Chapters 3-4

Today we follow Issy as school begins after the Christmas break and Peter continues the interview process.

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

Chapter Three Early-Winter 2015 Isabella

I wrote a lot this Christmas. And I stared into space a lot. And I spoke with #me more than ever and more than anyone. I kept up to date with all of the good blogs and videos and television series. I read a lot of news and I dreamed more than I like to – more than I can really bear. Online news is great because you don’t just read a story and think about it, only to find that no-one else has read the same story or wants to talk about politics. What’s that stupid phrase? I know we’re not supposed to discuss politics at dinner but… Why on earth not? Anyway, with online news you can post your thoughts right underneath the article and find out what other people think too. It’s a great way of discussing things that matter and for having conversations about interesting topics. I don’t watch a lot of television, or stream many programmes, because there’s so much else to do now, but there are some that I keep up to date with and there are places to discuss them too.

I still read though. I know a lot of people don’t – it’s hard to find the time, but I stay up late and there are places to discuss books too and I can always blog about what I read.

But there’s so much to do and so much to keep up with. I’m noticing it more and more as this year goes on. I read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath about a year ago and I sometimes think that my life is like the fig tree she describes. In the book, Plath (it is a fictional character and book, but the subject is basically Plath) describes herself sitting in the crotch of a fig tree and all of the figs on all of the branches are different things that she could do with her life. But, the thing is, she’s so indecisive, that she just stays sat in the crotch of the tree, watching all the figs shrivel and drop around her. I worry about this pretty much every day. There’s so much going on. So much to read and watch and so many people to keep up to date with, that it can be a bit overwhelming trying. But I make sure I don’t end up like Plath. I read and watch and talk about as much as I can. I can‘t be IBHighLife and not keep up to date.

I keep up to date like girls used to go out on dates.

So, I did a lot with the Christmas break, but I’m excited to be back at school too. Of course, there’s lots that I can miss when I’m at school for a whole day, but I like to learn too, and I’m interested to see whether Mrs Hemsworth is back or whether we’ll be continuing with our composition books, with Mr Harrison as our tutor. I hope Mrs Hemsworth is okay, but I like Mr Harrison a lot. He’s a good teacher and he really helps you to think in different ways. And I always get good ideas to blog about from his lessons, and usually from my English essays too.

As it’s the first day of school after the Christmas break I decide to walk in. It’s cold and foggy this morning so I wear my winter coat, scarf and mittens, just like I did on Christmas Eve going to the Christmas concert. It’s been the holidays, so I’ve not seen Mrs Bridges for three weeks and I don’t think I was ready for the break. I’ve been thinking about Sarah a lot and today of all days feels strange.

I decide to walk the old route through the woods and at first the familiarity is wonderful. The air is cold and fresh against my face. The leaves that are left beneath my feet still crunch a little as I walk over them. I sort of skip along and kick some piles and enjoy the feeling of blood running through me as my breathing picks up and my heart beats to keep up with me. It feels good to be running outside. I feel liberated. I didn’t realise that I hadn’t been. My brow unfurrows and the cool air rushes into the loosened creases. I keep running, excited. I feel Sarah at my side, running with me. I hear her giggling, telling me to keep running. Keep running. Faster. Before the shadows catch us. We need to get out of the wood. It’s not safe. I’m not scared. I’m excited. I’m eleven again and the wood is alive with magic and wonder. I rush on and Sarah rushes on next to me. Then she’s a few feet ahead. Then a few meters. Then ten. Then fifteen. Then she’s becoming lost in the trees and the fog. Then I can’t see her at all. I run faster and faster, trying to catch her. I feel a sense of urgency. If I can only catch her. If I can only get to her in time, everything will be okay. She really will be by my side. We really will be seventeen together and walking to school on her birthday. I run faster and faster, feeling my lungs begin to burn and my legs begin to strain. I run and run and run. One leg in front of the other. Just keep running. Just keep pounding. Just keep going. Just reach out. Just see her. Just get there in time. Just.

Everything goes black.

When I come around, my head throbs. I slowly open my eyes, regaining consciousness. I see the wide trunk of an oak tree in front of me. I hear a rustling in the leafless canopy above. It is the fairy king, surveying his lands. I make the sign of friendship and I begin to cry uncontrollably. I scream into my scarf and the tears continue to fall.

I make it to school just on time. The staff at the gates are about to close up. I am reminded to remove my scarf and coat before I enter my classroom. Scarfs are the thing that most people want to break the rules for. There’s a fashion for wearing your scarf just hung around your neck and letting it hang straight down on both sides. Completely aesthetic of course. I must admit, even I quite like the way the scarfs look when they’re worn like that. I think it’s because they’re a certain kind of fashionable. I can imagine Sarah’s older sister, Briony, wearing a scarf like this; she’s at Oxford now, reading English Literature.

When I walk into registration it is to see Mr Harrison and not Mrs Hemsworth about to begin.

‘Welcome back everyone. Welcome back. I trust that you all enjoyed the holidays and are feeling refreshed and ready for the term ahead. I want to give you some time this morning for catching up and talking about your holidays, but first I want you to start writing an entry in your composition books. I want you to write about the most significant event that took place over the holiday break. I want you to start it now, before you speak to anybody. I want you to write about how it made you feel and why it was significant to you. We’ll write for fifteen minutes and then take the final ten minutes or so to have a proper catch up.’

That’s just like Mr Harrison: straight into something significant. It’s just right for me too. I take a quick look around the room of faces and don’t see anyone who really knows me, not like people know IBHighLife and I don’t really look forward to the final ten minutes or so.

