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Page 17
“A what?”
“A photofit artist. They used to make up a suspect’s face using bits of other people: these eyes, that nose, those ears and… never mind. A police artist, say, to draw a picture based on your description, except that you can’t describe the suspect.”
“I don’t need to. There’s a photograph on Noodle, thousands of photographs and when you are within recognition range, you’d recognise them.”
“And Cheryl?”
“Yes.”
“And how long before you forget what Jasmine looks like?”
“I won’t forget Jasmine.”
“What do I look like?”
Murderer.
Oliver looked at the Inspector. The man’s face was only a metre away; he knew him because he was in recognition range as someone he could follow, but his appearance was obscured. It wasn’t by anything physical or virtual, but because Oliver’s brain was completely satisfied by the information from his brow.
“What about your colleagues?” Jellicoe continued. “How many are black, white, Asian? Are they aware of your colour?”
“Of course.”
“Without Noodle?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver snapped. “You can’t tell from thought.”
Oliver’s recognition of Jellicoe consisted of a name and a link to follow. It was sparse, lacking any status other than ‘Inspector’, which was a strange choice. ‘Suspended’ was perhaps stranger. It was a kind of mask.
“Jellicoe, do you know what I look like?”
“You look like shit,” the Inspector said. “Your round.”
Murderer.
“Yes,” said Oliver. “I could murder another round.”
Murderer.
Oliver went up to the bar: Babs Lamp was there, and Skittle, Smith, Terry – he recognised a lot of the people now, he’d read their identifications before. He knew their names, but not, as he now realised, their faces. He could follow them, make up for the loss of Jasmine’s friends.
Or he could just unfollow them all.
Murderer.
Was he a murderer of a sort when he unfriended people? Wasn’t that diminishing them? If you weren’t in people’s thoughts, did you exist?
Murderer.
Yes, Oliver thought… oh, what was that?
Murderer.
That was getting to be a bother.
Murderer!
He could block it, but it kept coming at him from different sources.
Oliver held up a couple of fingers to Babs Lamp and then pointed to himself and to the third booth where Jellicoe sat.
The thought came again, murderer, and again: Murderer! Murderer!
Oliver stumbled.
Murder! Murderer! Murderer!
Something whipped past his attention about… no, he’d missed it. Chen had– Murderer! But Mithering wanted him, but it was all lost in vitriol, too fast now to follow except for a subliminal flash and a growing averaging. Murderer. He tried to backtrack, but the thoughts now were arriving faster than he could process them.
MurderMurderMurMuMMMM…
His head flared with pain and he stumbled, going down onto his hands and knees.
“You’ve had enough,” said Babs Lamp. More than enough.
“Denial of service,” he said, aloud to force himself to concentrate. He knew this trick, and he knew the techniques to cope as he’d been taught them at Police College. They all – God, it hurt – gathered in a circle and thought at each other to much hilarity, but that was a class of thirty and this was… thousands, millions… who knew? What was it? He didn’t know and noodled it.
He climbed to his feet and staggered to a chair.
Faces, unknown and unmemorable, looked shocked. There was fear across their features. In the corner of his eye, he saw someone running towards him.
There had been a lesson, but it was all fractured, interspersed with the trolling: conspiracy nonsense and abuse.
He put his fists to his temples.
His vision was fine, he could see, he could imagine options, but his consciousness had been hijacked making it impossible to make a decision. He needed… drink – murderer – wouldn’t stop the onrush – fascist – only – killer – something like – Tepee pig – you murdered the woman in the car park – but he didn’t know.
“Jellicoe!”
He was there: “Look into my eyes, son, look into my eyes, concentrate.”
Jellicoe’s eyes were bloodshot, the whites stained and, although his concerned face was inches away, the man’s recognition was jostled away by the incoming hail until the Inspector was no longer really there.
“Paramedics are on their way,” Jellicoe said.
“Mithering,” Oliver pleaded, but the inflow of thought – murderer – meant that he could no longer think. She wouldn’t know, no–one would know that he was a monster, a murderer, a killer, a…
“Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Hold on, son.”
He had to hold on.
To something.
Anything.
Even something as fleeting as a memory.
The sense of smell.
Evocative: always conjuring up memories.
The smell the coffee.
So good.
The smell of Jasmine’s long black hair.
Lovely.
The smell of whiskey flavoured blood.
The woman on the back seat in the car park.
Oh God, he thought, I killed her!
He admits it – over and over, coming back a thousand times until he knew he had confessed and then, amongst all the explanations, of course he had. He must have. How could all this be wrong? It was enlightening, and even in the pain it was a relief to stop fighting it and let it all engulf him.
He was vaguely aware of Chen and Mox, a car, sirens, but that was outside his skull and therefore far away. Inside it was screaming, howling, noise and bedlam.
At Elenor3941…
The stream of thoughts flaring over each other, the next arriving before the impression of the others had passed thought. It was like letters on an old fashioned digital clock speeding up, the bars flickering so quickly that it became ‘88:88’ – the Chinese lucky number – repeated. Or the talking of a crowd becoming meaningless babble. He scratched at his forehead, knowing that he couldn’t rip the device out, couldn’t, shouldn’t and wouldn’t want to, but needing some respite, but the itch was centimetres under his scalp locked behind hair, skin and bone. He stumbled, falling towards the light that burned inside. He struck the ground, rolled, stared up and saw the sun. It became square and flew repeatedly overhead as the days rushed by. Someone was talking to him?
“What’s your password?”
The person was concerned, dressed in regulation hospital fatigues.
“Talk,” they said. “Talk… repeat after me: one, two… ONE! TWO!”
“One, two,” said Oliver.
“Three?”
“Three, four… five…”
He was in hospital on a trolley being wheeled rapidly down a corridor. The lights moved overhead in a steady rhythm. How had he got there? They swung round into an office full of… computers.
There were shadows, people talking aloud, “Thank you officer, we’ll take it from here. Now, Oliver, six? Come on, say ‘six’.”
“Six…” Oliver repeated. “Pick–up sticks. Seven, eight, big fat, denial of service, attack, nine, ten… ten…”
“The authorities have released your pin code, Oliver, so just give us your password?”
“Every good boy deserves chocolate.”
“Every good… got it… Nurse! Connect: send!”
Oliver was floating, his mind freewheeling, and everything seemed hyper–real, the colours brighter and the stains on the medic’s coat sharper and distinct. He moved his hand, which floated gently as everyone around him moved even slower.
A face loomed into view, huge and pock marked. He recognised Doctor Trantor with an incredible clarity.
With no one else’s thoughts to contend with, his brain worked so much faster.
“I’m feeling…” he began, but he didn’t know how he was feeling, so he noodled it and threw up, vomiting over the medic and the floor. He lurched off the trolley to try to control it, but the movement made it worse. Someone found a bin and he disgorged over tissues and water bottles. His eyes filled with tears and he cried, “Oh God.”
“It’s OK, you’re going to be OK.”
“Where am I?”
“Sanderson Medical.”
Sanderson… what was that? The thought went nowhere, free floating away vertiginously. Medical… that was something to do with hospitals. Was he ill? Oh God, yes, he was ill, really ill. In fact, he was dying. He felt he was dying. He thought… oh, shit… catch me, catch me.
Oliver flailed about trying to grab hold of something and keep himself steady, but he was secure, held down by two orderlies, but even so he felt like he was falling.
A wasp stung him in the arm… no, a… what was the word – pointy sharp needle thing that… made… him… and anyway… his forehead prickled like it did when he drank as the human and reptile parts of his brain switched off.
WEEK TWO
SUNDAY
Oliver was walking through an underground labyrinth of concrete corridors, past pillars, to a car. Jasmine was in the back seat. She took off her face to show him the mask that it had been all along. Underneath was nothing. She’d changed her status to ‘unknown’: 271 people liked this. Outside there were discarded masks parked in neat rows.
He didn’t know when he was dreaming and when he was awake. Consciousness had that same empty feeling of drifting that sleep possessed, except that his eyes were open and he was doing things. His hands shook. He wanted a drink, but what he really needed were thoughts. Other people seemed unreal, their thoughts kept beyond recognition range, as if all the passers–by had put on disguises and whispered behind cupped hands.
A nurse walked down the corridor looking like a robot.
She kept out of recognition range in case the slightest human contact broke his quarantine. There was black and yellow tape across the floor and a plastic pod attached to the wall to warn people. When he got up to go to the bathroom, he heard its thoughts in his head reminding him to keep away.
When he had an operational brow, he didn’t follow everyone’s thoughts. He wouldn’t have been following that particular nurse’s, for example, but the lack of any thoughts at all, tarred everyone he saw with the same brush. Flat video looked fake next to 3D, and black–and–white television was simply unreal – he’d seen them together once in a museum – and this was horribly close to that. They seemed dead like zombies.
It was a stray thought, like you get just on the limit of recognition range, and it nudged and inveigled itself into Oliver’s mind. He tilted his head first one way and then another as if that would make a difference.
What are you in here for?
Not his imagination then: I’d rather not think about that, thank you.
Ah, that’ll be because you’re a murderer.
What!?
Don’t worry, we’re all in here for something.
What are you in here for?
Schizophrenia. I hear voices.
God, I’m in the loony bin.
You must be a looney then, you hear voices too.
I do not.
You hear mine.
That’s different.
In what way is it different?
My voices are real.
Laugh out loud, an ongoing chuckle that couldn’t be contained: Do you hear that, do you hear that, his voices are real.
I’m not part of the tin hat brigade.
Really? Do you hear that?
Listen… “Listen!”
Oliver looked up, around, but there was no–one there. There were cream walls, a window with a view of the dark sky, the door to the empty corridor, an old bracket that used to hold a television set, the curtains and a bedside cabinet.
“I don’t hear voices,” he said aloud.
No, of course not.
Oliver got up, felt the cold floor on the soles of his feet and he shuffled over to the en suite. He washed his face, splashing the cold water onto what felt like weary skin drawn across his skull. As he rubbed, he felt a two day growth of stubble and the hard brow beneath the flesh of his forehead.
When he straightened up, he saw himself in the mirror.
Jellicoe had talking about everyone’s lack of ability to remember faces. This was a face he ought to know because the iBrow didn’t recognise itself, of course; and there was no–one really there. It was just his image in the mirror, but, by the same token, the face seemed blank. This other person, this reflection living in the reversed bathroom, was an enigma, an unknown, as if it was wearing an Oliver Braddon mask, and his unfollowable thoughts were his own.
How did he rate this person – objectively?
He couldn’t.
The eyes weren’t cunning, the chin wasn’t heroic, the smile wasn’t welcoming: all the constituents were anonymous. The whole was a photofit from the boring box. He didn’t judge people on their appearance. He never had, because he had never needed to. Everything about someone was either in the recognition, or their status or gained by a deep noodle of their thoughts. Maybe when he was ten before the brow fitting, but he couldn’t remember that, not properly, because those childish thoughts hadn’t been stored anywhere and certainly hadn’t been backed–up.
Mister Braddon, how are we today?
Oliver looked around the bathroom: there was no–one there and no–one, apart from his reflection, in the mirrored version.
I’m fine.
Excellent, and… where are you, Mister Braddon?
What do you mean?
You should be in bed.
Oliver went back to the private room. There was a man standing there in a suit.
“Hello?”
Ah, there you are, don’t you recognise me?
Oliver did: it was Doctor Trantor. His presence was sudden and frightening.
“Yes.”
Obviously up and about. Back into bed please.
Oliver dutifully obeyed, slipping back into bed, while Doctor Trantor frowned as he noodled Oliver’s notes.
Now, he thought, don’t follow me, just stay with brow–to–brow.
“Yes.”
Nod if you receive this.
Oliver nodded.
OK, think of your job.
“Police–”
“Think!” Think.
Police Officer.
Really?
Yes.
Ah, you’re here because you started to believe some cerebral. Don’t feel ashamed.
I don’t. I am a policeman.
Investigating some impossible murder, Doctor Trantor thought, lots of people relying on you. It’s very common. People like being special, they want to spice up their lives to feel better about themselves; instead of being some boring drone working in some open plan office and ridiculed by all the pretty women.
Stop being a dick and check.
Doctor Trantor tilted his head to one side, noodling his notes.
See, Oliver thought. Detective Constable. Suspended.
So you think: we get so many cerebral addicts, we have to be sure.
Yes, Oliver thought, feeling the muscles in his face contort. I can see that.
Nothing wrong with your Emoticon Selection Protocols, I see. Now, rethink ‘abracadabra’.
Abracadabra.
Don’t think of a polar bear.
Polar bear?
Doctor Trantor clapped his hands.
Oliver jerked back.
Excellent, well done. Physical reaction and reflex thought in synchronisation. Make a happy face.
This is ridiculous, Oliver thought
, grimacing.
Even better. Can you receive this?
Yes.
And… this?
Yes.
Both recognition and push working.
Doctor Trantor tilted his head again, a clear sign he was noodling to update his notes.
“Doctor–”
Think.
But Doctor Trantor was nodding, in a world of his own it seemed, as he accessed something or maybe just kept up with all his friends. He looked like someone who would have lots of friends, grateful ex–patients, nurses, colleagues, ex–lovers… all downgraded to simple followers.
Your bloods have a few anomalous readings, Doctor Trantor thought finally. Do you drink a lot of alcohol, I wonder?
No more than anyone.
You had been thinking about alcohol a lot: pubs, sherry, whiskey, someone called Jellicoe leading you astray? And that’s only a cursory glance down your old thought stream. I think you should be more careful. Stick to below the recommended 21 units in future.
Trantor came over and put his thumb and finger to Oliver’s face to stare into his eyes: The whites of the eyes never lie: you’re bloodshot.
Doctor Trantor… do you mind if we talk?
Not at all?
I mean aloud.
It’s best for your rehabilitation to use thought as normal.
Please… “Please?”
“Oh, very well.” This is rather tedious.
“I heard voices.”
“That’s perfectly normal, it’s the iBrow coming back on line… or to be more precise the cerebral stranding reconnecting.” There’s a lot of bruising, you understand.
“What’s schizophrenia… exactly?”
Schizophrenia? You can noodle it.
Please.
Oh, it’s… a mental disorder defined by a disassociation of mental processes and…
In your own words.
…a deficit–
“In your own words!”
Doctor Trantor stopped, considering Oliver as if for the first time. “Voices in your head,” he said.
“I’ve heard voices in my head.”
“Do you feel controlled externally, thoughts inserted into your mind by others, do you have a fear that your thoughts are being transmitted to others as if by radio waves?”
“Yes, all of those.”
“You’re confused, that’s brow technology. We’re trying to treat you so that you can do it again.”