Chapter 5-6

Today Issy struggles to adjust back into the routine of school life before she has met with Mrs Bridges, and Peter goes on one final run before starting his new job at NSHQ.

If you prefer to listen, the audio is here too.

Chapter Five Early-Winter 2015 Isabella

I don’t think I can bear it but I walk to school again today. I’m meeting Mrs Bridges this afternoon for the first time since before Christmas. I spend most of the walk on autopilot. It’s amazing what your mind can remember with only the aid of your peripheral vision to jog it. I suppose my concentration is divided, but without even being conscious of it: my subconscious is processing information from my peripheral vision and from my memory, combining it to guide my feet in the right direction for school, whilst my conscious attention is one hundred percent focused on the screen in front of me and the conversations I am having in it. I spend the first part of my journey messaging back and forth with #me and the other people who have commented on my latest blog. We’re not even really discussing Paradise Lost now; the conversation has gone off on a tangent, but I like the fact that it started with my post. Every so often #me sends a private message alongside the conversation we’re having with the other bloggers. I have it set up so that I can see both conversations alongside one another on my screen, so I can keep track of everything that’s going on, but don’t miss out on #me’s private comments, which make me laugh and smile and tingle all over.

When I get to the woodland shortcut, I stop. I could stay on the path that runs alongside the main road and loop round the woodland park – I’ve still got time not to be late for school. I’ve already gone a different way to the route Sarah and I used to take because, although I wanted to walk, I couldn’t face going past her house again this week, and, in fact, I used to go a little out of my way to meet Sarah at her house anyway. We used to enter the wood from the field by her farm, but today I’ve walked down the main road on the park side of the wood. There’s a metal fence separating the path from the trees. It’s just a minor shortcut this way as I’ve already looped around a good part of the park, but I decide to go through the gate.

As I approach, the barren, leaf-stricken trees look frail and frozen. There is only the slightest breeze and no canopy, so the trees are almost silent in the morning air. I reach out and feel the cold iron gate. Something about the touch of it reminds me of Sarah. I picture her in my mind’s eye as my fingers clasp around the cold, rusting metal. There is something nostalgic about old iron gates and the old-fashioned lamp posts either side of it, marking the entrance to the park. They are tall, black and still cast a faint glow in the dim morning light. I take a deep breath and walk through the barrier, turning right to follow the path that cuts across towards school. Had I walked straight on, walking the more trodden path, eventually the wood would have hollowed out, opening into a large, green clearing, in the middle of which stands a wonderful hill that rises out of nowhere. Today the pond at the foot of the hill would be frozen over, perhaps with a scattering of fallen leaves on the icy surface, the browns, reds and burnt oranges crisp with frost.

Sarah and I used to play in the park, and not just together. All of the local children would congregate in the summer for epic adventures, playing run-outs or capture the flag or simply racing up the hill and cooling off in the pond water afterwards. In the winter, if we were lucky that year, it seemed like the whole city got together to take advantage of the snow, sledging down the hill at breakneck speeds. I can still feel the icy snow air blowing and buffeting my cheeks as I sledged down, holding onto the rope for dear life. I can hear Sarah calling out in exhilaration, ‘Woo hoo. Come on, Issy. I’m winning.’ The sound carried back as she broke into the lead. Her father had built her a sledge and it was a work of aerodynamic excellence. Sometimes, if the snow lasted long enough, people would build snow ramps at the bottom of the hill. At those speeds it was almost impossible not to take off of the ramp and then lose control and go tumbling into a heap of snow and ice. The bruises were worth it.

It snowed last year, but I didn’t go down. Art went with Dad and came back bruised and battered and completely exuberant with tales of breakneck speed, near misses and epic collisions, but Dad said that it was a shame that there were so few people out. It was still busy, he said, but nothing like it used to be in the, how did he put it, good old days.

I stay out as I walk through the wood. I look around as I go. Bare trees, fallen leaves and broken branches, but still, there is a beauty. Stripped back to the skin, the trees are exposed in a way that so many people aren’t. I might not walk to school very often and I might not ‘play’ out anymore, but there is still something about nature that can speak to you. The trouble is, sometimes I don’t think people can cope with what it is saying. I’m reminded of the radio programme I heard on the first day of sixth form, and wonder if the musician with his typewriter in front of his window ever saw anything that he couldn’t write a song about.

I think about Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. I’ve just read the part where Satan tempts Eve to break God’s command and has eaten the fruit from the tree of knowledge. And, looking around at the naked trees, I change my mind about something I’d thought about what they did. I had thought that when the Earth cries out in anguish at Adam and Eve’s defiance, it should have been crying out in celebration. I mean, how can the acquisition of knowledge be a bad thing? Sure, it can be dangerous, but, like Lucifer in his speech at the start, I’d been thinking that being dangerous didn’t necessarily make it wrong. After all, isn’t it better to rule in hell that to serve in heaven? Isn’t it better to know the truth and be unsafe than to believe a lie just to be safe?

But maybe it isn’t. These naked trees are free, but once they had knowledge Adam and Eve grew ashamed of their nakedness and covered themselves up. They grew jealous of each other. They grew power hungry and tainted with inequality. I wonder whether it really is better to live in a world of truth and pain than a world of lies and security. Perhaps it’s like Plato’s philosopher kings or Hobbes’ monarch: better to relinquish some liberty if you don’t know how to use it sensibly.

After all, maybe it’s better for people to be happy and ignorant, instead of being sad and wise. Wouldn’t we all want to live in a world where everyone was safe and felt protected, rather than one full of truth where everyone was in danger all the time?

Once I clear the forest, I shake myself in the cold air and I go back in for the rest of my walk.