I am happy for the chance to write something without an audience. I’ve been toying with the idea of writing about Christmas Eve again. When I blogged about it that night, I explained some of its significance but without talking about Sarah and things that I don’t really want anyone to know, even #me. I don’t think being online is about anonymity or anything – people really do know IBHighLife; but that’s just it, they know IBHighLife and IBHighLife is who’s important, and she doesn’t need to have any problems. All the same, I know that there are some small differences between Isabella and IBHighLife, and Sarah is one of them, so I think I need to write about her, just like I need to talk to Mrs Bridges about her, and with what happened this morning, now seems like a good time to write something.

I write about the Christmas concert and about the strangeness of the man singing The Sound of Silence and about looking into the fire when we got home and about looking in the mirror before I went to bed and seeing Virginia Woolf looking back at me. I write about Frankenstein’s monster and about how the real world ruined his beauty and kindness and innocence. I don’t quite know how I write about all of this in just fifteen minutes, until I realise that it’s been twenty-five and I didn’t notice when everyone else stopped writing and started talking. I’m glad he let me keep writing.

When I get up to leave, I walk past Mr Harrison and smell the familiar scent of coffee. It makes me feel warm. As I walk past he says,

‘How was your holiday, Issy? I noticed you had a lot to write about.’ He says it nicely, like he means it but doesn’t mean it so much that he wants me to run on with the whole story and tell him everything. I appreciate that.

‘Oh, you know, sir. It was nice to have time to catch up on everything.’ I mean this. I felt pushed for time, but I did catch up on seeing Mum and Dad and Art and I did manage a lot of reading and writing and everything else there is to keep up with too.

‘Good. Well, have a good day. I’ll see you fifth period.’ He smiles again, and I walk out of the room and make my way along the bustling corridor.

Fourth period is over, and I find myself wandering the halls inside. It’s Sixth Form privilege to use phones during free time, although we’re often told to put them away and talk to each other. But I don’t get that because, when I’m inside, I am talking to people; I’m talking to people far more than I would be if I wasn’t online and far more than I do when I’m at school and I’m not. It’s not all watching videos and reading nonsense. You can have just as long and meaningful a conversation when typing as you can when talking. And I do. I’m talking to #me now. A lot of his free time during the day is the same as mine. He goes to school too. He’s a year older than I am and lives in Shrewsbury. As we’re talking today, I find myself walking on autopilot. If I stay still, someone is bound to notice me, but, if I keep moving, anyone who might be taking any notice will think I’m walking with purpose to the canteen or the common room and they’ll leave me alone.

But today I’m so absorbed, and my attention is so drawn into #me that my brain has no concentration to spare and fails to direct me on its usual route. Without realising it, I’ve made my way outside and I find that I’m standing in the middle of one of the school courtyards. Suddenly noticing the cold, I’m drawn out of my conversation and look around me. I am surrounded by other students in uniform, wrapped up in their winter coats and scarfs. The younger ones are running around, chasing each other and making noise. Slightly older ones are congregated in groups, huddled together sharing secrets: groups of girls looking over at groups of boys, giggling and turning back. Still older ones are sat on benches, eating lunch, passing phones around and throwing things at each other. And then I see Frankenstein’s monster in one corner: a perfectly normal looking Year 7 boy all on his own, longingly watching the other groups, unable to break in. He makes the odd move, gets just close enough to laugh at something someone has said, but he still can’t quite get into the circle, into the conversation and into the group. He doesn’t ease himself in with a well-aimed joke. He opens his mouth as if to do so, but another boy, already in, is by this time talking and he goes unnoticed back to the corner, back to himself.

Then I see another: a girl sat alone on a bench, hunched over a book. Occasionally she looks up expectantly at a group of girls walking past. She makes as if to smile. She almost jumps up and effortlessly joins the gabble, as if she had just been waiting for them in this spot as usual, but her brain doesn’t quite send the signal and her jumping up turns instead into a small shuffle to get comfortable. Her smile falls, she watches the girls move on and she goes back to hunching over her book.

And then I see another: two boys are jeering at a third, a nervous looking character who sniffs a lot and shuffles along with his head in the clouds. He’s just said something with complete earnestness, and it was probably interesting, but, failing to be cool, the other two are teasing him and he’s feeling anxious and confused: his mother finds it so interesting when he talks about these things.

And then I have a strange experience. I feel like I can see myself from a distance, through the lens of a moving camera. The shot pans and circles around me. First it circles close up, moving slowly. Then it moves upward and a few paces back and circles again. It continues to slowly spiral, each time moving farther and farther away, until the shot takes in my entire surroundings: I stand at the centre of the square, head down, concentrating on my conversation, whilst the rest of the world flirts, laughs, plays, mocks, bullies, and feels pain, anxiety and loneliness all around me. The devious plan. The cruel prowl. And the mean attack. And all the while, Frankenstein’s monsters retreat and hide and draw further and further into themselves, their kindnesses and unique dispositions becoming a beautiful vulnerability that is unbearable to watch. When conformity is currency, we are powerless against the mob.

When I arrive home I am planning to go straight up to my room, flip open my laptop and blog about today’s English lesson with Mrs Marlow. She’s the really good one. We started a new text today and I want to get my thoughts out there quickly before I lose them. But when I open the door, I’m surprised to see that Mum is home. Spring semester started for her today too, so I wasn’t expecting to see her until nine o’clock or so. She’s always busiest at the start and end of term. I’d planned on ordering Chinese tonight, but it smells like she’s got something on the go already. I have to admit, it feels sort of nice to come home and hear her in the kitchen, but at the same time I feel my heart sink: I’ve got home early to make the most of the evening; I want to blog and read as much of Paradise Lost – that’s what we started in English today – as I can before people get online after dinner and settle in for the evening.

