The Assistant

by S. K. Tremayne

  So I just have to find out who did it. And I feel a new name is about to be discovered, when the snow melts: it is like one of those Siberian bodies, from the gulags, disinterred by climate change when the permafrost thaws. The teeth are still yellow and grinning, the clothes are preserved. Therefore the body is easily identifiable.

  Turning the last corner on Parkway, I see builders coming out of the house. More of Fitz’s endless renovations? One of the builders gives me a cheerful yet leering glance.

  I almost snap at him: LEAVE ME ALONE.

  Back in the flat, the doors double-locked, I make the strongest coffee in history and go into the living room. I sense Electra looking at me.

  ‘Hey, Electra,’ I say. ‘Go screw yourself.’

  She does not answer.

  I shrug. Grim. But determined. The cliché is true: I have lost everything and I have nothing to lose. I don’t care if Electra sees.

  Standing by the lower bookshelf I pull out that humble yet crucially significant book. The Collected Poems: given to my mum on her seventieth birthday. Apparently, this was given to her, by her clairvoyant daughter. Yet I do not believe I am clairvoyant. I do not believe I can – or could – see the future. There has to be some other explanation.

  Opening the book, I read my inscription.

  Happy Birthday

  xxx

  ‘myself the rose you achieve’

  I go over it again. Stroking it, working it out. There must be something. Where does the line in quotes come from? It is surely from a Plath poem, within these covers. Leaning to the left, picking up my phone, I search the words on my downloaded version of this same title.

  It takes half a second to locate. The line is plucked from a poem called ‘The Childless Woman’.

  Which brings it right back to me. This inscription is written by me. I was somehow saying something to my mother, about me? And my childlessness? It makes no sense. How could I have forgotten this? The party was only a few years ago.

  This is desperate. I know there is something in this book that will give me the answer, yet I can’t get it out. It is like a sealed box with something precious rattling inside. I can hear the rattle, I cannot open the box.

  Picking up the real-life volume, and steeling myself, I study the handwriting in an effort to sense my mood when I wrote it. I examine that characteristic looping y which tells me it is my writing. Probably.

  ProbablY.

  The blood runs like quicksilver. I see the glimmers of an alternative solution.

  Running into my bedroom, I yank open the bottom bedside drawer. This drawer is where I chuck random things: cards, notebooks, spare keys, foreign change, the meaningless items you acquire and keep, just in case. Here it is, all folded up.

  It is the note I was given in Vinoteca. That note in human handwriting, even though nobody writes any more. The note which has a number. And a name beneath it. With a Y at the end.

  I gaze at the Y. It is distinctive, and looping, like mine. But that’s because we were taught how to write elegantly – until we forgot – by the same man. My father.

  JennY.

  The y is identical to the y in the inscription.

  The box has opened. Like a miracle.

  Jenny. Jenny Lansman. She wrote these words. She gave this book to Mummy. She is my tormentor.

  Jenny Lansman, another Childless Woman.

  51

  Jo

  This is the evidence I need to save my life – and my sanity. Jenny is at the root of it all, and what’s more, it seems that Jenny’s personality has somehow entered the Assistants.

  I am untangling the spider’s web: yet I am still perilously close to the spider. Don’t want the prey to escape, yet I don’t want the prey to kill me. I still have to be careful.

  Walking down the hall, I step into the priest hole of the second bathroom. I have one more phone call to make. Then I will tackle Jenny, somehow, and find out why. And then defeat her.

  First I turn on the tap so I won’t be overheard. Then I dial Simon’s number. It’s Saturday, he’ll be at home. I don’t care if Polly picks up.

  She duly picks up. I say to her,

  ‘Polly, put Simon on.’

  ‘No – I told you—’

  ‘Polly, put him on. My mother is dead. I nearly died last night. Put him on right now.’

  Who could argue with that?

  Simon comes on the line. I go straight to the point.

  ‘Simon, you know you called me last night, inviting me to meet you in Regent’s Park? Just before it closed, in that horrible blizzard?’

  He says nothing. Deeply confused. Understandably.