I bump into Bobby Peters as I’m walking through the school gates. Autopilot doesn’t always see people coming until it’s too late, so I literally do bump into him. I drop my phone and have a moment of absolute panic but as it falls to the floor in slow motion, I see Bobby’s foot kick out. It makes contact with the phone and he safely knocks it onto the grass bank, saving it from the hard concrete floor.

Although I want to retrieve the phone, shock has fixed me to the spot. Before I have had time to think or move, Bobby Peters is reaching out to me. He has picked up my phone and is handing it back with a big grin on his face.

‘Here you go. Maybe I should try out for the school team.’

‘What?’ I say. My mind hasn’t caught up with reality yet. ‘Oh, yeah.’ My brain kicks back into gear. ‘Right. Yeah maybe you should.’ I take the phone. He is still smiling. My brain is working normally now but I still just stand there as he looks at me. I still can’t think of anything to say.

‘Thanks,’ he says, still grinning.

‘For what?’

‘No, that’s the word you’re looking for. Thanks for stopping my phone from smashing on the floor.’

‘Oh, yeah. Of course. Thanks a lot.’ I search for his name. ‘Bobby.’

‘And sorry.’

‘For what?’ He’s still grinning, obviously unperturbed by my utter stupidity.

‘For bashing into me. My phone didn’t fare so well as yours.’ He holds out his phone to reveal a thoroughly smashed screen. ‘I was watching where I was going, mind. I had it held to my ear.’

‘Oh, yeah. Sorry for that. Oh God. No. That doesn’t look good. Oh, sorry.’ I search for his name again. ‘Bobby. Sorry Bobby Peters.’

‘That’s okay. Really. As fate would have it, I’m due an upgrade this month and it was only going in a drawer after that anyway, never to be seen again. Unless of course, you walked into me again and I needed a replacement.’ He smiles again, half grinning with it. It’s the first time I’ve notice what he really looks like. I mean, I know what he looks like, but sometimes when you get up close to a person, you notice that their features aren’t quite the way your mind had interpreted from a distance. His hair is curlier and his eyes greener and his smile kinder than the oafish grin I thought I’d seen in class. Or, the oafish grin I thought I’d heard in class: I don’t suppose I’ve ever looked over at him when he’s doing it. Come to think of it, for all I know it’s Billy Thompson always laughing and not Bobby Peters at all. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose it matters who it is. I was just in the middle of saying goodbye to #me and finishing my last comment on the blog thread.

I finish my messages and when I get back out and put my phone safely in my inside blazer pocket, I notice that Bobby Peters is still standing next to me – still looking at me.

‘Oh, hello still.’

‘You forgot to say see you later then. You know, before you went right back to doing what you were doing when you bashed into me.’ I suppose I did, really. He’s still grinning so I don’t think he thinks I’m being too rude, but I guess I just cut the conversation short before it got awkward.

‘Come on,’ he says, shoving me playfully. ‘Let’s get inside. It’s bloody freezing out here anyway and we’re going to be late. They do run a pretty tight ship here after all.’ It’s not some strange and mysterious coincidence that he says the thing about the ‘tight ship’ like I do. He grins as he says it because he’s really mocking Mr Darlington, the head teacher. It’s sort of one of his catch phrases. He means it when he says it. And so, do I when I repeat it. And I guess Bobby Peters does too, even if he is laughing, because he speeds up as we walk towards the entrance.

When we get inside, he turns to say something as he goes right, and I go left but I cut in before he can make the joke again.

‘See you later then.’

‘Ha. See you later, Issy.’

I turn and walk towards Mr Harrison’s classroom for morning registration. I think how it seems strange that Bobby Peters has curlier hair, greener eyes and a kinder smile than I thought he did. Then I shake myself and remember what #me said before I signed out. It makes me smile again, although, it makes me a little anxious too.

It’s not all watching films and talking about abstract ideas in Sociology. There is plenty of reading, and theories to learn, and case studies to learn, and chapters from the textbook to read. And there are all of the usual essays and presentations and test papers. So, it’s been a pretty normal week of classes so far but still the best ‘normal’ lessons you could hope for, because Mr Harrison really is that interesting. You can tell he loves what he teaches; he really finds it interesting and he’s not putting anything on when he gets excited or his eyes go wide. That might be the best thing about Mr Harrison: he always seems excited about the theories or thinkers he’s talking about, like it’s the first time he’s come across them, when, in fact, he must have read about them for the first time years ago and he must have taught them enough times now for them to be ‘old ideas’ to him. Some of the content is probably quite simplistic for him as well. Although we call him Mr Harrison and Sir, he’s actually Doctor Harrison. He’s got a PHD. If you look on the school website, or ever hear him introduced at events with parents or governors, he’s always referred to as Dr Harrison. But he prefers to be Mr Harrison or Sir in class, so that’s what we call him.

It’s our last lesson with Mr Harrison this week and just before the end he stops us to recommend something. He has written a question on the board:

Could a human ever truly fall in love with an artificial intelligence, and, if they did, would it be socially acceptable?

‘This is not compulsory work and I dare say it won’t directly help you at all with your exams but I recommend that you watch the film ‘Her’ this weekend, and, if you are intrigued by it, then I would be more than happy for you to hand in an essay answering the question on the board. The film is about a man falling in love with his advanced operating system that is programmed with the voice of a woman. You may also like to watch a film called ‘Blade Runner’ or read the original novella ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’. There is also an interesting film called ‘Ex Machina’ that explores similar ideas, that has just been released, and a series called ‘Humans’ that has just finished its first airing on Channel Four. I find this question increasingly more and more interesting as our technology advances and I continue to wonder whether technology has the power to fundamentally alter our perception of ourselves and what it means to be human, so I would be very interested to hear some of your thoughts on the matter. No, Billy, like I said thirty seconds ago, it is not compulsory.’ Billy Thompson puts down his hand. ‘It is just something I thought you might be interested in. Do please forgive me if I am wrong.’ He says this last bit with a smile, and a grin that reminds me of… huh, Bobby Peters. That’s strange.