‘Issy? Is that you, darling?’

I make my way to the kitchen and swing my bag onto the table.

‘Hi, Mum. What are you doing home?’

‘I’ve just got back. I had a meeting across town after lunch – I was interviewing someone for research for a paper I’m writing – and it turned out to be so useful that the lunch lasted all afternoon. Classes don’t start properly until next week, so I thought I’d come home rather than drive past and go back to the university during rush hour.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m glad it was a useful interview. Are you working later? At home I mean?’ I suppose I should ask what the interview was about first, but I want to know what sort of evening I’m going to have, so I can plan what I’m going to be able to get done.

‘I’ll want to write my notes up, so I’ll work after dinner. I’m just heating up the leftover casserole for tea. How was your first day back?’ I feel myself release some tension.

‘English was really good today. We started Paradise Lost. Mrs Marlow gave us a lecture on Milton to start with and then we looked at the opening, where he describes the purpose of the poem, and then we looked at Satan’s first speech when the fallen angels wake up in Pandemonium.’ I’m quite glad that Mum’s home now. I’ll be able to talk through some of my ideas before I write my blog and talk to #me and anyone else who comments later.

‘Oh, I’m glad you’re enjoying it. We’ve got a good edition of it somewhere. I think it’s on the bookcase in the hallway. It has a really good introduction by Philip Pullman. He talks about the importance of reading the poem out loud to really capture the beauty and power of the language. I know it sounds a bit pompous but he’s right.’ Mum really is good to talk to about this sort of thing. ‘Whenever I’ve taught the text, I feel it gets better and better whenever I read a section aloud to a class. I encourage them to all do the same. I don’t know if they do, but, honestly, it adds something to the experience – you capture much more meaning, and there are layers and layers of meaning to find.’ Of course Mum’s taught it. This is great – I can really talk things through with her now.

‘I didn’t realise you’d taught it. I really like it so far. I’d been thinking about reading it since I finished Frankenstein over Christmas because it’s one of the books the creature finds and uses to teach himself to read. What’s strange at the start is that Milton says his purpose is to explain the ways of God to man. I know he believed in personal religion rather than the established church – Mrs Marlow told us that today – but he’s still obviously trying to make God look good. But after his first speech, I found myself liking Lucifer and being angry at God for banishing him. God sounds like Frankenstein, the way they both abandon their creation and the way they both think they’re so much more important and powerful than them.’

We talk for a while about the poem, and mum explains some of the things I’m thinking really clearly - she is a published professor after all.

Later on, I’ve spoken to Mum about the poem, had dinner with Mum and Art – Dad will get home at the usual time and Mum leaves him a bowl of casserole to keep warm in the oven – I’ve read to the end of Book II of Paradise Lost and I’ve just blogged. Paradise Lost really is amazing. I tried reading it out loud like Mum suggested and the writing just comes alive in a way I can’t really explain. The words seem real, like when Mr Keating says that poetry can drip like honey from your lips, in Dead Poet’s Society. I remember how much I liked that film and I make a note to watch it again soon.

Here’s what I blog:

Firstly, Milton was blind when he wrote Paradise Lost, which makes the beauty of his imagery even more exquisite. He dictated the poem, all twelve books of it, to his daughter. I think we have to be impressed by the poem at least on that level. But, that set aside, we don’t just have to respect it because it’s part of the canon. It’s not simply an academic achievement to be obliged but not really enjoyed – quite the opposite in fact: I’m reading this for pleasure now.

So, it starts off with a vivid description of how the rebel angels, led by Lucifer (that’s Satan) begin a war in heaven, against God. It’s the ultimate failed revolution. The angels reject God’s authority. They don’t understand why he is lord over all and has ultimate power. It’s just like Victor Frankenstein: he thinks he has complete authority over his creation just because he created it, but how can you be in charge of something that has free will? Isn’t that the definition of enslavement and doesn’t slavery go against our fundamental human rights? The picture we get is that heaven is not a true democracy. God is royalty and he rules through birth right, not merit. So, when Lucifer and the angels fall to hell, and find that their beautiful bodies have been transformed into something grotesque during their descent, I feel sorry for them. They lost standing up for what they believed in.

Lucifer then gives a rousing speech to motivate the fallen angels and unite them despite their brokenness and emotional frailty. And he says, wait, let me quote it: ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’ Wow, right? This does in one sentence what every self-help book ever written has tried to do in hundreds and thousands of pages: it empowers you. Lucifer’s speech is invigorating. He is not crushed by his grotesque appearance. He doesn’t wallow in self-pity at the sight of the barren waste land he now has to call home. And he’s not miserable with his new fallen subjects. He doesn’t even make the best of a bad situation: he has the clarity of mind to realise that it’s not a bad situation in the first place. He goes on to declare that it is ‘better to rule in hell than serve in heaven’. He is so self-assured and principled. He won’t sell out for riches or power or glory. He would rather be excommunicated, impoverished and destitute than have all the riches for the wrong reasons. Couldn’t modern day politicians learn a lot from that? Couldn’t insecure teenagers?

You know, we look around all the time and see people fighting with depression because they don’t fit in, but Lucifer knew how to stay on solid ground and stay in control of his misery. I love that, ‘the mind is its own place’. Wouldn’t Frankenstein’s creature have been saved if only he had seen himself just as Lucifer and not as an Adam as well? – He wasn’t rejected, he was set free.

