Hashtag

by David Wake

“Fancy a drink?”

  Oliver turned round: it was the big bloke from the exam hall. He recognised him. “Adams?” he said.

  “I can see you’ll be a detective.”

  “I already am.”

  “A group of us were going for a drink, celebrate, that sort of thing.”

  “Sure,” said Oliver.

  The man held out his hand: “Jack.”

  “Er… Ollie.”

  They followed each other straight away as a matter of politeness.

  In the end there were four of them in the group: Jack Adams, Melissa Trent, Matthew Parker and Oliver himself. They went to the Beehive, a wine bar that Melissa suggested, and Adams went to buy the first round.

  Melissa had the first thought: How did you find it?

  Fine, thought Oliver. The others nodded in agreement: And you?

  Fine too, she agreed, although the lack of thought was creepy.

  Everyone agreed on that one.

  And pointless, Adams thought from over at the bar, I mean, after all, we can use Thinkersphere and Noodle, so why test our ability without it.

  Maybe it’s to discover what we’re like underneath, thought Oliver.

  Matthew snorted: You can find that out much better by following a person’s thoughts.

  Adams returned with the first two drinks: Oliver’s lager and Melissa’s white wine.

  I know, I know, Oliver agreed. He sipped his lager, enjoying it, pleased to have an afternoon off.

  It’s a throwback to the new examination system, Melissa thought. It’s to drive standards up by stopping people relying on technology.

  It’s a political hot potato, Adams thought as he made the second trip to the bar. There’s a lot of archaic nonsense in policing. Like having to turn up in court. We could be on duty and just follow the case hashtag, think a reply when we’re asked something. It would be much more efficient. But justice must be seen to be done, even though a person can control their face when lying, but not their thoughts. So it’s hours and hours of waiting around just to have it cancelled. Here you go.

  It must be ‘seen’ to be done, Melissa thought, otherwise we are Thought Police.

  I hate being called a Tepee, Adams thought. ‘Is your head shaped like a cone? Does it go all the way up your helmet?’

  Thanks, Parker thought. I had one of those last week. Bloke changed his plea when the prosecution read out his thoughts. Like, he couldn’t have noodled that with his lawyer when he was on remand.

  Adams finished his previous thought: Bloody foil heads.

  Happened to me, Melissa thought.

  Me too, thought Adams.

  Oliver nodded: And me.

  They drank for a while in silence, stuck for something to think.

  This… Melissa thought and then she said aloud, “This has gone to my head.”

  “Me too,” said Adams.

  Orange juice, Parker thought sadly.

  I’m fine, Oliver thought, noticing that he’d drunk the most and was still able to think.

  “Orange juice?” Adams asked.

  I’m driving, Parker thought, and you lot can’t think now, can you?

  “Bit silly following each other really,” Melissa said.

  They laughed at this – Oliver and Parker liked it – bonding despite the lack of social thinking. The alcohol helped. Oliver finished his first, so he bought the next round: two lagers, a large white wine and Parker had lemonade this time.

  On his way to the bar, Oliver felt the familiar prickling sensation across his forehead.

  The barmaid gave him a tray for all four drinks.

  “Thanks”, said Parker and then thought: I hate lemonade too. To distract everyone from this he added, aloud, “Look at this.” He showed them his hand. It was shaking. “Withdrawal.”

  “From handwriting!?” said Adams.

  “No, from thinking.”

  Adams nodded, despite the man’s obvious machismo style, he too had experienced the awful emptiness. Oliver checked his hand, but it seemed steady enough. Perhaps it had been shaking, but one–and–a–half lagers had steadied his nerves.

  “I’ve still got my pen,” Oliver said.

  The others laughed: Parker taking his out too.

  “You heard about the police cover–up?” Parker asked.

  “No,” said Oliver.

  Adams sniffed loudly at the idea.

  “What is it?” Oliver asked.

  Both Parker and Melissa started to talk, “It’s… sorry.”