I quickly scribble down the question. It sounds interesting and I’ve nearly finished Paradise Lost now so was hoping for something else to get stuck into and to give me some new ideas to blog about.

As I walk passed Mr Harrison, he calls me back.

‘Issy!’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘I do hope that you are thinking about watching and reading some of this material, even if you don’t write the essay.’

‘Oh, yes, sir. I’ll write the essay too. I’ve just got to finish Paradise Lost tonight and then I’ll be ready to start tomorrow. I might even have some time tonight.’ I want him to know that it means a lot to me that he sets these tasks and that I really do like them too.

‘Well, there’s no need to rush, but I think you might really benefit from thinking about these topics.’ He smiles like he means it, but also like he means something that I can’t quite fathom, as if it is not just about challenging myself with more difficult Sociological and Philosophical ideas. I’m really not picking up on cues today, am I?

‘Oh, and Issy.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t forget about your appointment this afternoon with Mrs Bridges.’ He gives me a kind smile and I at least know what that means – he really does care, Mr Harrison.

‘No, sir. I won’t. Thanks sir.’ He turns and walks into his office at the back of the classroom. I hear him flick on the kettle and I imagine the smell of coffee emanating from the office and seeping through the school, following me down the corridor as I make my way to English with Mrs Barnett. I pull down the sleeve ends of my jumper that I wear under my blazer and scrunch them with my fingers into the palm of my hand. I smile as the coffee follows me down the hall.

Chapter Six Autumn 2034 Peter

I feel a mix of excitement, an abundance of joy and extreme fear and trepidation. I am walking down a long, white walled, light-floored corridor. I can see the door at the end getting bigger as I keep moving. I am walking fast, looking back over my shoulder. There is no one behind me, but I keep looking back. My mind is concerned about what is behind me, but my body is in control, taking me forwards, closer and closer to the door. The door is my destination, or what is on the other side of the door. The door leads outside. It is a fire escape. I am already thinking about pushing the bar down, pushing the door forwards and walking out. A memory runs through my mind. Words recited to me many years ago:

‘O Earth O Earth return!

Arise from out the dewy grass;

Night is worn,

And the morn

Rises from the slumberous mass.

Turn away no more:

Why wilt thou turn away

The starry floor

The watry shore

Is giv’n thee till the break of day.

I look back. I move forward. I reach out. My hands touch the cold metallic bar of the door. I push down. I feel the weight give way easily. I push forward. I am blinded by golden light.

I wake up.

I sit up and clutch the sunrise pendant hanging at my chest and I feel a surge of something – the remnants of emotion from my dream. Now I am awake and the vision fades, but something remains: excitement, an abundance of joy and extreme fear and trepidation. And words: ‘Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumberous mass.’ I allow the words to repeat, echoing in the vaults of my mind. I think of the door in the dream and the blinding light beyond.

I’ve been back in my apartment since this afternoon. I was driven straight back from NSSolarFarmOne immediately after I was selected. Little more was said to me after Miss Mary Hain shook my hand, except that I was to return home for two days before I am to be collected and taken to NewStateHeadQuarters, when the full details of my new life will be disclosed and then begin. I was told to leave my old work for now and to enjoy my time inside as much I can, for in two days I will be working for NewState proper, and ‘sacrifices will have to be made.’

It is not hard to admit that knowing I will be expected to spend time outside of SSC is extremely appealing to me. Whatever else this position has in store, I will at least be grateful for that. And yet this knowledge also fills me with concern. I find myself with so many questions now that my task is no longer clear. I think back to just a few days ago when I reached out to touch the ancient stone walls of the abbey. I turn around on my bed and look up through the hole in my curtains and I think of how my fists burned in anger and my mind blazed with rebellious determination as my palms felt the cold smoothness of the abbey’s walls. So many questions and so much confusion, and I am daunted by my self-imposed task of insurgence. How can I hate what I do not fully understand? I am in no doubt that I still despise everything that NewState stands for; it is just that I no longer know all of the reasons that I hate them. Some of the intensity of my small declaration subsides as I re-establish my immediate task at hand: I will find out what my new job entails; I will find out how and why I was selected. Until I know the answers to these questions, I cannot know what my future plans will be. I can see only what is directly in front of me and what is at the end; all else that is in-between is but shadows and mist. I am the wanderer above the sea of fog: my next step is to go down into the mist, and I know that my aim is to emerge atop the other side of the valley, but I do not know what awaits me on my journey through the valley itself.

There is one other defiance that I know I will commit soon. It is reckless, but when I returned, knowing I had only two days, I contacted the runners – Janine – and set the time and location for a run tomorrow night. I do not know when I will next get a chance to see any of them. I do not know if I will be able to leave NewStateHeadQuarters once I am there. Communication with the runners is dangerous because it reveals patterns, which is why we usually leave such long lapses of time between meetings. There is the communication itself, between the same people. Then there are the chances of being seen, logging on too late in the morning, cycling too slowly because you are tired; the chance of being stuck out and in hiding all day and not logging on at all.

It was not an easy decision to take – making contact. If I am caught, then everything I am starting to work for will be lost. In part, I am a little ashamed to admit that my own curiosity of what is to come weighed equally with my fear of not seeing Janine again any time soon. Contact is simple: we have a communication chain. The communication will eventually loop around to the person who instigated it and he or she will know that everyone has received the message. Messages have to be cryptic enough not to stand out, and everyone must send a different message, so that the repetition isn’t noticed.