I wonder how this all fits into the ideas about a social contract. Does God make a good enforcer of the social contract, or do we lose too much of our liberty by electing him? But then, I guess that was Lucifer’s point – he makes the worst leader because he was never elected in the first place.

I’ve barely covered the surface conceptually and there’s so much more linguistically to cherish in this poem too. I can’t wait to read what happens next, but I also can’t wait to just be reading the words as I find out what happens next. Have you read it? Do you know what I mean?

Although I’m definitely asking these questions to #me, I want to know what other people think as well.

It’s not long before #me starts up a conversation. We message below the blog:

- I know what you mean

- What do you think?

I get a private message

- I think you’re amazing

I don’t know what to say to this. I’m embarrassed – completely over the moon, but short for words.

- I meant about the blog!!!

- I know.

- But, thanks. You are too.

- But that’s just the point. Your words are amazing, so you’re amazing. These days, I think words say more about a person than anything.

- Yeah, and that’s what I mean. We lose sight of that though, don’t we, when we’re competing on the stage.

- Yeah, I suppose so. Everyone’s just swayed by the way people look. We want to find attractive people interesting and we don’t care if unattractive people are interesting or not.

- I think you’re interesting.

- You too ☺

- ☺

- Hey, did you see the latest #unrealandtruecheckthisout video?

- Amazing

- Yeah, it’s so short but I was watching it on repeat for five minutes. It’s so funny. I love that punch line.

- Hey, I got this picture for my last birthday, but I’ve only just put it up. It’s on the wall opposite my desk, so I can look at it when I’m working. It’s called ‘The Kiss’ by Gustav Klimt.

- Just looked it up. I like it. It feels so safe. Like the two people just live in a world of golden fairy dust, protected from anything else outside of their golden world.

- I imagine that you look like the woman in the painting. Your words paint you beautifully.

Whatever we say about how important words are, it’s still amazing to hear him say that. I mean, I’ve looked him up, so I know what he looks like, but I don’t really look at his pictures much - we post word pictures mostly now anyway. I sort of like it that way, because it’s not important – not really – not for IBHighLife. But his comments make me tingle a bit. I can feel my cheeks blushing.

- And your words paint you kindly

- And handsomely

I cringe at myself for saying it, but I mean it too. There’s no other way to say these sorts of things is there? If you both mean it, then it’s not cringey, is it?

We keep on talking for hours. I watch some other videos and read another book from Paradise Lost. Some other people comment on my post too. I felt myself relax when I checked back, and I had one hundred likes. It’s almost three in the morning when my head hits the desk. I sleepily drag myself to my bed and go to sleep without even changing my clothes.

Three days later I wake up and check my blog hits like girls used to check their phones for missed calls from boys.

I’m tired this morning. I’ve been staying up until around three am every night. I’ve nearly finished Paradise Lost and I’ve blogged about it three times now. I tested some ideas out on Tuesday in my composition book with Mr Harrison. Last night’s blog has reached five hundred likes, and thirty different people have commented already. It was four hundred likes and it was twenty-five comments when I fell asleep around three, so that’s pretty good going.

As I get up, I straighten my body out and feel all of the stiffness click and creak and crack back into place: I fell asleep at my desk again. I must shower this morning, even if I do need to respond to the five new comments. I reply to two on my way to my bathroom. When the hot water hits my body, I feel my muscles continue to relax. I arch my head back and let the water hit my face. Despite wanting to get back to my blog, I have a long shower. I wash my hair twice and the room is all steam when I finally get out. It’s freezing cold in the house. Mum and Dad never set the heating timer. Well, sometimes Mum does, but Dad’s always turning it off if he notices. It’s not that he’s trying to save the world or save money or anything, he just hates what he calls artificial heat and his normal body temperature must be roughly through the roof, because he rarely even wears a jumper. I like it this way though – better for it to be ice cold and to wrap up against it, than to be hot in winter.

I dry myself enough and pull on my thick dressing gown. I step across the small bathroom to face the mirror. It’s steamed up completely. I draw a smiley face where my face should be. I laugh out loud: it is my emoji face for the morning. I’m happy about the number of likes and comments on my latest blog. And what’s so great is that this blog is unashamedly academic. It’s about Paradise Lost for goodness sake! It might get more highbrow than that, but that’s still pretty high for a state school seventeen-year-old, even if my mother is an English professor. IBHighLife, it means highbrow but not too pretentiously. I like #unrealandtruecheckthisout too. So, it means high on life too.

I write my morning update in the mirror, above my smiley emoji. #thanksforthecomments. I laugh again and rub the whole thing out but as the mirror is revealed I don’t quite recognise who I see in the semi-misted glass. I squint my eyes and rub again. Suddenly I see Sarah’s face looking back at me and I wake up on the floor ten minutes later.

Chapter Four Autumn 2034 Peter Harrison

I awake in the darkness of my temporary room and sit up abruptly, the covers falling from me as I turn myself and sit on the side of the bed. I rub my hands over my face to stretch the inert flesh and muscles and to persuade my eyes to open. Once I am awake, I run my fingers through my hair and inhale deeply. I let the breath out slowly and fully, emptying my lungs, before refilling them again with as much air as they can hold. I rub down my arms and legs, as if drying myself of some non-existent water that I can feel covering the surface of my skin.