  Parker held up his hand as if to say, ‘ladies first’ and thought the same.

  “It’s this death in Chedding car park,” she said. “Apparently one of the flash rioters was beaten to death, a woman.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Oliver.

  “You can’t say that.”

  “I can because I was there,” he looked at the others for support. “There was a body, but it was old.”

  “Old? I heard it was a young woman.”

  “Young woman, body had been there a while, four or five weeks,” Oliver insisted. “I’m investigating the case. Me.”

  “Pre–Sergeant’s Exam?” Parker asked.

  “Yes.”

  Oliver felt immensely proud and was thankful that the pint–and–three–quarters of lager blocked this from the others, so that he could at least act nonchalant.

  “Is it going well?” Adams asked.

  Oliver waved his hands trying to conjure a good answer. “No. We’ve nothing to go on.”

  “It’s not the Sergeant’s Exam, you can noodle it.”

  “Really, I’d not tried that one.”

  “No need for that.”

  “I know, sorry, but it’s frustrating.”

  “Perhaps you have to rely on skills other than technology?” Melissa said. Oliver realised she was teasing him and that the others were winding him up too.

  “Still a dead body though,” Oliver said, with more force than he was expecting. “Someone’s daughter, someone’s follower.”

  The group’s mood turned more sombre.

  “And this conspiracy nonsense isn’t helping,” Oliver added.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing to it?” Melissa asked.

  “I was there.”

  “But not all the time,” she said, putting her hand on his, which struck Oliver as odd, “and these flash riots are started by someone.”

  Oliver imagined this as a train of thought, not real thought because of the drink, but maybe there was a point. The riot was organised, even if they seemed to spontaneously appear, and with all the police up one end of the city, the Chedding area would have been unpatrolled. Maybe it was a cover for dumping the body. The car may have been stolen and stored, it hadn’t necessarily been parked there all this time.

  “I don’t think so,” said Oliver. “You see, we don’t patrol that often, so you wouldn’t need a diversion.”

  “Really?” said Adams. “A bit of a jump there surely. I can’t follow your train of thought remember.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t think the riot and the murder are connected, other than one caused us to come across the other.”

  “Murder! I’d like a case like that,” Adams said. “It would be good, something to get your teeth into. Wouldn’t do my CV any harm.”

  “They’re only good if you can solve them.”

  “But there was that death in the police station,” Melissa said.

  “Oh, please, I’m involved in that too, right up to here,” Oliver said, holding his hand up to his chin.

  So there is a conspiracy, Parker thought.

  “No,” said Oliver. “We’ll solve it.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Melissa, touching him again. “My round.”

  The three men watched her walk to the bar admiringly.

  “Nice girl,” said Adams.

  The others agreed.

  Melissa glowered back at Parker. Oliver had missed the thought responsible. He could noodle it, of course, but why? You
needed three strikes on separate days to even come to the stalker division’s attention.

  “What are you working on?” Parker asked Adams quickly.

  Adams groaned, “The Oscar Peters appeal.”

  “That was done and dusted, wasn’t it?”

  “The defence are questioning the rethinking evidence: a case of Chinese Whispers, they say.”

  “No, seriously?”

  “Not in this case… in my opinion only, but apparently ‘memetic change in rethinking’ has been demonstrated. In America, of course; so, they are trying to establish a precedent here.”

  “Will they?”

  “It’s bollocks.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with you,” Oliver said.

  “Look,” said Adams, “I grant you that whispering in someone’s ear can be misheard, and as it goes down the line – it’s a children’s game, for God’s sake – then errors creep in.”

  Send three and fourpence, thought Parker, we’re going to a dance.

  “Pardon?”

  “Send three and four… it’s a First World War example: ‘send reinforcements, we’re going to advance’ becomes ‘send three–”

  “Fair enough – no, good example; however!” Adams raised his finger to emphasise his point. “Rethinking passes the primary thought intact. It’s a copy.”

