Hashtag

by David Wake

  A thought escaped, suddenly: What’s this all about?

  “Shhh…” Jasmine hissed.

  Shhh?

  She jabbed him with her elbow.

  The characters on stage moved, gesticulating with their fingers all the time, but the strangest part was that they talked aloud without the usual pauses for thought. This must be how people were before the invention of brows, Oliver thought, strange and unknowable.

  I don’t like it, Jasmine thought.

  Oliver reached across in the dark and squeezed her hand.

  At one point, the actors stood in a line, one holding their hand cupped to hide their non–existent lips as they whispered in the ear of the next person. The motion went down the line, each passing on a message that the audience could not perceive in thought or word.

  Towards the end, the creatures, Oliver could no longer think of the blank shapes as human, turned on the hero, ripping him limb from limb. They were so alien, utterly unlike individuals and more like a flash mob acting out its own collective impulses. They tore away the man’s face and body until there was… nothing there.

  The lights dimmed: the audience clapped anxiously.

  Fifteen liked this.

  The strange beings came on again, the lights on full as they bowed and then they pulled off their masks. There was a general sigh of relief: Oliver recognised them and suddenly they were human beings after all, smiling and relieved that the show had gone well. They bowed again and ran off.

  Five more liked this.

  Afterwards Oliver and Jasmine had another drink in the bar, they felt they needed it.

  “That was amazing,” Jasmine said: Creepy though.

  One bottle of lager and Oliver’s iBrow turned off his thinking. Luckily Jasmine sobered enough to think for a taxi.

  They went outside briefly. It had turned chilly and Jasmine thought she was cold. Oliver slipped off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. She smiled at him. When the cab came, Oliver got in after her as Jasmine thought about home. They sat in silence, unthinking, as Oliver let the images of the masked performance flit through his mind like a waking dream.

  When they pulled up at Tensing Row, Jasmine put her hand on Oliver’s hand: Come up, she thought.

  Oliver nodded.

  “Oh shut up, you wanker!” she shouted at the cab driver.

  Jasmine stormed off.

  Oliver hadn’t followed the driver, so he’d no idea what the man had thought. He went after Jasmine, who was failing to open her door, she was that upset. She dropped her keys and Oliver bent down to retrieve them.

  Calm down, Oliver tried to think, but it didn’t work as he was still over the limit, so he said, “Calm… it’s OK.”

  The door jerked open and Jasmine went in. Oliver followed. When he got into her apartment the wrong lights came on giving the open plan space the sense of a stage, lit here and there with spotlights.

  I didn’t pay, Jasmine thought.

  “Neither did I.”

  Oh God.

  “Don’t worry.”

  Jasmine exploded with laughter: “I didn’t pay.”

  I won’t arrest you. He probably deserved it.

  Damn right, Jasmine thought.

  She returned his jacket and he put it neatly over the back of a chair.

  Coffee, she thought. Hasqueth Finest tastes so good.

  Hmmm… Oliver thought back, or…

  I’ve got brandy.

  Jasmine fumbled around in the kitchen and came back with a bottle and two glasses. She put them on the table and Oliver took the bottle up. He pulled the cork out with a satisfying pop, but Jasmine had her hand over his glass.

  “Not too much,” she said, and thought, God, I want him.

  “Afterwards,” he suggested, and slipped the cork back.

  Now.

  OK.

  He realised that the excitement had sobered him. Oliver put the bottle down and followed her, thinking about the way her hips moved. As he did so, she swayed more, overdoing it, but it was still provocative.

  Follow or not follow?

  Follow.

  She reached the landing and turned into her bedroom, dropping some clothing on the floor.

  You look gorgeous, he thought, so good.

  Thank you.

  Now?

  Jasmine turned round, unbuttoning her blouse. She tilted her head back, letting her long black hair cascade behind her, her eyes half closed and somehow she was beyond thought, acting instinctively.

  Oliver unbuttoned his shirt. He couldn’t remember where he’d taken his jacket off. Had he left it in the cab?