Instinctively, I get up and climb onto the exercise bike in the corner of the room. I start slowly, but not for long. Once my legs are warmed up, I turn the setting to high and I cycle with everything I've got, until my pores are dripping with sweat, my brow is laden with salty water, my lungs are burning, and my muscles are crying for rest. When I can race no longer, I take my feet off of the pedals and let my head collapse into my arms that are resting on the handlebars of the bike.

Next, in my forced fatigue, I almost grope my way to the shower-room and I turn the water on, cleansing myself of the toxins I have just forcibly purged from my pores. I set the shower to hot and I relax in the steamy heat. I begin to think about the dream I have been ignoring since I woke. I think about the grassy plane from which I fell. I think about the presence I felt and how I was compelled to seek it out. I think of walking towards the trees and of the uncontrollable eagerness with which my body took me towards... towards Miss Mary Hain. And I think of the relief and satisfaction I felt when she turned around to reveal herself. I think of the desire with which I was filled, and the power of the temptation to touch her and to lie with her. I feel myself drawn once again into the moment, and I open my eyes and turn the water to freezing.

I think of Janine and I finally allow myself to feel the guilt that I have been trying to exorcise rather than contemplate.

I do not feel guilty because I have dreamed of sleeping with another woman. No, what I feel guilty about is that the dream was beautiful and that part of me wants to walk out of this room right now, find Miss Mary Hain, make love to her, run away with her and never see anyone else again. What I feel guilty about is the idea of replacing Janine with someone I barely know and with someone who represents everything we stand to hate in this world. If I do not control my mind, what power or freedom do I have?

I continue to feel lust and love and guilt and confusion as I fall into a now dreamless sleep.

I wake up to the familiar sound of the alarm. 7am. I roll over, turn on my horseshoe screens and make my way to the bathroom. It isn't until I’m splashing ice cold water over my face and looking into the mirror that I remember I am not in my own apartment. My eyes look worn and my body aches like I have been for a whole night running. I remember that in a way I have. If nothing else good has come from my night of dreaming, at least I got some exercise and feel the ache of it. At the thought, however, I rush to my screens and type my morning status: it might have once been impressive to go for a midnight run, but in NewState exercising beyond the designated quota of time and intensity could be logged as suspicious behaviour.

I go through my morning routine as usual, spending an hour or so inside before my work begins. Today, however, my work is different. I am determined now more than ever to find more questions. If I am starting to lose control of my mind, only sedition will keep me from falling over the edge. I cannot afford to tumble down that hill again, for I do not know where that path would lead if I had awoken not in my room as I did, but beneath those trees with Miss Mary Hain as I so ardently desired.

Perhaps the only difference between my temporary room and my usual apartment is that this room has no kitchen. I wonder if everyone who works at NewStateHeadQuarters has a similar room because surely a communal cafeteria negates some of the most fundamental principles and practices of SSC. Perhaps this is my next question. Do all workers eat three meals a day in the communal cafeteria?

We have been told to meet at the cafeteria at 8am. I arrive and eat with the remaining other nine participants. Though we talk, I am very guarded with my speech and withdraw more than I would usually want to. I notice that Fiona and William are still here, though not near enough to talk to.

After breakfast we are led through a labyrinth of corridors back to the cinema room. When we are all sat down, I remember to punch in a status update, just as Miss Mary Hain enters from a door to the right of the screen. She radiates with an intense beauty for which the word majesty would not be an exaggeration.

I imagine myself standing up, walking towards her, kissing her and making love to her. I feel the longing I felt in my dream return, and with it the same sense of repulsion that came from thinking about it after it was done. But the repulsion is not as strong as it should be. She is angelic, and other thoughts are not able to penetrate the softly illumined walls of that feeling. I continue to be drawn to her and when our eyes meet (did I imagine just for a second longer than they did with anyone else?) I shift awkwardly.

Miss Mary Hain addresses us. 'Good morning and welcome to this, the second day of our interview process. I trust that you were all satisfied with the rooms we provided for you and managed to make up for lost time inside, whilst still getting enough sleep to be alert for today's activities. The first activity is simple. You are going to watch a film.' As she says this, there is a palpable shift in the atmosphere around the room: we are going to consume media.

'The film is longer than you will be used to. I will leave you once the film begins and will return in a little over two hours, where we will have a Q and A about what you will have just seen.' The buzz that had everyone sat up in their seats disappears as quickly as it arrived, as the likelihood of our consuming some sort of up to date NewStateMediaMoment or other diminishes. But if anyone was looking, that buzz would still be visible around my eyes, which are just a touch wider than usual, and evident in my posture, which remains that bit more erect than it was a minute ago. I have not consumed anything longer than twenty-two and a half minutes for at least five years, and I so long for the chance to swallow something bigger than a mere morsel of gratification.

'The film you will be watching is called Into the Wild. There is no need for you to do anything other than watch the film. So please, sit back and relax. The film will begin momentarily.' She turns to leave the room and as the door closes behind her, the lights dim to a satisfying darkness. I lean back, open my eyes, prick my ears and ready my mind. As the opening credits appear on the screen, I wonder why we are watching a film at all. Perhaps I will know more once it has finished – maybe the test will be in our analysis afterwards. I also wonder whether we are being observed right now as we watch the film? Perhaps the screen is like a glass mirror in an interrogation room. They are watching us as we unknowingly stare right back at them.

The film both completely asserts and subverts SSC at the same time. It is about a young man called Christopher McCandless, who changes his name to Alexander Supertramp. He has just graduated Harvard University and is all set to enrol in law school, when he decides to donate all of his savings to charity, burn the contents of his wallet, cut up his identification and hike West to Alaska where he leaves the beaten track to live in the wild, all alone. He reads London, Tolstoy and Thoreau, and keeps a journal in which he explains how sick he has become of money, war and consumerism. At the start of the movie, he is at a restaurant with his parents and his sister, celebrating his graduation from Harvard, and his parents, full of pride, tell him that they want to buy him a new car to replace the old, beat up Datsun parked outside the restaurant.