  “Ah,” said Oliver, “but the rethinker can think a further thought that affixes to the primary thought.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “It’s been demonstrated,” Oliver insisted.

  “Bollocks, look–”

  Parker cut in, “And that’s the Oscar Peters defence?”

  “Yes, he didn’t think a specific element of his thought, but it was inserted by someone else in the chain when they rethought it.”

  “But you can noodle his original,” said Oliver.

  “Yes,” Adams agreed. “But there’s some context nonsense to say he wasn’t actually thinking about stealing from the company.”

  “Really?”

  “As a joke, apparently. So,” said Parker, “he thought about stealing from the company, but that’s, you know, a contextual misconception, and the latter rethinks of the accomplices were identical memetic additions to the original thought?”

  “That’s the defence!?”

  “He’s innocent then,” said Parker to the assembled company. I can understand why you’re pissed off, he thought.

  “Still twenty grand worth of stuff missing from the safe.”

  Melissa returned with two lagers.

  “Oh,” said Parker, and he was on his feet to fetch his drink and Melissa’s white wine.

  “Drinking at lunchtime, wonderful,” said Adams, holding his full glass up to the light.

  “You only take a non–Noodle exam once in a blue moon,” said Melissa. “What are you irritated by? I caught Matthew’s thought on it.”

  “The Oscar Peters case,” said Parker, coming back and indicating Adams with his orange juice. “He’s on it.”

  “Thanks,” said Melissa, taking her white wine. “Oh, the Chinese Whispers business? It’s interesting and could undermine all sorts of cases.”

  “Just what I was saying,” said Adams.

  Parker and Oliver exchanged a glance.

  That’s what he says now, Parker thought.

  “Oh really?” Melissa said, turning on Adams.

  “I mean I don’t agree… and was going to move on to the ramifications of any ruling in his favour,” said Adams. He’d drunk too much for him to reveal if that argument really was his opinion.

  “It’s one of the techniques that flash rioters use,” Melissa said. When they looked at her, she continued, “The organiser stays in the background, thinks the location and instructions, but others pass it on, rethinking… no, not that, er…”

  “Thinking again,” said Oliver.

  “Yes and inserting another thought. If there are enough of them in the chain, it becomes increasingly difficult to track the source, particularly if there’s a stooge involved. The thought you are searching for isn’t consistent, it changes. Like a virus adapting.”

  “By memetic engineering,” said Parker suddenly.

  “Yes, of a sort.”

  “Memetic engineering? Of a sort?”

  “Modification of people’s thoughts with other thoughts,” said Melissa. “If you receive a thought followed by another, then you may draw a conclusion. The thoughts form a train and there may be a logical–”

  “Not necessarily logical,” said Parker.

  “No… more like… ‘obvious’ – there may be an obvious next step, so you are taken… oh, led.”

  “Led down the garden path.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Or it can be unsubtle,” said Parker. “If you are bombarded with spam you might buy, you know, Viagra.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Peer pressure,” said Oliver. “If everyone riots, then you riot too.”

  “You can’t have original thoughts if you are surrounded by other thoughts that are all on the same theme. Even if you disagree, the sheer weight is persuasive.”

  “I’d like to think it wouldn’t affect me,” Oliver said.

  “Another round?” Adams said.

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, it’s me, isn’t it,” said Parker standing. “Same again?”

  They nodded.

  Parker went up to the bar.

  As they drank on, the conversation weaving its clumsy way from subject to subject without the fleetness of thought, Oliver felt himself becoming morose. Jürgens’ death played on his mind and Unknown 271, his case; even this Zhaodi contact that Inspector Jellicoe had mentioned. Suddenly he realised that everyone was silent.

  “Do any of you want a lift?” Parker asked.

  “Sure,” said Oliver.

  “I’m fine,” said Adams.

  “Me too,” Melissa added.