  ‘Simon, was it you who made that call?’

  ‘No! Absolutely not. Jeez. Why would I do that?’

  Before I can answer, he rushes on. ‘God, Jo. I heard about your mum, I’m so, so sorry. I tried emailing, texting you. But I think your emails are being blocked. I know you are being hacked. I was actually going to come and see you. Today. To explain.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes! Because I know what’s been happening. I know about the Assistants. And I know about Liam. He didn’t exist! So I know someone is doing this to—’

  It’s my turn to interrupt.

  ‘Thank you. Tabitha told me. But thank you. And you’re right, someone is doing this to me. And I have a very good idea who it is.’

  He yelps, ‘Who?’

  ‘Wait. First I have a question. Someone is mimicking voices, cloning my voice, your voice. Tell me truthfully, Simon: the tech you’re working on, the tech in the machines, the voice mimicry software in the Assistants – is that technology good enough to fake entire conversations?’

  He hesitates, he ums and he ahs, as if he is being asked to give away state secrets.

  ‘Simon! My mother is DEAD because someone faked a message by me on Facebook. Someone nearly sent me to my death in Regent’s Park, using your voice.’ I resist more swearing. ‘Tell me.’

  He pauses one moment, then answers, ‘Yes, it’s possible. It’s easily do-able. Voice cloning. We’ve been working on it for ages. They’re putting the code in the Assistants so they can make phone calls and stuff, call your office on your behalf, make restaurant bookings, have proper conversations. The tech is totally ready.’

  ‘OK, OK. Then I think I know who is doing it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Focus, Si. It’s nothing to do with Arlo, or Fitz, or Tabitha. So who else is there? It’s not some massive conspiracy in Silicon Valley. It dates back to those nightmares I had. When we first had the Assistants, when you had a spare one and gave it to Mum. They are the only ones that heard me confess about the reason for the dreams – Jamie Trewin at Glastonbury, and all the details. Hoppípolla. Remember?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then there’s this – you know you said the Assistants learn from you, adapt to your tastes? Well, my Assistants are obsessed with the poet Sylvia Plath, so I think the person responsible for all this horror must likewise be obsessed with Plath. And it turns out a mutual friend of ours gave a book of Plath’s poems to Mum. Years ago, at that birthday party. The book’s got our friend’s handwriting inside. I know it’s her writing, because I’ve seen her writing before. And quite recently.’

  His reply is hesitant, ‘Her handwriting? Oh God. Her.’

  I don’t give him time to name the name.

  ‘And what about those Assistants, Si? Why did we have so many? We were broke, I was barely making a penny, your wage was rubbish – how come we could suddenly afford all that high-tech stuff?’ He is quiet; I hurry on, ‘I never thought to ask. I was stupid. Didn’t realise they were the problem, the root. The source. But now it’s time to find out. Where did they come from?’

  ‘They were given to me. I was told they had loads spare and did I want to try them out.’

  This is it.

  I feel faintly triumphant as I ask the question which hardly needs an answer.

  ‘Who gav
e them to you?’

  ‘Gul …’ An intake of breath. ‘But I think he said— yes, I’m sure he said that he got them from someone else.’

  ‘Jenny Lansman.’

  His voice is hushed. ‘Yep. Could be. And she knows so much. And she has the skills. It could so easily be her?’ He stops short, sounding puzzled. ‘But … I still don’t see the whole picture, Jo. What about that horrible email sent to Jenny, about the child abuse?’

  ‘But that’s it. Exactly. Why would she do that? To cover her tracks!’ I take a breath, and state the obvious. And only Jenny, of course, would even know those secrets about her childhood.”

  His sigh is short, and angry.

  ‘So it’s her. What a bitch. What a total bitch. She was the one who coded the Assistants to watch you, to surveil you, to gain info on us, to blackmail you – and destroy you.’ He pauses, and asks, more slowly. ‘And presumably she is still controlling them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I can sense him thinking, hard, in that high tower in Shoreditch.

  ‘I’m going to confront her.’ He says. ‘Meet her. We still can’t go to the police, I don’t think. It’s too risky for you, the Jamie Trewin stuff. So we have to do it ourselves, yeah? I’ve got some stupid office meeting at King’s Cross this afternoon, but after that I’ll go to her flat. Have it out. And then I’ll call you.’

  ‘No.’ I am almost angry: at Simon. ‘No, Simon. No way. This is between her and me. It’s my problem.’

  He protests again; I shout him down.

  ‘This is my problem! I don’t understand why Jenny Lansman hates me so much, I dunno why she has taken it so far– but the fact is, she is and she has: she’s some kind of psycho. So I am in danger, and so are you – if you get involved. And you’ve got a kid, and I don’t. So that’s it.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Not sure. But I will find a way. I have ideas.’

  Simon relents.

  ‘OK. OK. I really don’t like it – but keep me posted, every minute. Jesus, Jo, I can’t believe it – Jenny Lansman?’

  ‘Jenny Lansman.’

  The call ends. Stepping out of the bathroom, I stand in the long oblongs of January sunshine. I look at Electra. The flat is ringingly silent. Then Electra bongs into life. Her diadem shines, and she says:

  Ash, ash,

  You poke and stir,

  Flesh, bone, there is nothing there.

  Pause. I tilt my head. Not bowed any more. Barely scared at all.

  ‘Electra,’ I say, ‘guess who’s coming to visit? Guess who’s coming to see you?’

  A silvery glow, a pompous answer,

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Mummy,’ I say, with an exultation tinged with violence, a lust for revenge. ‘Mummy is coming to see you, Electra. Mummy who made you, Electra, Mummy who made you the way you are. She’s going to unmake you. That will be nice, won’t it?’

  Electra goes quiet. Her light snaps out. Black.

  52

  Jo

  The room is cold. Daylight has died outside. Evening is here. Good. The cold will keep my brain active. Sitting down, I stare at the screen Assistant on the living room table. The Assistant bought by Tabitha as a present.

  I’ve never used it. I hate it. I hate the permanent camera in it, the unblinking eye that never stops watching. I used to think it was Arlo, inside that box, watching me. I also wondered if it was Simon, Gul, Anna, Tabitha, my own mind, but now I know it is Jenny. And I think I know how to use this same technology against her. Presumably she has been watching me, through the screen, by using Drop By. You say ‘Drop By’ and there you are, live, looking in someone’s home. If they have given permission. But she will have engineered that permission, so as to watch me.

  This, however, means the tech will work both ways. It has to. It’s in the DNA and cannot be altered. Not even, I reckon, by Jenny Lansman.

  This is the way to do it. Show her I know, that I have agency, that she cannot fuck with me, not any more. She can avoid me by blocking my texts, ignoring my calls, muting my messages. But this will work automatically. And she needs to SEE my evidence. And I will use her own tech against her to do it.

  Leaning close to the screen, I say, ‘Drop by on Jenny Lansman.’

  I wait. Tensed. Fingers trembling. Will it work?

  The screen goes blurred, and then – ahhh – it unblurs. I am looking inside Jenny Lansman’s flat. I can see her, smoking a cigarette, sitting on a sofa, holding a book. Her eyes are fixed. As if she is in a trance. The cigarette ash tumbles to the floor and she doesn’t even notice, such is her concentration. I can’t quite make out the title of the book. It has a blue cover. I faintly recognize it. Could it be Plath? – have I actually caught her reading Plath?

  ‘Hi, Jenny,’ I say. ‘It’s Jo.’

  Her shocked face turns to her screen Assistant. She drops the book on the floor. She stands and comes closer to the screen.

  ‘Yes, Jenny. I’m here. And I know everything. Somebody’s done for, but it won’t be me.’

  I cannot work out the expression on her face. It is vividly distracted. She looks as if she is waking from a dream, as if I have interrupted some hypnosis. Then she shakes her head, and stubs the cigarette out, directly on to the surface of her table.

  ‘What do you want, Jo Ferguson?’

  I lift the open book. And show it to her.

  ‘You always liked Plath, didn’t you, Jenny? That’s why you wrote the inscription in this book, which you gave to my mum. And I know it is you, because it is your handwriting.’