But, to his parents’ surprise, McCandless is confused, asking why his parents want to waste money on a new car when he already has one; he finishes his response by repeating that he doesn’t need all these ‘things’, these ‘things’, these ‘things’. He becomes entrenched in his disappointment at his parents’ gratuitous display of affection and self-satisfied pride, and all but rocks back and forth at the sheer enormity of what he is up against: a whole world obsessed with meaningless displays of importance. Powerless against the tide of consumerism, he just leaves without a trace – to live alone in the original position, behind the veil of ignorance.

After the film has finished I realise that I have spent nearly two and a half hours being completely myself.

I became so absorbed in the film because it felt like a flood of memories playing out a version of me from the past: I used to be dissatisfied with everything Christopher McCandless was dissatisfied with, and if he were alive today, I am certain he would share my new dissatisfactions. I feel sure that I have just revealed something detrimental. I quickly turn to my wrist and type a status update – Missing the real world – and determine to claw back some anonymity during the discussion stage of the test.

We are split into two groups of three and one group of four. I find myself in discussion with Fiona (in her thirties) and William (in his fifties). I try to sound bored and a little petulant.

After our discussion and lunch, we begin our afternoon activity. We take part in old fashioned team building exercises; the sort of things school boys and girls used to do on trips. The exercises are not very hi tech, and some are simply riddles or puzzles to solve. A few are a bit more physical, like having to get everyone from one side of the room to the other, carrying various cargo that cannot be loaded with certain other bits of cargo, with only a certain amount of weight permitted per trip, and only a certain number of trips allowed.

Though my guard has been up since emerging from my absorption in the film this morning, I cannot help but enjoy the tasks. They exercise the body and the mind, and they are sociable and fun. I find myself laughing at the silliest of things, like being embarrassed when I fall over carrying an imaginary chicken across an imaginary river in an imaginary boat. It is refreshing to be laughed at.

It isn’t until after dinner that I remember to update my status.

After we finish eating, Miss Mary Hain enters and stands at the head of our table and I realise that I have been tense all through dinner, for she comes bearing the news of who will stay for the final day and who will go, and my anxiety continues to grow as she speaks.

‘Candidates, thank you again for your cooperation. I understand that today’s activities will have been tiresome for you all and that you are eager to return to your rooms for the remainder of the day, where you will have the freedom to live as normal. Those of you who will not be staying for a third day, will be taken directly to the vehicles that are already packed for your departure. As I have said before, those of you leaving must not think of this as a failure, for you have merely not met a set of very specific requirements, for which one need neither pride nor admonish themselves. You will welcome your return to your homes and the resumption of your normal lives, I am sure. Those of you not continuing to the final day in this procedure are Pitcher, Richards, Wood, Lewin and Mitas. Thank you for your time. If you would please follow Mannings here.’ She pauses whilst the unsuccessful candidates rise from the table, tuck under their chairs and make their way from the almost empty cafeteria.

‘Now, to those of you remaining, I suggest that you get an early night, for though you will be eager to spend some time in your screens, we will be rising with the sun tomorrow to travel beyond the city limits for the final element of this selection. Good night.’ She turns and leaves the room. I watch her go until the door closes and the last flash of her white overalls disappears.

In my room, I go inside for just an hour, updating my status four times as I browse the most popular videos and watch the most popular vlogs. After watching nearly thirty videos in forty five minutes my eyes begin to hurt at all the flashing images and bright colours; I realise that in just two days my body and mind have become less accustomed to life inside the horseshoe curve, so to prevent a full blown migraine, I decide to close my eyes and catch up on the sleep I missed last night.

I awake with the sunrise. As I slowly prise my eyelids apart, almost blinding light begins to pierce through. I tentatively shut and reopen my eyes, each time prising them slightly further apart. I remove the sheet that is covering me and feel warm light on my body. I feel like I am awakening from a lazy afternoon sleep on the beach, drifting in and out of a dream that sits just beneath the surface of consciousness, so that I can keep sinking back into it as I fight the need to fully awaken with the deep desire to return to dreaming slumber. Even when my lids are closed, the light penetrates through the surface and I am eventually forced to either roll over or get up. At the sound of the alarm, my decision is made for me. I realise that though sunlight is warming me awake, I cannot possibly be on a beach. I open my eyes fully and sit up. The artificial sunlight has obviously been set to sunrise at 5am.

Automatically I switch on my screens and a message appears: Please be prompt to the Cafeteria at 05.30. I figure that we will be out and about today, so I ignore the exercise bike in the corner of the room and indulge in a longer than usual shower. When I dress, I feel as though I am preparing for something significant, as if this day will mark some important new beginning in my life, whether I am selected or not. I admit to myself now that I will be disappointed if I do not succeed, for if I stay my sedition will be amplified by my proximity to the heart of the machine. I do not fully allow myself to think about the other reasons that I do not want to fail.

We meet in the cafeteria at 05.30 for a normal prescription breakfast, but there is a discernible atmosphere of anticipation in the air around our table, which looks empty now that only five of us remain, where just two days ago there had been fifteen. At 05.45 I remember to update my morning status, and at 06.00 Miss Mary Hain arrives for our morning briefing.

‘Good morning. Today, our final day of this procedure, will be spent visiting the local hub of solar farms. As ever, your objective is to simply be yourselves as we escort you through the day’s proceedings. We will make our decision by the end of the day, before returning back here with the successful candidate. And now, if you will please follow me.’

She leads us out of the room and through a labyrinth of corridors through the entrance hall we arrived in on the first day. As we exit the building I feel the glory of a cold winter’s breeze wash over me. It is still early, and the sun has barely risen, but the cold morning air is better than the sun in which I awoke. I am instantly revived by the change in atmosphere, from the unnaturally conditioned air and artificial light inside the building to the naturally fresh air and natural light of this hill top. Beyond the statue of King Arthur and The Lady of the Lake and the high-rise fence that guards the perimeter, I see the orange blaze of a sun that could just as easily be setting as rising, as it peers over the hills in the far distance. As I look at it however, I feel the cool metal of the sunrise pendant I wear beneath my emotivest, and the feeling of importance that I felt in my room whilst dressing returns to me, and I imagine myself a Celtic warrior, rising at dawn on the day of a great battle, meditating in the time between times, seeking guidance from the spirits of the otherworld, before the battle ahead. I close my eyes, breathe deeply and then open them to the sight of the climbing sun.

I breathe again, deeply, and move on, my small defiance unobserved.

The cars, four by fours with seats open to the elements in the back, are waiting for us in front of the Arthurian monument. We get in as directed, and as we take off I am overwhelmed by the sensory overload I experience travelling in an off-road vehicle, with an open top, exposed to the countryside around me. We move along roads that would once have been well worn by commuters and tourists entering the city, orbiting the great bowl of the city a quarter of the way around, before moving onto smaller single-track roads that would have required careful driving twenty years ago, let alone in the overgrown and unmaintained state they find themselves in today. The sun continues to climb in our eyes as we travel east towards it, but after half an hour or so, the sky is covered in a thin sheet of cloud so that it soon disappears, and the startling beauty from atop the hilly road evolves into a misty chill in the valleys we now move through.

After an hour or so, we begin to climb out of the valley again and the weather changes as the day grows from its infancy. The clouds part, the sun strikes through and though it continues to be icily cold, the hills and fields are now brightly visible far into the distance. As we reach the peak of a particular hill, Miss Mary Hain turns to us and tells us to look ahead, as we emerge on top of another valley.

The view that greets us is positively blinding. I have to shield my eyes from the brightness until my sight adjusts and I see thousands upon thousands of neatly lined panels of what look like glass mirrors, reflecting the sun’s golden light. The sight of the solar farm is utterly breathtaking. What could be intrusive, man-made architecture that distorts the beauty of the natural world, is in fact a harmoniously majestic marvel of seemingly organic perfection. I feel a lump forming in my throat as I take it all in. There is something almost spiritual about the way the man-made solar panels use the light of the sun to fuel our existence. It is not a theft, like the burning of fossil fuels, which stole from the earth and thanked it with destruction; it is a reciprocal and appreciative friendship. I again understand how people of old looked to the sun as the great life giver and worshipped it. This is truly a sight to be seen and is superior in majesty by far than any documentary on NewStateDiscovery can reveal.

I turn to look at my fellow passengers and wonder that their mouths are not completely agape. In fact, though William is visibly impressed, Fiona is not even looking ahead, instead preferring to shield her eyes and maintain a steady gaze upon her lap.

As we move closer I notice a building complex positioned to the left of the fields of solar panels that line the valley. At first, I did not notice it because it so invisibly blends into its surroundings: it appears to be one giant solar panel, shimmering from all sides and top just like the fields around it. It is a great cube of energy. The building becomes bigger as we approach it and the angle from which we view the panels changes so that we can no longer see the sun on their absorptive faces. The cars stop in front of the building where we disembark and are led towards the entrance, in front of which there already appears to be an assembled greeting party of men and women, presumably notable workers from inside. Perhaps most noticeable is what they are wearing, which is not the standard grey civilian jumpsuits or the white of NSHQ. These people are wearing closer fitting, pale yellow clothing with separate tops and trousers. I wonder why they dress differently, though the colour seems obvious, given the work they are conducting.

We are greeted with the usual pleasantries and taken to what, for all intents and purposes, appears to be a small lecture theatre, in which the controller of the solar station introduces himself and gives us an introduction to the work done here.

‘Welcome to you all. My name is Mr Geoffrey Hague, and I am the controller of this station.’ Our speaker, someone of medium height and a relatively stout countenance, appears to be a mildly eccentric man somewhere in his early-to-mid-sixties. I am surprised at his appearance and demeanour, after seeing so many authoritative and controlled faces at NewStateHeadQuarters, I was not expecting to see someone with quite so much – what is it? – personality, working for the government in such an important role.

‘We have come a long way since the early days of NewState’s great design. Our mission has always been to find greener ways of producing the energy required to power the post-industrial world. Indeed, we can all now look back upon the wisdom of the consolidation of the politically green parties into one, Liberate, when it had become clear that it was a party with the means and determination to fulfil its world saving policies in a way that the smaller parties had never had the resources to, and the larger parties had never had the inclination or courage to prioritise.’

‘So, the early days required infinite planning and strategizing, before years of building, transportation and installation. But with so much of the country’s resources diverted to the task, we knew from an early stage that it would be successful. And I think it was at least in part due to the strong belief that we would be successful that the project ran so efficaciously, because the input and output of everyone involved was bolstered by the vision of the future that appeared so tangible. We thank NewState, and Our Leader Day, for making this necessary shift in our country’s energy production possible.’

