by Ross Welford
The headache has gone, to be replaced by a dull tingling, and even that seems to be diminishing.
Jessica and Dad are sitting at the side of my bed. A lady in a short white coat comes in. She is so soft-spoken that at times I strain to hear her, but she’s just doing it to be nice. She has a tablet computer, and she wants some answers.
She introduces herself as Mimi. Her lapel badge says Dr. Mimi Chevapravat. She sits down next to me, opposite Jessica and Dad.
“Hi, Georgie,” she says, and smiles warmly. “I’m the neurosurgical resident, and I’ve been looking at the tests we’ve done, and I’m glad to say that there seems to be no damage to your brain. We’re not quite sure what happened, but we think it’s a case of juvenile migraine. You should make a full recovery.”
Well, that’s good news. The only problem is the what happened bit. I’m struggling to remember myself.
“But,” she continues, “I need to ask you some questions about your activities prior to the incident. This condition can often be triggered by bright lights, that sort of thing. Can you think of anything that might have set it off?”
I glance across at Dad. He looks so tired, and so worried, and I suddenly feel a wave of guilt wash over me.
Was this all my fault?
Inside my head is a mixture of everything: the Spanish City, a piece of peach, Dr. Pretorius, then Norman Two-Kids, and the vicar, and a bicycle helmet, and a box of oranges, and ugly Dudley the Staffie…
And none of it makes sense. It’s as though all the pages of a book have been torn out and put back in the wrong order.
Didn’t I? Didn’t I what? Who said that?
“Georgie? Did you hear me?” It’s Mimi again.
I don’t know why, but I decide to just tell the truth. Maybe it’s because I’m too tired to make anything up. Or maybe the secret’s too big for me now. I mean, I’m just a kid.
I start slowly at first: meeting Dr. Pretorius on the beach that day; her invitation to see her studio; the dome inside the Spanish City with its vast floor with billions of ball bearings; the beach with the deck chair and the sand that felt real—I can remember that all right.
It begins to sound ridiculous as I say it. I catch glances between Jessica and Dad. I mean, I know it’s all true—I saw it, I experienced it—although, when I try to remember bits, they sometimes dance away from me, like trying to catch clouds.
“This…Dr. Pretorius?” says Dad eventually. “Where does she live?”
I don’t know. Did I ever know? Did I see her house? Does she live in the dome, in that little room I saw? Was that yesterday? I feel stupid and guilty and want to say sorry over and over.
“So a woman you have never met before, and you know nothing about, invites you and Ramzy Rahman to her, what…laboratory? In the Spanish City? And tells you to keep it secret? And you do?” Dad’s voice is getting louder, and Jessica touches his arm: a sort of “calm down” gesture, which is nice of her, I guess.
The thing is, the more this interrogation goes on, the more I can see he has a point. A good one.
I’m not making much sense. What were we thinking?
There’s more. I mention the Hawking II satellite and, most importantly, the bicycle helmet with its tiny electrical nodules inside and…
“Slow down, Georgie,” says Mimi, putting her hand on my arm. “I’m interested in this…helmet?”
“A bicycle helmet, yes. A changed one,” and I describe it in more detail.
“Modified, obviously,” she says, shooting a glance at Dad, then addressing him rather than me. “This sounds like a sort of homemade TDCS.”
“What’s that?” says Dad, speaking for all of us, I think.
“Transcranial direct-current stimulation. It was popular with gamers a few years ago. Enhancing the gaming experience and so on. The early versions were pretty harmless: very low-level stimulation. There was one released for use in theme parks—the surround-something-or-other.”
“The Surround-a-Room!” I exclaim. “I know! Dr. Pretorius invented it.”
Mimi looks at me. “Is that what she told you, this, ah…this…Dr. Pretorius?” She doesn’t exactly make finger quotes round “Dr. Pretorius” but her voice does.
I note the beginning of an uncomfortable feeling. Was Dr. Pretorius lying about that?