In my message I said, ‘Riddles are found in books and books are stored together. Meetings take place at night, but never the night too close, and never so far as a few. When am I? #makeriddlesviral’. I’m not sure it was the best message – we’ve definitely been cleverer before and the message that looped back to me was far subtler. Sometimes the message loops back and no longer resembles the original. If this happens, we either have to abort or risk resending the message until it comes back clean. It is possible that we are being over cautious, but I know that I am just one of hundreds, if not thousands of part time analysts for NewState. Who knows what other people are employed to find.

So, our next defiance is to meet at the old city library tomorrow night.

I spend the next day and a half unremarkably, consuming media moments, eating my prescription food, cycling my allotted cycle time, and all the while staring through my small defiance and thinking about the future.

Life drones on.

The philosopher Nietzsche wrote a lot about Amor Fati. Humans have an illogical predisposition to live in the past and the future, always thinking about how things were, or will become, better. The flaw is the adoption of a repetitive mind-set: things will never be as good as they could be; we are dogs chasing our tails, pointlessly and endlessly, never getting anywhere, eternally dissatisfied. I think about this now. Do my nostalgia for the past and my desires for a better future mean that I am ruining my chances of making the most of the present?

I could accept the reality of SSC. I could deny my desires for change. And I could make the most of the world in which I live. I could do all of these things, but to do so and be happy would require the extinction of the one thing that gives me some hint at happiness: hope – defiance and hope. Marx spoke of the way the alienated and un-united masses would eventually unite in their shared discontent and overthrow their oppressors. Well, this is my Amor Fati: I am free to work hard for each and every moment of resistance, always satisfied that every infinitesimal defiance is an absolute triumph, and whether I see the culmination of my defiance amount to anything beyond a private pleasure does not matter, for I know that I will have played my part, and I will die in hope that that part is a piece of something bigger.

And so, I can say very little of my day and a half before tonight’s run, except that I cycled a little harder and watched with a little less concentration than would be expected of someone who has just been appointed as an advocate of SSC. But then, I do not really know what I have been appointed to do.

Life drones on.

The time finally comes at 23.01. 23.01 because 23.00 is the earliest I can shut down my screens and not arouse suspicion. It is winter still and so the night is dark. I venture to peel back the corner of my curtain to look out upon the night. There is no moon. There are no street lamps. And the stars are hidden. The sky has been blotted out in black. This black night is a mixed blessing: welcome because detection is hardest in the dark – unwelcome because I miss the beauty of the stars and the moon.

I leave my building with as much stealth as possible – a cat burglar who found nothing of value in the rooms he roamed. I look out of the old post-box, checking that the coast is clear. I open the front door to my building, so I can barely slip through sideways – cycling and prescription food packs do not make us fat. I close the door quietly, barely a click sounding as the latch falls back into place. I stoop low, close to the ground, almost invisible to anyone looking out of their windows; and no-one will be looking out of their windows. Long gone are the nosey neighbours who peered through their blinds at the sounds of life beyond their boundaries.

I move along the path quickly, retracing my steps of just four days ago. Tonight, however, I will deviate from the streets as soon as I can, and work through the park with the big hill surrounded by woodland.

As I reach the perimeter of the park, something stops me in my tracks. Suddenly I feel as if I am dreaming a sweet, nostalgic dream. In the darkness, I see an iron street lamp flicker with electric light. It is lit for just a fraction of a moment, but it is beautiful. I stop, stand up tall and stare. Darkness. I breathe and as I step forwards to continue, it flickers again. I stop in disbelief, my eyes transfixed. I close my eyes and picture it flickering again. The vision grows, and I see snow gently falling. Someone walks towards the lamp-post. It is a young girl. She is illumined in its light. She sees someone, calls out. They are startled and drop the parcels they were carrying. I am lost in the scene I see before me. It is a memory of a book, but it feels more real than anything I have felt or seen in years. The girl is called Lucy and the other is a fawn called Tumnus. The land is Narnia, and it is forever winter.

Forever winter.

Forever winter.

Forever winter.

I open my eyes, suddenly. The vision is gone. The lamp-post is lifeless in the dark, and I have been rooted to the spot for too long. I crouch down and move towards the boundary of the park. I find a gap, and I enter the wood, walking away from the past again.

As I walk through the overgrown, tangled trees, though I am excited to see my fellow runners and Janine, other thoughts consume the back of my mind. NewStateHeadQuarters. A job. White Clothing. Miss Mary Hain. There is more than defiance in these thoughts. I ignore them. I think of Janine. I think of the library. I think of my lungs and I begin to run, safe – I think – under cover of the trees.

Running fast, I duck under branches and skirt round trees. I remember these woods were wild, but now they are dense and thick and hard to penetrate. The tangle slows me, but I push on until I break the tree line and enter the clearing in the middle of the wood. At the sight I see before me, I am invigorated. I cannot help myself: I let out a wild yelp and run ever faster across the grass. The moon has broken from the shrouded sky and now shines fully and brightly, directly down into the clearing. Moonbeams reflect off of the surface of the pond ahead. Dewy grass shimmers. And I feel the cool air on my sweaty face. My hair is thrown back. I close my eyes and run on. I open my eyes and look up at the moon, reflecting the light of the sun into the dark night. I feel the sunrise pendant against my skin. I heard once that wolves don’t really call out to the moon – that they’re actually calling other wolves; but tonight, I am a wolf, and I am calling to the light of the moon. All thoughts disappear, and I feel nothing but the moment. I know I cannot afford to waste time, but I turn my path to the left.

