Chapters 17-19

Today we finish Part 2, Into the Night. Issy tries to recover, and Peter's mind reels.

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

Chapter Seventeen Winter 2015 Isabella

I wake up and feel stiff all over, the way girls used to feel stiff after hockey or lacrosse or a night out with friends.

I don’t look at my phone straight away. I know there’ll be a million things to catch up on. The thought of it almost makes me scared to even look. I came straight up to bed after throwing up in the downstairs toilet and I slept straight through. I feel like I slept deeply, so any dreams that I might have had are forgotten as I open my eyes. I am grateful. I roll over and look around my room, my desk in front of the window with the laptop open but the screen blank, my wardrobe open, a few clothes draped over the door and on my desk chair, my bathroom door open. My curtains are open and a weak winter light waters my desk. I roll over and lift myself out of bed, slowly walking towards the window. For a moment I look out at the fields beyond the garden. I look up at the cloudy sky and see a half crescent moon still visible through a break in the grey. A memory drifts to the front of my mind, and I think of the radio programme I heard on the first day of Sixth Form. The memory doesn’t fully form, and I reach out and draw the curtains closed tight. I feel some of the tension in me relax. I slump into my chair and glance over at my alarm clock, which hasn’t gone off yet. Six forty-five. I realise it’s Friday; the alarm is set for ten minutes’ time, and I have to get up for school. I think about not going in. It doesn’t feel like a school day. It doesn’t feel right at all.

I hear a knock at the door.

‘Issy, dear. Are you awake?’

I don’t respond but I turn around in my chair and see Mum pop her head through the door. She smiles and comes in.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hi, Issy. How are you feeling? I’ve called the office. Jonah will take my seminars today, and I don’t have any scheduled lectures.’

I don’t really respond. I sort of make a motion as if to say something, but don’t know what I’m trying to say.

‘What do you think, Issy?’

She comes closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. I look up at her, and my thoughts about going to school subside.

‘Will you make breakfast, Mum? I think I need to eat a lot.’

She smiles, ‘Of course, Issy. Dad will take Art today, so we don’t have to rush. They’re already on their way down for a quick breakfast – Art wants to be in early to practice for his Science presentation before school.’

I nod, but I don’t know anything about Art’s Science presentation. It must be a pretty big deal if he’s going in early to work on it: Art’s not the sort of student to leave anything to the last minute. If it’s important, he’ll be ready, but he’ll keep working on it until the moment he’s actually giving the presentation itself.

A thought occurs to me.

‘Mum, I think I should try to go in, but maybe not until later. Could I just take the morning off and have breakfast with you, and then go in after morning break?’

‘Issy, are you sure you don’t want to take the whole day off? If you take today off, then it’s the weekend and we can really take some time to relax and feel better.’ She smiles one of those smiles that means a million different things again, and each one of them is the nicest thing anyone has ever thought. I feel a bit bad, because I know Mum will want to talk about everything, but I don’t want to. That’s what seeing Mrs Bridges is for, and honestly, I won’t have anything new to say. It’s always the same. However good I get at dealing with things, it’ll always be the same when it’s bad won’t it? Because the past can’t change. So, it’ll always be there.

‘Mum. I’m sorry. I think I need to go to school today. I’ll go late, but I’ll still go. And I think I’ll get my essay back from Mr Harrison this afternoon. I’m excited about that.’

She smiles again, and I smile back.

‘Mum.’

‘Yes, Darling?’

‘Thanks.’

She looks me hard in the face.

‘Well, I guess I better start cooking then. Maybe I’ll still take the day off myself.’

‘I think you’ll need to.’ I start to laugh. ‘You’ll be tired after all the cooking. You’re not used to it!’

She makes a face in mock horror.

‘Have a shower. You need it. It smells rotten in here.’

‘Love you, Mum.’

‘Love you too. Now, really, get into that shower.’

She’s made me feel better, but the bathroom sort of scares me. I don’t look in the mirror as I go to take a hot shower.

The water cleanses, where last night it hurt.

I’ve said it before, but when she does it, Mum really is a terrific cook. Breakfast is amazing and it’s nice to spend some time with her. She was still cooking when I came down, and it was nice just to watch her and listen to the radio. It was relaxing just to sit and not think. I didn’t really even listen to the radio, but the hum of voices in the background felt comforting. Mum didn’t talk to me too much, but I could tell that she liked us being there together. I finally turned to my phone at about eight thirty and spent twenty minutes catching up on the highlights. I didn’t blog yesterday, so I didn’t have as much as I normally would to catch up on. I mostly just replied to #me’s twenty messages asking where I was. I didn’t say much, but said I’d been busy with family stuff and that I’d talk properly later.

I still don’t know what I’ll say to him.