Mimi continues. “So, Georgie. You were saying that…erm”—she glances at her notes—“a satellite dish receiving a stream of ultra-high-definition live video signals from…?”
“Hawking II. It’s a military satellite.” Even as I say it, it sounds ridiculous.
“Yessss,” she drawls, and sucks the end of her pen. “And what happened next?”
“I…I can’t remember. She has a…a quomp—a quantum computer called Little Girl—that calculates the probability of, like, everything, and creates a virtual model of what will happen. It’s sort of a three-dimensional version of the future. I think.” I pause to judge their reactions. Dad’s brow is creased in puzzlement. I become more keen to tell them, but the harder I try to rearrange the scattered memories, the less sense I make. I want them to believe me, but I’m not even sure I believe myself.
“It’s true!” I wail eventually. “I was there! The electronic calendar in the window of Norman Two-Kids’s shop said the date a week from now.”
As I say it, I realize it’s no proof at all. In fact, it’s probably the easiest thing in the world to fake a date on a virtual calendar.
The whole thing is crazy. Military satellites, ultra-high-definition video streams, quomps, and AI scorpions, and yet…
“Wait!” I say. “Look.” I flip the bedsheet to one side. “This is where the giant scorpion got me!” I point to my leg, and there is a wound there. A little one. A tiny needle-prick that could be anything. There isn’t even any blood, just a red dot.
Mimi hardly glances at it. “Hmph.”
I had believed it all. I feel my chin wobbling but I stop it. Mimi gets up and clips her pen back into her pocket.
“Mr. and Mrs. Santos? May I have a word with you? In private?”
Jessica stands up. I want to say, She’s not Mrs. Santos. She’s not my mum, you know, but I don’t have the energy. Mimi gives me a tight little smile and the three of them leave me there, wondering whether I’ve been the biggest fool ever.
They all troop back in a few minutes later and sit down in the same positions.
I have experienced, it would appear, a moderate to severe juvenile migraine resulting in temporary spontaneous confabulation as a result of exposure to unsafe and possibly untested TDCS.
“Of course you’re not lying,” says Mimi, although I don’t like her tone of voice. It sounds like she means the opposite. “Confabulation is a medical term: you really believe these things are true.”
I want to say “They are true!” but Mimi is still talking.
“This, Georgie, is potentially quite a serious matter.” Her voice gets even quieter as if to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “Not medically, I mean. I’m referring rather to the incident that triggered your episode. With your parents’ permission, I’ll be asking the police to come and talk to you about your experiences at the Spanish City.”
“Don’t be scared,” says Dad. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve been careless, perhaps, but the real fault lies with this ‘Dr. Pretorius.’ ” This time the finger quotes are real.
“Is she in trouble?” I ask.
“It’s difficult to know,” says Mimi. “The police will have a better idea whether there has been an actual crime. At the moment, my main concern is that no one else is forced to endure the pain you went through.”
And even then I’m thinking, I wasn’t exactly forced, but I say nothing.
There’s not much to do in a hospital. I have to stay in a little longer till they have the results of
some tests or other.
My phone has been turned off so that I can rest, but when Jessica and Dad leave, and I’m alone in my room, I turn it on and see loads of messages—all from Ramzy. They start off normal, and I scroll through them quickly.
Hi, Georgie—how are you? Hope you’re feeling better.
Hi, G—call me, msg me.
You out of your coma yet, LOL. Just kidding. Pls reply!
I tried to call you—is your phone off? I’ve got something to show you. Could be big!
Yeah, sorry. Just got phone back. Going through msgs.
Then the messages stop. He hasn’t sent one for hours. I call his number but it goes straight to voice mail. I stare at the phone, puzzled by Ramzy’s sudden silence, and then I see I have an email waiting.
An email. From Ramzy. Who has never emailed me in his life.