I feel the gradient shift to forty-five degrees. It is a tough climb, and my thighs and calves are not trained for it, but I will ache tomorrow. I slow, but I push on. I reach the top of the hill – my childhood hill – stop, turn, open my arms to the glory of the night; I call out to the moon once more (just once more), and I return to the slope, this time working hard not to tumble forwards. I imagine running straight through and diving into the ice-cold water, but I know that I have already done too much. I return towards the tree line and continue on to the other side of the park.

I slow as I reach the iron gate. I look around. No-one. I proceed with caution into the city centre. I take the back streets and the cover of the dark alleyways. I wind through the old city, remembering the route as if I walked it yesterday. The familiarity feels good: a memory not yet stolen by time. As I get closer to the library, I begin to look around for something that will help me break in. As I am just one alley away, I find a bit of old wood. It’s a meter or so long and it doesn’t look rotten. I turn left and walk slowly, making my way to the back of the library. I find a door and lift up my bat of wood, realising that I don’t really know what I’m planning to do with it; looking at the door in front of me, I can’t see how it will be of any use. I decide to try the handle, not hoping for anything, but thinking it must be worth a try.

To my surprise, I hear a faint click. I push forward, and the door opens. I step inside, closing the door behind me. It is dark – almost too dark to see – but as my eyes adjust I am able to move forwards. I must be in what was a store room of some sort, for there are boxes scattered across the floor and on shelves up the walls. I pick my way through them carefully, trying not to make a sound.

I allow my hand to slide over the lid of a box as I move. My fingers drag across a thick layer of dust and I imagine what is inside. I imagine opening it up and reading whatever is there – all of it. I imagine sitting down and not moving until I have consumed every word of every book.

But I do not. I leave the room behind me and proceed through the halls of the building, making my way to the main library. When I reach it, I see that I am not the first to arrive. James is stood with his back to me, flicking through a book he has taken from a shelf. He turns as he hears me approach.

‘I suppose I’m the first person to move a book in here for years. I might be the first person to have touched a book in years. And the first to smell one.’ He draws the book up towards his face and breathes in heavily through his nose. He passes the book to me. I turn it over: The Count of Monte Cristo.

‘I remember this one,’ I say. ‘A man imprisoned on an island, determined to escape and take revenge on those who sent him to waste away.’ I turn the book over, feeling it in my hands. ‘It is good to see you James.’

‘And you, but why are we meeting so soon? Who sent the message? And who chose this place to meet? We’ve never met inside the city before.’

‘I sent the message. A lot has happened since we last ran outside the city, and I do not know when I will be able to run again.’

‘It’s dark in here.’ Eleanor has arrived. ‘Lucky I had a little hunt around for these on my way in. Found them in the old kitchens downstairs.’ She tosses me a little box of matches. It rattles through the air.

‘Well done. Let’s get something to make a fire in. I’ve just realised how cold it is, and I’m wet through with sweat. Do you think we can risk the light and smoke?’

‘I didn’t see any patrols on my way here,’ says Eleanor.

‘Me neither.’

‘Nor me. Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean much, but there’s no sense freezing to death for the sake of not being caught.’ I look around for something to make a fire in. I spot a small metallic waste bin and bring it over.

‘What shall we burn?’

I think of the scrap of wood that I left outside, but before I can say anything, James picks up the copy of The Count of Monte Cristo again and tosses it in the bin.

‘Well, it’s not like we’re going to have time to read it tonight.’

‘I suppose not,’ says Eleanor, throwing another book into the bin. ‘All the same, I hate to do it. Burning books seems a little counterproductive doesn’t it?’ she sighs. ‘O, I long to read a book.’

We all go silent – thinking our own thoughts in our own minds. I think of Lucy and Mr Tumnus again, meeting under the faintly flickering lamp-post. We remain in our reveries, whilst I strike a match and we watch the books catch and go up in flames. We stare at the fire as it curls and dances and glows. It doesn’t give off much light, but the moon breaks through the high windows and I am able to turn around and take in my surroundings. It is an old building, and in this room rows and rows of bookcases run off to the back. At the front are lines of long, oaken oblong tables, and a mezzanine floor, also lined with rows and rows of books, sits above, crossing half the length of the room.

I hear the sound of footsteps and turn to meet them. It is Janine, smiling as she comes towards me. And from another side door Henry arrives. And so the runners are all here. All five of us. Five in a city of thousands, a nation of millions and a world of billions. I embrace Janine. We kiss. It is good to see her, but it also feels strange to see her. Images flash into my mind. Miss Mary Hain. NewStateHeadquarters. White walls. Illuminated floors. Corridors. I shake the thoughts and look again at Janine. It is good to see her. I pull her close again and breathe her in. Yes, it is good to see her.

When we let each other go, we step back to see the others wandering off in different directions. You might think that we’d be more interested in staying together and talking, but, in a way, wandering through the book-lined shelves alone is a type of solitude that has also become foreign to us. When we are alone in our horseshoe curves we are never truly alone. People are always crawling into our homes: they seep through the screens, and whether we allow ourselves to embrace them or not, it does not stop them from being there – lingering presences.

There is much I want to say, but first I want to walk alone. I turn towards the left-hand staircase that leads to the mezzanine floor above. I take the steps one at a time, slowly, allowing my hand to trace the path of the hand rail. I walk through shelves of books, pausing every so often at a familiar title. I loved to read before the change. I remember spending forever in book shops, trying to find the perfect book. We would spend an hour in one shop and Janine would come out with ten books, and I’d still be struggling to pick one. Now I look for familiar titles, knowing that the best I can do is use them to recall memories of reading in the past.