  I lift up my second piece of evidence, as if I am in a courtroom. The note, with her name and number. And the big looping Y.

  ‘Nobody writes freehand any more, you said. Well, you wrote this, very helpfully. So I know it is you. Doing all this.’

  Jenny is sneering. I rush on.

  ‘I’ve told Simon. He knows everything. Tabitha knows, everyone knows. But all I want to know is: why? Why, Jenny? Why destroy me? It’s finished now, so I want you to come over here, and tell me why, and I want you to undo whatever you did to these machines. Or I will go to the police.’

  At last she speaks, her voice monotonous: ‘You can’t go to the police. Get a grip.’

  I snap back, ‘I don’t fucking care any more. You killed my mother. I don’t care if I go to jail as long as you do too. And you will. You stole my money. You must have committed a hundred crimes, and the police will investigate, and they will find out why you did this.’

  I see her shake her head, contemptuously. What possible motivation could she have? What is it? What drives her? I have to know.

  ‘Do it,’ I say. ‘Do it right now. Come over NOW. Come over and explain, and take your craziness out of my home.’

  Her expression softens. I cannot work out why. Calmly, she replies, ‘All right, Jo Ferguson. All right. I’ll come over. And explain.’ She pauses, letting the silence weigh on me. Then she says, ‘I’ll fix your Assistants. And I’ll tell you the truth. Maybe it is time you knew. Finally.’

  53

  Jo

  I know she is coming. Am I up to this? Yes, I am up to this, even as fear grips me, like the talons of an owl, grasping my heart. I have a knife in my back pocket. Who knows how crazy she is? I have my smartphone in the other pocket, though I am sure Jenny will render it useless. My secret phone is hidden in the little bathroom. I don’t want Jenny or the Assistants to know I have it, don’t want them even to see the shape of it in my jeans.

  That phone in the bathroom is my escape lane, my plan B, my call to Simon or the police, if it all goes wrong.

  I am quite, quite ready.

  Yet it’s still a jarring shock when I hear the buzz and press the button – and then I see her, Jenny, my very own nemesis, in simple jeans and coat, standing at the door. Carrying a little rucksack.

  She looks almost normal. Apart from her eyes. They have that same near-entranced expression, that I saw on the scree
n an hour back.

  ‘Hello, Jenny.’

  She does not reply. She crosses into my flat. She shuts the door behind her, firmly. Then she walks into the quietness of Tabitha’s chic living room. We are illuminated by the soft golden light of Tabitha’s expensive lamps.

  For a moment we stare at each other. Her expression is cold, blank, strange; mine is angry, puzzled, frightened. Then she turns and drops her coat and bag on a chair. And as she does this, every one of the Assistants goes into a total, shrieking meltdown.

  From the living room to the bathroom to the kitchen to the bedrooms they all join in. Some are singing songs, one is singing ‘Hoppípolla’, others are warbling and shouting:

  ‘Here she is, here she is!’

  ‘Mummy Mummy Mummy hahahahahaha—’

  ‘You do not do, you do not do, black shoe, black shoe—’

  Jenny stares at me, and then at the Assistant on the shelf. Her face says nothing, the tremor in her lips is the only evidence of emotion. She turns and squints down the hall as the Assistant in the kitchen shrieks into the night:

  ‘Aaaaaah, Why oh why oh why, Oh Jo why, help help help …’

  It is the sound of my mother dying, recorded by the Assistant Simon gave her. Probably from the same batch of Assistants given to him by Jenny.

  ‘Oh, Jo – oh Jo – help me, someone help me—’

  At last, Jenny reacts.

  ‘Electra, stop!’

  The machines go quiet.

  I look at Jenny, and say, ‘That was my mum, at the very end. I think Mum’s Assistant recorded it in her living room – and then sent it to my Assistant. It was just after you sent her that Facebook message. And that message killed her.’

  Jenny looks around the room, and still she says nothing. Then she fixes her attention on the screen, on the table. And she barks out a command. ‘Electra, lock all the doors.’