You weren’t picking up your phone so—SURPRISE!—here’s an email. I’m grounded. Bummer. Phone confiscated, but not my laptop. Your dad called my dad and I’m guessing you told them all about Dr. P. Don’t worry. I’d have done the same, I think.
Result—Big Shouty Drama.
I said we were just going round there to test a new 3D game. The “going into the future” bit sounded too weird. They’d have freaked out even more, and the level of freaking out here is already pretty freaking freaky.
Anyway, do you remember in the control room, when Dr. P was replaying some of the stuff recorded from your helmet? And she asked you to stand in front of Norman 2-Kids’ calendar thingy? That was her proof.
Do you believe her? Well, here’s a bit of video I made while that was playing. I don’t even know if Dr. P knew I was taking it. Check it out. Tell me what you notice. And I don’t mean the calendar.
Ramzy
Before I get a chance to play it, though, Ramzy himself bursts into my room followed by a large woman in a long cloak and an angry face glaring out of her hijab. Aunty Nush.
“It’s me,” says Ramzy unnecessarily. “How are you?”
“Much better—thanks. I thought you were grounded?”
“I am. This is day release to visit the sick. Aunty Nush—this is Georgina.”
If she smiles at me, I miss it, but her face changes a bit, like she’s swallowing something unpleasant-tasting so maybe that is as near as Aunty Nush gets to a smile. She looks like she has forgotten how. She nods slowly a couple of times.
“Two buses to come here,” says Ramzy. “Hope you appreciate it!”
“Yeah, but I’ll be out soon. What’s the rush?”
“Hang on.” Ramzy turns to his aunty and takes her a chair, which creaks dangerously as she plonks herself down on it. They exchange some words in their language. Aunty Nush takes out her phone from the folds of her long cloak and Ramzy sits down next to me.
“Right. That’s her sorted. She doesn’t speak any English, so we’re OK. So—what have you said?”
I tell Ramzy about Mimi’s questions, and about the police being informed. Ramzy looks horrified and glances over at Aunty Nush. “The police?”
“I’m sorry. Dr. Pretorius could be in trouble. Thing is, Ramzy—I can’t remember a lot of it. It’s like the headache has fuzzied up my memory. But they reckon that the bicycle helmet injured my brain, and so she could be responsible. And they don’t like the idea of some weirdo meeting kids on the beach and playing 3-D games, and—”
“But she wasn’t…she’s not…a weirdo,” says Ramzy. “Is she?”
I really don’t know the answer to that. I say, “Ramzy, do you think that was all faked? All that future stuff? My dad definitely does. And the doctors. I mean, what proof do we have?” I’m getting worried telling Ramzy about it, but he seems quite calm. He looks at Aunty Nush again, but she’s absorbed in some game on her phone, glowering at it and stabbing at something with a forefinger.
“Georgie, man. Calm down. I had the very same thought, even as you were in the studio. I was behind Dr. P and she hardly spoke, but I did take a bit of video on my phone when you were standing in front of the shop window. I don’t even think she noticed. I really think you should watch it, though.”
The clip in Ramzy’s email is still open on my laptop. I click on it, and as it plays, the memory begins to return, as though it’s from a long, long time ago.
I’m standing in front of Norman Two-Kids’s shop. There it is, the electronic calendar in the window. Is it proof that I’m in a computer-generated “future”? I’m beginning to doubt it.
“It’s all just fake, Ramzy,” I say, feeling dejected. “I mean—it’s clever and everything, but I think we’ve been tricked. Why she would do that, I have no idea. I mean…”
“But, Georgie. Look closely. There’s a way we can prove it. Really prove it.” Ramzy is smirking a little now and teasing me with something he knows. “Look closer.”
I drag the button back along to the start of the clip, and watch it again, noticing the giant scorpion hiding behind the car this time and it gives me a shiver. But I don’t see anything odd about the calendar, and I say so.
“But look!” Ramzy can’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “What’s next to the calendar?”