After breakfast, mum and I go into the lounge and put a film on. It’s a really cheesy one, and we’ve seen it a million times before, but it’s nice. It’s called ‘You’ve got Mail’, with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. I go inside a little bit, but because it’s school time, I don’t feel too anxious because I wouldn’t normally go inside too much anyway.

We have tea and biscuits – chocolate hobnobs – halfway through the film. We don’t pause the film while mum makes the tea: we really have seen it a hundred times.

When the film finishes, it’s around 10.45. Part of me doesn’t want to go to school. Part of me thinks I could sit on this sofa forever and watch this film over and over, eating chocolate hobnobs and drinking nothing but tea for eternity, with only mum beside me. I snuggle in that thought for a moment, before I get up to go. Mum gives me a lift. She really is taking the day off – she’s not got properly dressed for work.

When we pull up beside the school gates, Mum turns the engine off and looks at me.

‘Issy, I know this is all still so hard for you at times, and I know that you’re working through things with Mrs Bridges. But I want you to know how much we all love you, Art, Dad and me. We’re always here with you.’

Mum really does have a way of putting things. It doesn’t escape my notice that she says, ‘here with you’ not ‘here for you’. I don’t think Mum ever gets lost in translation.

‘I know, Mum. I love you too. I’ll be fine. It’s you who needs to rest, what with all that cooking!’

We both grin and Mum hugs me across the car seats.

‘Have a good day.’

‘You too, Mum.’

I leave the car, turn to wave goodbye and then walk through the school gates and head off to lesson three. Maths. I’ll probably go in a bit before lunch then. Maybe I should have stayed at home a little longer.

Chapter Eighteen Winter 2035 Peter Harrison

The weeks with Mary have continued to move quickly and slowly at the same time. We’ve shared so many stories and I’ve settled into life here, and I’ve begun to believe in a future where I can finally be free of the entrapment I felt for so long. I am almost free from the hostility of my past and I long to let it go for good. To rest. And then to live again. I rarely feel tense now and each night I dream a little less and rest a little more.

Some nights I dream of Janine, and when I wake up I have to cycle until I sweat, but once I’m exhausted and go back to sleep, I don’t dream, and when I wake up it is a new day again.

One day we actually go outside, not through the gates and out of NewState altogether, but outside of the building. It is after dinner one night and Mary asks if I’d like to go for a walk.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But it’s not exactly picturesque.’

She smiles and takes my hand.

‘Oh well. Come on anyway.’

As we’re walking she tells me more about her past.

‘Well, you know I’m old enough to have been in school well before NewState were elected. I was just leaving university when they got in. I remember the debates at university when Liberate were growing and Our Leader Day was making a name for herself. It was quite inspiring for us, seeing her do it so young.’ As she talks I remember my own days at university. It feels good to talk.

‘I loved studying, so it was inevitable once things started to change direction that I’d end up working here. Every time someone would try to show me another new bit of technology I was fascinated, but I never wanted to use it. I wanted to know how it worked, and I was fascinated by the way they were so absorbed in it, but I never wanted to use it.’

We’re walking through parts of the building I’ve not see before, and I’m thinking that we must be approaching the end now when we do.

‘I guess it’s back the way we came then,’ I say.

‘Not yet.’ And she goes towards the door at the end of the corridor and, to my surprise, she scans her card and opens it. She turns back to me and smiles, holding out her hand.

‘Well, come on then.’

I walk towards her and take her hand, wondering where we could be going.

As I walk through the doorway, my eyes go wide.

We’re outside. In a garden. There are trees with little garden tables sat underneath them, with chairs tucked under, ready for couples to sit. Tables with candles in their centre. There is a light breeze and the spindly branches of the bare trees waver slightly. Fallen leaves are blown lightly around the garden bed, and the whole scene is beautifully lit with dancing lights, emitting a warm yellow glow from long lines woven through the trees. It’s beautiful.

I’m outside. In a garden. And it’s beautiful.

‘Yes, it’s refreshing isn’t it. Come on, shall we take a turn?’

‘But...’ I’m lost for words. ‘It’s... it’s beautiful.’

‘I didn’t think a walk along corridors would quite do it,’ she says, turning to me and smiling. Her eyes are wide in the dim light. I think I could look into her eyes for a long time. We move closer and we kiss. Then she swings around and darts off a little.

‘Oh, come on Peter. Let’s walk. It’s been forever since I’ve walked with someone.’

And I don’t ask questions. All I want to do is run after her and chase her through the trees.

We walk and talk and lie under a tree until the night turns into morning.

And the weeks roll by.

Chapter Nineteen Winter 2035 Peter Harrison

We visit the garden again, and others like it. Sometimes we see other people out, and sometimes we don’t. But it is always beautiful.

Work continues in the mornings, and I visit the rec room in the afternoons, and more and more I become confident enough to sit alone in one of the comfy armchairs in the silent hours before the evening meal and read. I visit the borderland between reality and fiction and delight in the magic I find there.

And the days roll on.

And life rolls on.

And my time with Mary rolls on.

I’ve just finished work for the day and am already looking forward to seeing Mary tonight, though it will still be a good few hours until she finishes work and we can meet.

We’re just packing up our things and I find myself drawn into the conversation the rest of the team are having as they tidy their things away. A man called Graham is talking. He’s younger than me and good at what he does.

‘Well, if I saved that video for myself and uploaded it, I certainly wouldn’t need any helpful nudge to climb up the ratings, would I? That clip’s going to go viral in hours. Good work if I do say so myself.’

‘Yeah, not bad rubbish at all,’ I say. I wonder if Mary ever goes in. But when could she? And why would she? That’s not why we are here. I think of the lights in the garden.

‘Haha,’ laughs Jonathan, the man who first showed me to the rec room. ‘Yeah, I wish I’d saved one or two videos for myself too. Not that I go inside very much these days. Why do you go in so much, Graham? They’ll be firing you if you don’t ease off a bit. They’ll send you out on your idiot-hind if you buy into the bullshit much more.’ I’m thinking about the trees in the garden.

‘Ah, I don’t go in to live it. It’s interesting – you know? – when you know how the system works. It’s interesting trying to work your way up, or to see how god awful boring you have to be before automation kicks in.’

Something interrupts the pictures in my head. There’s something about the way he says automation. Mary said I was going to learn more, and it’s not like what they’re talking about is secret if they’re laughing about it in front of me, so I push aside the lights and trees for a moment and ask Jonathan what he means.

‘Hey, Jonathan, what’s automation? I don’t remember anything like that when I lived inside. Is it something new?’

‘Oh, no. You wouldn’t have known about it when you were out there.’ He flicks his head as if to indicate the world beyond the walls. ‘That would have defeated the point wouldn’t it?’

‘What point? What is it?’

‘Well.’ It’s Lucy who explains. She’s around thirty. She doesn’t say a lot, but she has lots of ideas when we work, and she seems nice. ‘Haven’t you ever wondered what happens to people who’re so boring or so weird that no one ever likes anything they post, or even ‘shares’ their opinions with them on something we post? How depressing would that be, to live in a world where no one cares about anything you do or say? That would defeat the whole point of SSC wouldn’t it? There’s nothing social about being alone and there’s no safety without communion.’

‘But,’ I interject. ‘We were always told that the size of the system, the global community, meant that no one was ever alone. Surely, in a community of millions – if not billions – everyone is able to find someone to fit their niche. They always made it seem like everyone had someone.’ Indeed, even I had found someones, even if I hadn’t been able to communicate with them; I’d found like-minded people.

‘Well that’s what the people have to believe,’ Lucy continues matter of factly. ‘It’s not a real friend if you know they’re being paid to hang out with you. So that’s where automation comes in. It’s very simple really: when someone is posting and receiving too few responses or likes, the automation kicks in and fabricates some. It even posts simple messages like ‘Nice post’ or ‘Awesome video. Please post more soon.’

‘Peter,’ Graham pitches in. ‘Think about it. It’s clever. These are people who want to share with others, but if left to their own devices wouldn’t be able to. You remember those people from the old world too. Well, in the old world they had nowhere to turn to, but now they’re given what they need – attention – and so they’re kept safe – safe from the world of meanness and isolation.’

I am momentarily paralysed. Something has fallen out of place. I do not know what to think. The trees and the lights are fading.

This automation strikes a nerve in me. Something is beginning to fizz beneath the surface. An old sensation returns: an old reliable thought crime: what they don’t know is what hurts them most. And then another: find the right questions. I am still unclear, confused, in a haze of fogginess, but I ask something, something to explain; learn more but reveal nothing.

‘I see. But is that enough? Knowing you have likes and a few positive comments. Is that enough to keep people going? Don’t they eventually need some two-way dialogue?’

‘Ah,’ Jonathan joins in again now. ‘That’s where NewStateFriends comes in. There’s a whole department of people whose job it is to go inside and talk to these people. Oh, it’s not like actually living inside. No, the people who work in the department of NewStateFriends love their work. They’re creative people. You know, the sorts of people who used to be novelists or journalists. From what I hear, they do a damned good job too. Suicide rates are negligible.’

I’m stunned. I cannot understand what I am hearing. I realise that I need time to think, and that if I stay any longer I may say things that it is unwise to say, so I decide to take my leave.

‘Well, I guess there’s still a lot for me to learn.’ I make sure I do not sound affected by what they have said. I sigh. ‘I suppose I better get on. I want to get my bike time out of the way today. Maybe I’ll see some of you in the rec room later.’

And I walk away, my head swimming in fog, images fading and deleting themselves.

I am on my way to my room, my head positively pounding with thought, when I realise that I have left my copy of Lord of the Flies in Mary’s room. Something compels me to turn around and fetch it. Perhaps part of me thinks it will be some sort of medicine, to block out what I have just heard.

Urghh. To block out what I have just heard! When did I begin to entertain such vile and submissive thoughts? I move quickly, still determined to retrieve the book, but now as I walk I try to think of better reasons for doing so.

Perhaps the book represents something. Perhaps it will be a tool, a weapon; perhaps somewhere within it is contained the antidote to whatever has happened to me, what I have just felt: this automatic willingness to favour ignorance over complexity, comfort over truth. Urghh. What have I allowed myself to become? What they do not know hurts them most.

When I arrive at Mary’s room she is not there. I scan my card over the key scanner and it flashes green. She gave me clearance to enter her room a week ago, when I met her before she’d finished work. She’d left a copy of The Lord of the Flies and wanted me to come over early, so I could make a start on reading it. Where does she get her books from? And why are they not available for me to pick and choose as I please? And why have I accepted this giving of books like some gracious gift? The Nazis burned books!

I enter the room, and everything is as it always is. I see my book over on the bed, its red cover standing out against the whiteness of the sheets. Like blood, I think, and I imagine the bed bleeding. I move towards the bed to retrieve the book before leaving, and as I pick it up and hold it in my hands, a memory flits through my brain: I am standing outside a great abbey made of stone and am longing to touch it – a small defiance. My hands are positively itching. My mind is racing with intent. Adrenaline is coursing through me. And then I do it: for the briefest of moments I touch the smooth, cold stone of that ancient pillar of culture, and I am free.

Now I am back in the room. Miss Mary Hain’s room. And I realise that I am behind enemy lines. But am I? Is Mary my enemy? I have spent time getting to know her, to sympathise with her, to feel for her when she is tired, and to relish in her conversation, to... to... to lie next to her in her bed. These thoughts bring with them a fondness that I cannot easily shake, that, if I am honest, I do not want to shake. No, surely this has been real. It has been too good not to be real. I will ask her. I will ask her to explain automation and NewStateFriends. She will be able to explain it. I have just heard the ill-informed talking about things they do not properly understand: gossip. Yes, that must be it. Everything may not be perfect, but that does not mean it all has to be ruined. After all, a good man will always say foolish things. There are no messiahs – only men.

My thoughts struggle to form again. The fogginess returns, and I do not know what to do. I pace the room. I sit down, stand up, pace again, until a decision fights through the fog and presents itself to me. And then I start to open draws and cupboards, carefully; I replace everything where it belongs. I am looking for something, or maybe I am looking for nothing. Would I rather find incriminating evidence, or rest assured that there is none? I do not know, but I keep on looking. And then I find something. It is not hidden. It is in her bedside table drawer.

It is a copy of Brave New World by Aldus Huxley. Thinking nothing of it, except that I remember the title, I pick it up and turn it over. I flick through the pages, enjoying the sound of them whizz and the slightly old, paperish smell. And something falls out. It is a piece of paper that was perhaps being used as a bookmark. I reach down to pick it up. There is a message written on it, by hand. It is a note:

Here lies the solution. Surely. The end to all rotation. Some to work and work alone. And the rest born without the body. It may be only a step towards our true ascension, but it is a step that will free up time and resources to enable the pursuit of that greater goal. Read it, Mary, and I know you’ll agree.

And it is signed.

ID

I am not sure what the message means, but there is the sound of religiosity that I had detected so much at the NewStateAnnualAddress: ascension and the end to all rotation. How can rotation end – rotation includes NewStateChildBearing and ChildCaring? How can mothers not have babies and how can they not be cared for? Born without the body. What does it mean? And ID, who is ID? But of course, it must be Our Leader Day. After all, Mary works at the top, why wouldn’t she be in communication with Leader Day.

I don’t know what incrimination I have found but I cannot assume that it is innocuous. I am beginning to feel something lift that has been weighing on me for too long. I realise that rather than asking questions, I have been simply waiting for explanations. The closer I got to Mary, the more I assumed I would come to understand. And she explained everything so well. Back in my solitary apartment it was never possible to know the truth, only to know that you were being told lies. Now, I have lost my ability to even detect those. Have I been consuming lies so refined I could not tell the difference?

I hear a noise at the door. It opens, and Mary is standing there, looking at me whilst I still hold the message from Our Leader Day in my hand.