I come to the music section, where I flick through the CD collection, trying to remember how the old songs sounded. We have music now, of course, but there is no originality and all artists are part of the NewState music-machine: sound devised to make us hollow when it is over and desperate for more.

After the CD collection, I find the records. There are a dozen shelves filled with old albums. I leaf through them, again pausing here and there to read through lists of tracks, to hum a line or two, to reignite a memory almost faded. And then I come across something that does more than bring back memories. The album is The Very Best of Simon and Garfunkel. I turn it over slowly, knowing what I will surely find listed on the back. And there it is: The Sound of Silence. Silence: the only thing that ends the moment it is said. I pull out the vinyl from its cardboard case. It appears to be in good condition.

I turn back towards the stairs. I have been walking long enough and decide to return to the group. Still clutching the record in my right hand, I make my way back down the long aisles. I breathe deeply. It seems that time has made the library smell more like a library than ever. Musty books smell mustier when covered in dust and left in a room that is forever cold and becoming ever more damp.

When I return, the others are sat around our make shift fire talking quietly. As I approach, I hear them all laugh, and my heart aches with a longing to make Janine laugh like we used to every day.

We used to love watching films together; there was something special about sharing the same world at the same time. An old trope pops into my mind: when two people are stranded in the cold, rather than looking for blankets and covers, they take off all their clothes and wrap their bodies together. I remember a famous painting called The Kiss. It’s a beautiful golden painting of a man and lady whose bodies are entwined together, and as the man kisses the woman’s cheek, they radiate a protective bubble of golden light.

Seeing Janine smile now, I think of that painting and of how much I long to lie with her, sharing the heat of our bodies against the cold of the night. No artificial warmth can match the feeling of flesh connecting with flesh, and no number of likes or lols can compare to the way the face creases when it laughs.

‘Did you get lost up there?’ James says as I pull up a chair around the fire next to Janine.

‘No, but look what I found.’ I hold out the record, passing it to Janine next to me. ‘It’s got our mantra on it, The Sound of Silence.’

‘O wow, I’d love to hear it,’ says Eleanor. ‘There must be a record player somewhere in an old place like this. NewState music is just not the same as the old music. I’ll admit I like it when it’s playing, but the moment it ends I feel dirty, like I’ve wasted my time somehow. Do you remember when you’d read a book that you really liked, but for some reason you never wanted to pick it up, like it always seemed daunting, even though you knew that the last four times you’d read a bit, you’d loved it? Well, NewState music is like the opposite of that. I’m always willing to listen to more of it, but always wish I hadn’t when it’s over.’

‘It’s just cheap.’

‘Come on,’ says Henry. ‘Surely we can make time to hunt around for something to play this on.’

‘But Peter’s got something to tell us. Peter, what do you say? Have we got time?’

‘There’s a lot to say, but I didn’t bring this over because I like the way it looks. Let’s take twenty minutes. All go through a different door and hunt around. If we don’t find it in twenty minutes, we’ll give up.’

Everyone nods in agreement, and again we move away from each other, off in different directions.

I take the same door I came in through but rather than return to the store room I first entered, I take a flight of stairs leading downwards, thinking that old things are more likely to be found underground.

I search for twenty minutes but do not find what I am looking for, so I return to the main room upstairs, hoping that someone else has been more successful.

I am not the last to return, but Janine, Henry and James are already back, also with nothing to show for their searches.

‘No luck then?’ I say.

‘It’s a damn shame, dammit. Peter, I guess you’ll just have to sing to us instead.’ I smile, walking over to chuck another book into the fire and warm my hands, cold now from walking around downstairs. I rub them together, cup them in prayer, blow into them, and hold them out over the flames. The warmth feels good. When they feel like they’re about to burn, I place my palms on my face and enjoy the way they warm the cold away.

Janine walks behind me and hugs me, holding my hands in hers, transferring the heat between us.

‘Hello.’ I hear Eleanor call as I look up to see her walking towards us. ‘Look what I found.’ She is carrying what looks like a glass box. ‘Reckon this’ll do the trick? I found it in an office upstairs. Must have been one of the librarian’s offices or the director or something. It was that kind of place, I suppose – this city, I mean. Academics and scholars – people with a penchant for the archaic. Well, let’s see what we can do then.’ Henry jumps up and drags a nearby table closer to the fire, and Eleanor places the record player on it, lifting up the glass lid and lifting up the needle. I take out the vinyl from its cardboard sleeve and place it carefully down.

The moment Eleanor places the needle down the record begins to play. Firstly, we hear the cracking and wiring, like white noise, and then... music. Real music. For a moment I just stare at the record moving round, marvelling at the beauty of the technology, the aesthetics of the moving disk and the authenticity of the sound. This is unadulterated sound. Nothing has come out of a tin or off of a conveyor belt. This is sound that takes you somewhere – to an old club where the band play to a sweating crowd drinking beer.

Henry disrupts our meditations. ‘I think we’re going to have to skip ahead. We’re not going to have time to listen to the whole thing through.’

He’s right, though I wish he wasn’t. It takes a few tries to find the right place, and then we hear it: The Sound of Silence. The song fills the space around us. It is as if we are inside a bubble of sound and light. The fire burns, the warmth spreads and the music floats around us, filling in the gaps between us, the gaps within us. Familiar words stand out as the song plays on:

"Fools," said I, "You do not know –

Silence like a cancer grows.

Hear my words that I might teach you.

Take my arms that I might reach you."

But my words like silent raindrops fell

And echoed in the wells of silence

The music is so powerful here in our world of five that I imagine it trying to drift off and travel beyond the walls of the library, but doesn’t go far: as it leaves the space around us, it fades; it turns back, but has lost the power to return to the fire because the world will not sustain it. And so, right now at least, the words are ours.

We all take up the words, quietly singing or humming along:

And the people bowed and prayed

To the neon god they made.

And the sign flashed out its warning

In the words that it was forming.

And the sign said, The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls

And whispered in the sound of silence.

When the song is over, Henry takes up the needle and we finish our mantra:

‘We are dedicated to whisper louder and louder and MAKE MORE NOISE’

Our final statement hangs in the air. And then silence, for we have just experienced something that no words can better.

Eventually we each begin to move, pulling our gazes away from the fire and sitting down around it. James is the one to speak first, and his voice sounds strange out of the silence.

‘Well then, Peter, what’s going on? Why are we here?’ They each look at me expectantly. I have no idea what they are expecting. I realise that I have not thought about what I am going to say, so decide to start with my invitation to attend the NewStateAnnualAddress.

‘You were there?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you saw her. You saw Our Leader Day?’

‘Yes, and I felt more than ever the real danger of SSC: they all believe in it and they all love it.’

‘But did you detect the shift in tone? I thought it sounded like the beginnings of a new religiosity, or something spiritual, at least. And what’s this announcement going to be next year? She said they will have abolished the need for rotation altogether. What does that mean about children?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say carefully. ‘But I’m going to find out.’ I am pleased to hear the solemnity and assurance in my voice. Whatever else may cloud my thinking, I know that I mean this now.

‘Well, how on Earth are you going to do that?’ asks Janine, a mixture of admiration and concern on her face.

I tell them everything. I tell them about my defiance, about my resolve when I touched the walls of the old abbey, and then I tell them about the interview, about the three days, and about the job I am about to begin. When I finish, we sit in silence, allowing the weight of my words to settle, until Henry finally says,

‘So, what do you think you’re going to be asked to do?’

‘I don’t know. It could be anything. I think I’m more interested in knowing why they picked me, and then why they picked anyone in the first place. I spent so much of the three days trying to be careful not to give anything away, but still, I kept forgetting. It was like their tests were designed to catch people out, and they definitely caught me out.’

‘So why did they select you then?’

‘Maybe everyone else was even worse than you.’

‘But that would mean there are other people out there like us. I mean, I guess there must be, but it seems unlikely within a group of fifteen people being interviewed for a job at NewStateHeadQuarters that I would be the one who shows the least attachment to it.’ I pause. I’ve wondered about this over and over again. Why did they pick me? And then Janine says the only thing that I’ve been able to come up with.

‘Unless, they didn’t employ you because you were the most SSC compatible, but the least.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s the only explanation that seems to fit, except it doesn’t fit at all: why would they want to employ someone who is disloyal to their agenda?’

‘Maybe it’s a way of rooting out the dissidents,’ says Henry.

‘But that would be madness. I’m one man in one city. Surely, they don’t set up three day interviews with just fifteen people to root out eccentrics. I’ve done the numbers and they’d have to run the three-day process twenty thousand times to cover everyone in this city alone.’

‘Unless they filter most people out some other way,’ suggests James. ‘Think about it. They must have so much analysis of what people consume. Come on, short of actual physical surveillance, there isn’t a thing we do that can’t be monitored and analysed. Heck, it could be as simple as looking at who consumes the least, or posts the least, or has this or that pattern of activity. Maybe the computer program pumped your name out in the bottom percentile or something.’

‘Ok,’ I say. ‘But if that’s the case, why am I here now? Why did they give me two days back home? Why keep up the façade of a job offer? Why not just shove me off into a dark room with flashing lights and be done with it?’

‘We don’t know if they do that,’ tempers Eleanor. ‘You’ve always said yourself, Peter, that the greatest travesty of this whole thing is that people chose SSC for themselves and that NewState didn’t need to become a tyranny to enforce their agenda.’

‘And that makes SSC okay does it?’ argues Henry.

‘No, of course not. But you know as well as I do that we can’t just assume that everyone is wrong because they have different preferences to us. They all had a choice and they took it. There’s no demon headmaster at work here. No one was brainwashed – not in any sinister sense at least.’

‘Okay, everyone has a choice? Then why are we meeting in secret? Why don’t we just walk out in the daytime? What are the EEOs for?’

They carry on arguing. It’s the same infuriating argument we’ve been over time and time again. NewState did everything democratically, accept one thing: no majority should be able to imprison a minority against their will. Not unless the minority is guilty of a crime, and surely you can’t call a lack of enthusiasm for social media a capital offense. No, to enforce their democratically elected agenda, they have had to oppress their opposition, and this fact alone negates the legitimacy of the program they administer.

‘Going over all this again won’t get us anywhere,’ I say. ‘Just because it’s the least tyrannical tyranny in human history, doesn’t make it any less of a tyranny. Done. That is not a question I need to find the answer to. What I do need to find out is why I was selected, and I need to find out as much about the way NewState runs as possible. That must be what we focus on now.’

‘What you focus on, Peter,’ Janine says with resignation. ‘Nothing has changed for us. We are still captive and powerless. It is you who will have access to new information, information that could help us to bring down NewState.’ It is strange to hear her speak of insurrection: our dedication to MAKE MORE NOISE has only ever really been for us. I don’t think any of us have ever really done more than dream of taking down NewState. Now, hearing Janine speak my thoughts out loud, I feel the same stirrings I felt when I touched the stonework of the abbey. Total devastation of the regime must be our goal.

‘Peter,’ she continues. ‘You must be careful. If you don’t learn enough, you’ll achieve nothing, but if you get caught you’ll be over. We don’t need to know if rumours of torture are true to know that they won’t let you go if you’re caught conducting willful sabotage.’

‘Christ, Janine. You make it sound like espionage.’

‘But it is,’ I say. ‘It has to be. Otherwise, what’s the point? I’ve been to NewStateHeadQuarters: there’s no chance I’ll be able to get out to meet any of you without being detected. And I don’t want to spend my life knowing I’ll never even try to see you all again. I have to bring them down or die trying.’

‘Bloody hell,’ says Eleanor, in a sort of thoughtful, reverential whisper. ‘Good luck, Peter. Don’t let the bastards beat you down. Whatever they have in store for you, don’t give them what they want. But remember, it is what they don’t know that does them the most damage. Look like you’re happy. Look like they’ve won you over. Do whatever it is you are asked to do, and do it well, even if you hate yourself for doing it – even if doing it makes them more powerful. Do it all with a clear conscience knowing that you’re going to have to help them first, if you’re ever going to break them.’

We all go silent again, listening to the crack and hiss of the fire as another book burns away forever.

Eleanor breaks the silence. ‘How long do you think we have before we need to start heading home?’

‘Not long,’ replies James. ‘It must be around 2am. I don’t want to be here past three, even if sunrise is late this time of year. It’ll take me at least an hour to get back cautiously. I’m going to read something for a bit. It’ll feel good to read something in the bloody third person for a change!’

‘I’m going to put some more of that record on, if you don’t mind. I’ll turn it low and sit close.’

‘Oh, I’ll stay and listen too, Henry,’ says Eleanor, who still hasn’t lost that look of thoughtful reverence.

‘Shall we walk?’ I say to Janine and she smiles and nods.

‘Right, we’ll see you before you go,’ I say to the others. I take Janine’s hand and we walk. Once we’re out of earshot I start to speak.

‘Janine, there’s something about Miss Mary Hain that I don’t understand. The way she spoke to me on the last day when we were in the control room at SolarFarmOne – I don’t know, it was like she was trying to tell me something.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Was she trying to warn me? You know, was she trying to say that we all have pasts and we all have thoughts, but that we don’t need to advertise them the way I probably was every time I got lost in one of their tests. What I really want it to mean is something powerful. I can’t help but let my mind wander, like Eleanor said: espionage. I think of Miss Mary Hain like she is one of us, only she is in at the top. Could she have been reaching out to me? Was her story about childhood hikes some sort of sign? – her saying that she knows we have something in common?’ I trail off, frustrated again at my ignorance.

‘Or was her story a trap?’ says Janine. ‘Dangle the bait and see if it catches. Maybe she was testing you, and maybe she tested everyone else in the same way. I don’t know – a rebel that high up the command chain. Is it likely?’

‘Janine, I’ve thought about her too. I mean, thought about her as a woman. I think it’s because I’ve imagined that she could be like one of us – my mind wandered with the possibilities. I feel guilty about it; when I heard her setting tasks she was the enemy again, and I could hate myself for thinking of her in any other way, but I can’t control my dreams. These thoughts of revolution are so unlikely, yet they are all I have to hold on to. And if someone like her could be sympathetic to our ideas, well…’ I decide to tell the truth, ‘Janine, I’m worried that they’re going to trap me: pull me in. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to not become one of them once I’m working there. I hate myself for even thinking it. Most of the time I was there, everything I saw made me angrier and angrier than ever. But there were times – times when I wasn’t thinking – that I found myself losing sight of everything, and just going along with them.’

‘Peter, you don’t have to feel guilty. You saw all of us back there: falling into silence – wandering off on our own. We’re not the same as we were. However much we want to communicate properly, we’re losing our understanding of how to do it. We’re becoming solitary. I’m surprised you didn’t run at the first pretty woman you saw and kiss her like you’ve never kissed a girl in your life.’ I wonder whether her reaction is her case in point. She continues,

‘I don’t know what this Mary Hain is all about. Maybe she is a secret rebel. Or maybe she’s laying a trap for you to walk right into, playing on everything they learned about you in their tests. But you have to find out; either way, you have to find out. And so long as you know what you’re doing, you’ll be safe. Remember, what they don’t know is what hurts them most. If it’s a trap, do whatever you have to, Peter, to make her think you’re falling into it, and if it’s not, and if you’re certain, then recruit her.’

Recruit. There it is again: more than we five can hope for.

Suddenly I’m angry. ‘Arghh. I hate what’s happening to us. I hate how nothing is clear. I hate how we can’t even be what we want to be anymore, even when we meet up together – we can’t be human. I hate what they’ve done to us. And I hate how no-one out there cares. They’re evolving us to not know how to care.’

Janine moves closer. She places her hands either side of my face and speaks in a quiet determination, and I stop ranting. She speaks slowly and seriously, like her words are an impenetrable fortress. ‘Don’t let them win, Peter. Never let them win.’ I calm. She kisses me, I feel something stir, and then we take something back for ourselves: for the first time in years, we feel physical passion – uncontrollable physical urges – and we make love there and then, crashing into bookcases and finally lying, tangled together, on the book ridden floor.

On my way home through the overgrown park – I do not break into the open, but skirt the tree line around instead, remaining under cover – I think about the library, and the record and the books and Janine. I am glad that we ran tonight. I meant what I said to Janine about my new fear of being sucked in, and so tonight has helped to realign my mind. I hate NewState; that has never been in question. But being with Janine felt like being something I had almost forgotten I needed to be. I know we are longing for freedom, but unless you experience what you desire, it is very hard to actually know what it is – I mean, truly know what it is – you are fighting for. Tonight was more than a concept. It was the past in action and I must hold onto the things the regime most purposefully destroys. I must hold on to feeling human.