“Erm…a Coca-Cola ad. A handwritten sign, which I can’t make out, a video ad for the Geordie Jackpot lottery with the logo and whatnot, erm…”
“Yes! Yes! Describe the moving ad!”
“Can’t you just tell me, Ramzy? OK…it’s a bottle of champagne, and the label says Is it you? The cork pops out and there’s stars and streamers and balls, and the words This week’s winning numbers, and— Oh my Lord, Ramzy! Th-those balls!”
Ramzy is nodding slowly, a sly grin on his face.
I say, “They’ve got numbers on them. The numbers for the lottery draw. Next week’s lottery draw!” I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. Ramzy’s eyes are shining with excitement.
“I’ve checked them. Those six numbers have not been selected in any of the draws in the last five years.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that if Dr. Pretorius has faked the calendar by, I dunno, layering something on top of existing footage, then she’s also gone to the huge trouble of changing the numbers on a moving advertisement next to it. Seems like a lot of effort.”
I’m still trying to catch up. “So if the numbers of the next Geordie Jackpot match the ones here in this clip, then that will be proof that Dr. Pretorius’s virtual future is real and not fake.”
“Exactly. But you’re missing one thing. We’ll also be…what, Georgie?”
“I don’t know, Ramzy!” I moan. “Stop being so mysterious!”
“Rich, Georgie! It’s like a million pounds if you pick all six numbers!” He isn’t quite shouting, but his excitement causes Aunty Nush to stop her phone game. She glares at him and snarls something I don’t understand.
I swallow hard. I have never paid the Geordie Jackpot much attention.
All I know is this: if you buy a ticket, you can choose six numbers. Once every two weeks, a machine randomly picks six numbered balls. If the numbers on your ticket match the ones chosen by the machine, then you win.
Easy! Except I also know this: the chances of winning the big prize are incredibly tiny. But, if you knew in advance what the numbers were going to be, you could select those exact numbers on your ticket, and…
I must have been daydreaming because Ramzy nudges me and says, “Hey! You still with us?”
“Sorry, Ramzy, I’m just…a bit…”
“Pretty awesome, eh?”
That’s one way of putting it.
Shortly afterward, Ramzy leaves with Aunty Nush. (I think she even smiles at me: it’s hard to tell. Her lips draw apart a bit, revealing broken, gappy teeth, and then her mouth closes over them again, like a sheet
covering a corpse.)
Mimi has told me to rest. Relax. How on earth can I? My mind is racing with the possibility of winning a million pounds.
I look up the Geordie Jackpot and spend a good twenty minutes reading stories about people whose lives have been changed by a massive sum of money. Some of them, to be honest, are not happy stories.
Family breakups, arguments, divorce, drug problems, crime: some people, it seems, are not very good when it comes to large sums of money. Me? I’ll be fine.
I let myself imagine what I would do. Split it with Ramzy? Definitely. Then I’ll buy Dad a new workshop: he’s always complaining that it’s cold and needs up-to-date equipment.
About half an hour later, I’m still daydreaming of how I would spend the money when I hear voices outside my room, and the door opens.
“Hello, Georgina.” It’s Jessica. I’m allowed to go. Discharged is the word they use. “Your dad’s had to go. Come with me,” she says.
Ten minutes later, I’m following her through hospital corridors and across parking lots toward the building where she works. She’s talking all the time—more, I think, than I remember her ever talking.
“The police will be calling this evening to interview you. Your dad has spoken to Ramzy’s dad…” and so on. It’s all very matter-of-fact, but then it usually is with Jessica.
I look at her bony back as she stalks ahead of me and I think—for the umpteenth time—how different she is from Dad. They met through Mum, indirectly. I think I said that already. It’s hard to keep track, especially now my mind is a little fuzzy. Since Mum died, Dad has raised money every year for the local biobotics research unit. Two years ago, they invited Dad and Clem and me to the opening of a new part of the building. There’s a big board with people’s names carved on it, and Mum and Dad’s are too: