promised. This whiled away some of the first day and left me to get to know Adam a little better. I listened to his stories (of which there are many) over a bottle of red wine and a selection of cheeses and savoury biscuits. He talked about his youth, growing up in England before the Prime Family came to power and the country was reshaped by the Manual and Hives. He spoke frankly about the Ministry’s fight for freedom of choice, his part in trafficking illegal foods and time spent in prison. Hero had pretty much told me everything already. But there was something special about hearing it first hand from the man who’d actually lived it. He also reflected on the last few years that had been mostly uneventful, as he’d been confined to the high rise flat. He remembers reliving the same day over and over, broken only occasionally by a visit from the health visitor or a stroll around the park with Starla. But as he recalls so little of that period of his life, it is in the main, one long unvaried episode. I found myself relating to feeling as though you’ve lost a chunk of your life to stagnation. It was only a couple of months for me, but the amnesia I experienced cost dearly. The price was human life; hundreds dying in their homes because I’d forgotten it all; because I was powerless to pursue the case.
He never once mentioned his wife, though there were moments when I felt that he wanted to, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to say her name. Her death is probably still fresh in his mind, given that the illness took hold not long after she died. And it must have hit him hard when he learned that her death was not the result of carelessness. He continued to fill my head with tales of courage and defiance against the system, but I sensed his anger and grief over the travesty of justice as he evaded the subject of her murder.
Before she’d left, Evelyn had asked us to start the lunch. But by the time the women returned, we’d finished another bottle of wine and barely begun peeling the veg. My recollection of the rest of that afternoon is a little hazy. I continued drinking and was kept on a level due to my implants, but the alcohol flowed steadily enough for me to lose track of time. Though I can’t remember everything we discussed, I do know we steered clear of current events. Nobody wanted to talk about what could go wrong in the next day or two. I didn’t want to acknowledge my fears or begin to consider what I’d do if I lost Hero, so I kept drinking and lost myself instead.
The lunch was so late that it became dinner. Preparation had been postponed in favour of more cheese that Evelyn had made, snacks and copious amounts of wine. Evelyn made no attempt to keep up with Adam and I, but took her ease on the fabric sofa with a modest sized glass next to Starla, who seemed content with a cup of ginger tea and the comfort of friends and family. She’d changed into a pair of blue jeans and a plain white t- shirt she’d bought in the town which were more her style. The hours quietly slipped away as one topic of conversation ran smoothly into another. The contentment I felt in Starla’s company led me to believe that telling her how I feel might not be the best course of action. I was enjoying being around her - simply knowing she was there was enough. Well, almost enough. But I wasn’t going to rush into anything; I wanted to do things differently. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, given that I’ve never had to work for a woman's attention before, but I was pretty sure it excluded making any fast moves or bold gestures in my usual, self assured manner. Later in the evening I remember our eyes meeting and for a second or so, it had felt as though time was standing still. There was an inclination to act there and then; to lean in and kiss her. It was overwhelming, like the need to feed a craving. But I held back. Firstly, because we weren’t alone, and secondly, because I didn’t want to risk it. Rejection, that is - on account of my many misgivings.