  Oliver went with Parker, leaving the other two looking over their glasses at each other. Something had passed between them, unspoken and even unthought.

  Parker’s car was back at the exam centre’s car park, a short walk, and the wind was refreshing. Once they were en route in his green Cheetah Special, Parker asked where Oliver wanted to be dropped off.

  “Town’s fine,” said Oliver.

  The area itself was difficult to reach, a pedestrianised zone flanked the south side, so Parker pulled in at a bus stop to let Oliver out.

  “Thanks,” Oliver said, the alcohol still in his system. He walked towards his flat and found a small shop selling groceries. He noodled the shop and then had to ask for his goods, bread, milk, Hasqueth Finest and a ready meal, aloud and in person to the disapproving gaze of the assistant. He reckoned with his bank, and by the time he’d done this, he was sobering up, glad that it wasn’t far.

  Shower, he thought, eat and get some sleep.

  When Oliver came around the corner, he saw a crowd had gathered ahead. Perhaps there was a party or something. There were placards with hashtags, but they were too far away to read.

  “Excuse me,” he said aloud.

  “Who are you?” said the first protester.

  “I, er… live here.”

  The woman switched to thought: Are you police?

  Oliver was about to answer when he became aware that others were turning towards him. The crowd, now he was across the road, had semi–circled around the entrance to his apartment. It was now gathering around him.

  “No,” Oliver said.

  “I recognise him,” said a man, “and…”

  The man’s expression changed to one of concentration. He was following Oliver, noodling him and scanning back along his thoughts, and would obviously find some reference to his job very quickly.

  Hell, the Sergeant’s Exam was only a few hours ago.

  “What job?” a woman cajoled. Oliver knew her… no, he didn’t. He hadn’t added all his followings yet. “Do you have something to hide?”

  The woman�
��s sign read ‘The Police are the Murderers’.

  Oh, crap, Oliver thought.

  “He’s just thought about a Sergeant’s Exam!” someone yelled.

  This isn’t good, Mithering thought.

  Oliver took a step backwards, giving ground and revealing too much about himself even to those beyond recognition range. The crowd was turning angry. Oliver noted a hashtag on a placard and followed it only to be bombarded by hate thoughts. It was turning ugly.

  “Look,” he said, holding up his free hand to placate them. “There’s been a mistake.”

  “Too right,” a man said.

  Oliver followed a few in recognition range, quickly, to try and build up a gist of what the crowd was thinking.

  It’s him, it’s him, murdering Tepee! Get him…

  The people were letting the avalanche of thoughts control them, and so the crowd had become an entity, making decisions much as the weekend’s riot had done. No single individual was in control. Any stray thought, something pertinent and explosive, even from someone a continent away, could flip the mob into violence.

  Oliver stumbled back, jarring his foot when he stepped off the kerb. The mob loomed over him.

  A voice boomed over the noise: “Get in!”

  Oliver turned, his groceries spilling out across the pavement.

  It was Jellicoe, holding a back door open.

  Oliver dropped the rest of his shopping, took two strides and leapt in. He landed on the backseat, half–in, half–out.

  “Go!” Jellicoe shouted.

  Oliver guessed and added Chen to the list he followed, and only just in time.

  Going, thought Chen. The police siren wailed.

  Oliver’s left foot bounced along the tarmac, smacked up until he managed to pull his legs inside. Just in time, because the car door slammed shut when it connected with a parked car. Alarms sounded from the dashboard. The mob screamed, hammering on the roof, something glass smashed and then the wheels squealed, and the car took off.

  Chen must have overridden every safety, because the car was moving fast and had done when the door had been open.

  Oliver bounced around in the back seat, pulling himself upright, helped and hindered by Jellicoe.

  “Put your seatbelt on,” Jellicoe said. The Inspector was gripping his own left arm with his right hand, protectively, as well as wearing a seatbelt.

  Oliver did as instructed: his hands jerked around with the metal and material. The clasp went click.