  It’s on the sofa, Jasmine thought, forget it.

  He took his shirt off, took hold of Jasmine and ran his fingers through her hair, down her back, held her, kissed her.

  Again!

  Was that her thought or his, or both?

  They fumbled to the bed, somehow managed to divest themselves of their clothing without the inevitable worry of creases and mess ruining the moment.

  They were in bed.

  God, she is beautiful, felt great, just there and there.

  Get in there my–

  Oliver cut the incoming thought off with an angry unfollow.

  “What?”

  “Some–”

  Don’t worry, let me.

  She snuggled herself under him, shuffled him around until he was in the right position. He dipped his head until their foreheads touched, almost as close as the mixing of their thoughts.

  Careful.

  He was, tried to be…

  Yes.

  “Ah!” Deeper.

  They moved together, their monosyllabic thoughts tuning–in to each other until each wasn’t sure which thought was their own or which was superimposed. The tempo built, their bodies wanting to be as close and intertwined as their thinking, and built; so Oliver tried to think about his taxes, the cleaning lady at work, anything–

  No, no, don’t ruin it, Jasmine thought, just – yes, yes…

  And then Oliver was somewhere beyond thought, his own and everyone else’s.

  Afterwards, he didn’t care about the clamour for attention in his brain. It was all sort of out–of–focus.

  Yes, it was lovely, Cheryl, Jasmine thought, now go away.

  Seventeen of Jasmine’s friends liked this.

  Oliver rolled off and over to lie on his back feeling peaceful, although he couldn’t help wondering how many people had been following his progress. Jasmine cuddled up, put her arm over his chest and nestled into the dip by his shoulder. Oliver shifted, making himself comfortable.

  You OK?

  “Don’t worry…” …about it… mmm… love you.

  She was asleep.

  So was he, really.

  WEDNESDAY

  Oliver poured himself an orange juice, having to get some paper towels to mop up a spillage. His iBrow was at 60% as he’d not charged overnight, and physically he felt fuzzy headed, dehydrated, and–

  Better have coffee, he thought.

  Me too, Jasmine thought.

  He glanced at the ceiling: You’re awake then.

  Hmmm.

  He remembered that tomorrow was his Sergeant’s Exam.

  Of course, it was 8am exactly and so the reminder had popped into his head.

  “Oh Shit.” Shit, shit.

  What have you broken?

  Nothing, just remembered my exam.

  Stop worrying, you’ll be fine.

  He found the machine and checked the cupboards for coffee. On the second, more careful, search, Jasmine rethought that the tin was in the fridge, which it was: Hasqueth Finest.

  As the machine percolated, Oliver noodled his revision notes, remembering it all. The trouble was he wouldn’t be able to do that in the exam and it was very difficult to separate out what he remembered from what he really knew. It was all becoming one mass of trite nonsense. He had a day spare, so there was plenty of time.

  Shall I bring your coffee up?


  I’ll come down.

  OK.

  You scored then, Chen thought.

  Oliver tried to ignore him: None of your business, he thought.

  Whose business, Jasmine thought.

  Nothing… Chen.

  Chen is a dirty sod and he must be breaking some law.

  Oliver rethought that at him.

  Just friendly interest, Chen thought.

  Oliver ignored him: This coffee smells so good.

  Hmm, it does, Jasmine thought coming into the kitchen.

  She leant over and kissed him, it was pleasant, minty from her toothpaste.

  That’s lovely, he thought.

  “Thanks.”

  What’s lovely, Chen thought.

  The coffee, Oliver thought back: He’ll know that was fake.

  Lucky sod, Chen thought.

  Go away, Oliver thought, unfollowing him. I might as well start now, he thought, as I have the non–Noodle exam tomorrow.

  Best to be prepared, Jasmine thought, taking a sip of her coffee.

  She did look lovely in her pyjamas and robe, her face pretty and her long dark hair delightfully tousled. Gorgeous.

  Thank you, she thought.

  Oliver came over and sat at the table too. His coffee was strong, beginning to have an effect and bringing him round.

  When’s your meeting?

  Oliver noodled and remembered that it was 11:30. He rethought it.

  Plenty of time then?

  Yes, he thought, nodding. We could go to bed.

  “No!” And then she thought about her work, meetings in the morning and the client’s specification to go through.

  Can’t you just noodle it.

  There was a pause as Jasmine received a thought.

  If we could just noodle it, she thought back, then the client would just noodle it. It’s bespoke. We still have to do the drawings on the computer.

  Fair enough. Oliver sniffed his shirt.

  Yes, rank, Jasmine thought.

  I better have a shower.

  At yours, I need to shower here.

  We could shower together.

  You need a change of clothes.

  Yes, I do.

  Let yourself out.

  At the sound of falling water, Oliver did.

  He made it home, showered and changed, before rushing back to work. While he did all this, he exchanged some thoughts with Freya. She was concerned about this ‘Chinese Box’. It had taken Oliver a moment to noodle about the case and remember that it was DS Mike Milton who was assisting. Maxine had moved upstairs to review the next potential culprit. It needed another noodle to remember that the Chinese Box and the Chinese Room had been something that Carl Jürgens, now the ‘alleged’ stalker as the case had been turned over to the Crown Prosecution Service, had threatened during yesterday’s interrogation.

  It’s nothing, Oliver thought. That nagged him slightly.

  Whatever, I want you to check it out, Freya thought. We don’t want anything crawling out of the woodwork to mess up the case.

  Damn right, Zack thought.

  Oliver thought about the Chedding murder enquiry.

  Freya must have been following him, because she had a question straight away: At Ollie, are you making any progress?

  Not really, Oliver had to admit.

  See Jellicoe then, she thought. And, if you aren’t making any progress, then check out this Jürgens case and find this box.

  OK, Oliver thought. I’m everybody’s dogsbody.

  It’ll be different once you’ve passed your Sergeant’s Exam, Mike thought.

  In what way?

  All your slave drivers will be Inspectors.

  They already are.

  Jellicoe will come up with his Westbourne theory.

  Oh God.

  Oliver’s particular slave driver was already ensconced in his booth in the Lamp. The man had had something to drink already. Oliver ordered a coffee.

  “I think it might be Westbourne,” said Jellicoe.

  Oh God, you were right, at Mike, Oliver thought. He said, “Behind the Chedding murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s Westbourne?”

  Jellicoe gave him a sour look and so Oliver noodled, filtering to crime only when he remembered too much. Westbourne was a crime boss back in the day, apparently, a ‘Jay’, someone whose thoughts influenced others. A trendsetter just like Jimmy Scanlan, the man who’d orchestrated the recent riot. Apparently, people were such sheep, even back in Westbourne’s day.

  “Old though,” Oliver said.

  Jellicoe nodded: “It’s got his hall marks. I’m sure he’s done people in, but we can’t locate him.”

  “We can’t locate him?”

  “No, Stevens follows him closely, and we know he’s organising, using every trick to get around our investigations and then some. It’s the ‘and then some’ that’s worrying.”

  “Surely…” but Oliver couldn’t develop the idea further.

  “He’s playing Chinese Whispers.”

  “Eh?”

  “You stand in a line and the person on the far left thinks of a phrase, he whispers to the person to his right, who whispers it to the next person and so on until it reaches the far end. That person says what they think it is and everyone laughs, because it never is.”

  “Surely the person at the far end simply follows the thoughts of the person on the other end and–”

  “I can tell you never had any good birthday parties as a kid.”

  “We didn’t play stupid games.”

  “Westbourne is doing the same thing, only with thoughts… he passes his instruction on, so does someone else – with someone who doesn’t understand what’s going on and substitutes word – and we lose track. We know Westbourne started it, but not where he is, but we don’t know who’s carrying out the crimes.”

  “That makes no sense,” said Oliver, seeing the flaw straight away. “Rethinking is completely accurate.”