Two days dragged by. The heat (unusual for the time of year) intensified so it was more comfortable to stay inside, in the air conditioned house. Starla and I were careful to avoid invading each other’s personal space in what began to feel like a polite dance around one another, whenever we were in the same room. She seemed to be where I was an awful lot and often I found myself in her way, though we had nothing really to do and no hurry in which to do it. Several times I vowed to initiate a friendly exchange that might lead to a more meaningful conversation but each time, my insecurities got the better of me and I developed an irrational fear of stuttering. Keen for time to pass faster, I explored the villa and found some old natural history books in one of the cupboards in the living room. I made a study of them, comparing the knowledge of eighty years ago to what we now understand about the natural world. Though fascinating, it was hardly a worthwhile exercise. Adam did most of the cooking. Like me, he has a rich palate. Most things are drenched in olive oil and marinated in garlic. I ate at regular intervals, even though I wasn’t particularly hungry. I put it down to stress and love sickness; both generally accepted to be appetite suppressants. I strolled up to the village late in the afternoons when the buildings on the opposite side of the road cast shadows, so that the sun’s rays were least likely to fry my skin. I tried not to think about how many more people had died, every hour that went by, and how increasingly useless I felt. Every so often I swept the porch, though it was mostly clear of leaves before I started. I also plumped up the chair cushions in the sitting room - just to be seen to be doing something - even though Evelyn had it all under control. Before long, I realised that what Hero has been telling me for years is true; I have absolutely no patience. I began to wonder how Evelyn and Adam had coped with waiting for us for so long. I also started thinking about life before Chips; before being connected to a constant stream of information that kept me busy without me even knowing it. My thumbs felt idle and my nerves were almost permanently on edge. I considered that being free from the network; without obligation and immune to its influence forevermore, was like having to face oneself in a mirror for the very first time. In all honesty, what I saw was not that bad. But the point was that without the integral media, I couldn’t escape myself even if I’d wanted to.
On the third morning following Hero’s departure, I wake to the sound of Evelyn knocking my door for breakfast, but I don’t answer. I feel tired from having done absolutely nothing for two whole days. Though perhaps worrying is just as tiring as physical exertion. I look at my watch on the bedside cabinet. It hasn’t been on my wrist since he left as I did not wish to be reminded of how slowly time was passing. It’s 9am. I close my eyes again, then recap. Last night I bit the bullet so to speak, and started preparing myself mentally for the worst, because I had to admit the possibility that Hero might not return. This meant putting in place a plan of action. He didn’t leave any instruction, which is a good thing; it means that he fully expects to make it back. But I needed to work out what we’d do in case he doesn’t. It’s up to me now. The group will be looking to me for leadership. I can’t spend another day sitting around as if we’re on holiday when there’s work to be done. So I decided that I would hold a house meeting - gather everyone round to explain the ‘no show’ procedure. I must also to speak to Starla about the finances; a necessity as well as a much needed icebreaker. Today will be a day of decisive action and directorship on my part. I get up and shower, then make my way to the kitchen.
‘Where are Evelyn and Starla?’ I ask Adam, pulling out one of the dining chairs. He’s flicking through the pages of an Italian newspaper. I don’t think he speaks the language.
‘Evie’s taken her usual trip up to the village and Starla’s in the garden.
’ He replies with his eyes down.
‘I can’t believe they still print papers here.’
‘It’s by request only. But the handful who buy them, leave them on the benches in the square when they’re finished with them.’
‘Do you speak Italian?’
‘Not really. But you get the jist from the headlines and the pictures.’ He folds up the newspaper and stands. ‘I’m going to catch the UK news.’
‘Okay. Actually Adam, I wonder if I can have a quick word before you go? I’d like to call a house meeting when Evelyn returns. There’re a few matters I think we ought to discuss as a group.’
‘Sounds serious Jo. Not to do with my cooking is it?’
‘Oh goodness no…’
‘I’m joking son! I know what we need to talk about. It’s not nice, but it has to be done.’
I open the back door and walk the three steps down to the graveled garden. There’s a stone area in the centre with a wooden table and chairs. Trees thick with dark green leaves line the wall to the right, reaching the highest rooftops in the distance. Overflowing herbs in large colourful pots have been arranged around the perimeters. They look newly placed - Evelyn's doing I guess. Starla is standing at the bottom of the garden looking out at the elevated view. I put my cup of tea on the table next to hers, then walk a little further to where she’s standing. Suddenly I’m short of breath and my heart is pounding as if I’ve just sprinted the short distance across the gravel. I’m not even sure I can speak.
‘Hi.’ I muster, thankful there isn’t a shake in my voice.
‘Morning.’ She replies, turning and smiling up at me.
‘How did you sleep?’ This standard line is probably becoming very dull.
‘Okay, actually. It must be the fresh air.’
‘Yes, I think your right. And the lack of beeps and alerts.’
‘Yes.’ She smiles. ‘Strangely, I don’t miss those.’
2079- Beyond the Blue Page 19