  “They don’t…” Jellicoe held his fingers up to make a quote sign, “‘rethink’, they think it again.”

  “But that’s… oh, right.”

  “Some of the heists go wrong, of course. The idiots didn’t understand the instructions, or all the smoke and mirrors gets in the way, but enough for Westbourne to pocket a tidy sum.”

  “He’d still think where he was, surely?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “Lives in a cave?”

  Jellicoe nodded: “A cave he doesn’t think about.”

  “But he does think.”

  Jellicoe nodded again.

  “OK, so we do… what?”

  Jellicoe shrugged.

  “Great.”

  “It’s always the brick wall: we follow a trail but come across a thinker who doesn’t leave location traces.”

  Oliver noodled his own thoughts for the previous few days: most were just trivial when he mentally stepped back to look at them, but a lot were specific to named individuals, Jasmine, Chen, Mox, Mike, Freya… but not Jellicoe, whom he talked to aloud. He could also tell he’d been to the theatre, which one, when, what he’d thought of the show, the taxi ordered, a pretty good hint of Jasmine’s part of town and so on.

  He was sitting in the third booth in the Lamp – would anyone else know?

  He noodled his own location and remembered, like an echo, that he was sitting in the third booth in the Lamp. Of course, he’d just thought that, and it was therefore available on Noodle to anyone. However, there were also some idle thoughts he’d had walking to the Lamp, so he’d left an easy trail to follow.

  “You could get someone to put a bag over your head, dump you in the boot of the car and drive you somewhere,” said Jellicoe.

  “Is that what happened to Westbourne?”

  “If it did, he had no thoughts on the matter.”

  Oliver’s coffee arrived: Jellicoe turned his nose up at the idea. Oliver added milk and too much sugar in an attempt to get himself started. It tas
ted bitter, he so much preferred Hasqueth’s.

  “Chinese Whispers, eh?” Oliver said.

  “That’s what we think.”

  “Freya has asked me to look into the Chinese Box… and, come to think of it, Jürgens–”

  “Who?”

  “Category Five Stalker we arrested yesterday. He threatened Maxine with this Chinese Box or something.”

  “How exactly?”

  “You know, shouted, nasty thoughts – the usual.”

  “How exactly?” Jellicoe said sharply. Oliver regretted chasing the Target at the weekend riot, regretted looking in the car and seeing the body, and most of all regretted being assigned to Jellicoe.

  “Let me noodle it,” Oliver said. “Can you follow me?”

  Jellicoe nodded, so Oliver thought it all through.

  Jürgens: I didn’t do anything.

  Maxine: We’ve your thoughts on record, category five, planned sexual offence.

  Jürgens: I didn’t do anything.

  Maxine: Officer, do your duty.

  Mike: Carl Jürgens–

  Jellicoe interrupted, “Why did he stop?”

  “Maxine wanted his rights read aloud; you know, proper procedure. Dumb really because someone has to think that it’s been done to create a proper thought trail and–”

  “Yes, fine, I get the point. Go on.”

  Maxine: Thank you, Mike.

  Jürgens: I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything. You fucking Thought Police! The Chinese Box, oh God no!

  Mike: What did he mean by the Chinese Box?

  Oliver: Dunno, but he looked over here.

  “Where?”

  “The er… wardrobe… it’s not much further.”

  Mike: Where?

  Oliver: Here…. No box here.

  Jürgens: My door! You bastards, I didn’t do anyth–

  “Why did it stop then?”

  “I stopped following him,” Oliver admitted.

  “There was more though.”

  “Later, in the interview… here it is.”

  Jürgens: You bitch! I’ll get the Chinese Room onto you. I will. I’ve got the Chinese Box. They owe me. Do you hear!

  “Chinese Room, not Box,” said Jellicoe. “I’ve heard of that before. A meeting place.”

  “For?”

  “Criminal organisations, conspiracies, the Tongs.”

  “Tongs!?”