I notice the way he says ‘Our Leader Day’ as if each word is capitalised. Mr Geoffrey Hague continues:

‘Today, we extract energy from in excess of five hundred thousand solar panels in this region alone, and each of the other ten regional stations across NewState produces at least as much. As the first fully operational station and the one closest to NewStateHeadQuarters, I think it is safe to say that we are the most influential instigators of innovation that continue to help NewState flourish and evolve.

‘Our greatest achievement is that we can proudly say that we are one tenth of the solution that has led to the end of harmful fossil fuel consumption in this nation. Where our world was being destroyed, it now flourishes and grows. If you’ll forgive the sentimentality, I believe it is the reciprocal relationship between SSC and renewable energy that is most beautiful: once we stopped thinking of the natural world as something to conquer and something to dominate, we opened up our minds to the possibility of leaving it free to feed us. So, as we live in our new reality, we leave nature to its old reality, and are able to unobtrusively and beneficially co-exist. And that really is the genius of the ascension we all experience by being part of SSC. In whatever way the new reality is used, it is unquestionably a powerful evolutionary step that…’ Our speaker does not finish his sentence as Miss Mary Hain steps in and says…

‘I must apologise for cutting you short, Mr Hague, but we are on a tight schedule and I think that we must pause here if we are to have time for our tour of the station.’

‘Oh, yes, right, yes, of course. Well then, if you would all like to follow me, I’ll take you back through to the entrance foyer where we shall begin our tour.’

As we are ushered out, I wonder about the timing of Miss Mary Hain’s interruption. Granted, Mr Hague had begun to ramble, but was it the time or what he was rambling about that caused him to be interrupted so abruptly? Evolution and ascension – these are words that I have begun to hear more and more, and I continue to be intrigued by. What was Miss Mary Hain trying to keep quiet?

We spend the rest of the morning touring the building. We are shown control rooms and research rooms, and curiously I even think I notice some sort of leisure room. I see it only because someone opens the door to leave as we walk past it. If this is some sort of communal recreation room, I wonder whether NewStateHeadQuarters has something similar. I determine to find out the answer to this question if I return at the end of today’s proceedings.

There is one room we see during our tour today that takes my breath away. The main control room sits on top of the building and its entire perimeter is made of glass, the effect of which is to give a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. Again, I am amazed by the beauty of both the green hillsides that I have so long been starved to see, and by the mesmerising glimmering glass panels that stretch out in all directions. In its move to one hundred percent renewable energy, NewState has achieved something nothing short of heroic. As I look out at the view of the solar fields, I find myself in awe of NewState’s momentous environmental triumph.

I am surprised when I feel a presence close over my shoulder: habit is that people tend not to get too close these days. I turn my head slightly and see that Miss Mary Hain has moved to stand right beside me; she is close enough that her arm brushes mine as she stops to take in the view that has captivated me.

‘What do you think?’ She asks. It is the first time that I have noticed her speak to someone other than to address the whole group. In my surprise at being spoken to, I answer honestly.

‘I think it is inspiring.’

‘And do you usually feel inspired by landscapes?’ She continues without pause for me to answer the question, leaving open the implication that she knows the answer already. ‘It reminds me of so many paintings, and so many family hikes. I used to dread our winter hikes, battling the elements, but my mother and father insisted. I used to think it was only the idea of the sun that kept me going; I knew that before long the arduous walks of the winter would turn to the warming walks of the summer, glorifying under the high afternoon sun and resting in the restorative shade of a tree. I grew up not too far from here. Never far from the hills and the trees.’ She stops speaking, as if she has been reading from a book and the words have simply run out on the page, but somewhere, someone has the rest of the story and continues reading.

She looks out at the shimmering solar field, chin high, and she moves on, without giving me a chance to speak any further. I continue to stare ahead, as if nothing has happened. But something has happened. I turn around and realise that there is no one behind us, that our conversation was unlikely to have been witnessed by anyone else in the room. I wonder at the way she never looked me in the eye, the way she focused my attention on the view ahead, the way she spoke of paintings and hiking in the hills. She spoke of the sun, and of hills and trees not too far from here. What did she mean by telling me this? Was it a warning? A threat? A test? I place my hand over my chest and feel the shape of my sunrise pendant below. I watch her walk away. She moves through the collection of candidates and workers, speaking to no-one but watching everyone.

After our tour, we are taken to lunch in the canteen where we eat our meals deep in conversation about what we have seen during the morning’s activity. Almost the moment that the last of us finishes our final forkful of food, Miss Mary Hain arrives, tablet in hand, like a teacher ready to read names off a register on a clipboard. I feel my body tense as I realise that this has been our last meal together, for Miss Mary Hain is not waiting, as assumed, until the end of the day to reveal who is the successful candidate. I look at her with a strange mix of desire, hate and fear. I feel jarred by the suddenness of this climax. This morning, our arrival, our talk, our tour, my encounter with Miss Mary Hain, and our lunch seem suddenly to have barely taken any time at all.

‘Thank you all for your patience over the past three days. We have observed each of your performances acutely and…’ I catch her blue eyes in the light and she looks positively regal. ‘I wish those of you going home today the most fruitful of lives. May your consumption and sharing bring you joy, and may your ratings ever increase.’ She pauses briefly before continuing. ‘We will be escorting Dunn, Dean, Patel and Pitt back to their homes. Thank you again for your cooperation. I hope that you will have lots to talk about, after your time with us at NewStateHeadquarters and here at NSSolarFarmOne. Please follow Francis, who will escort you to the vehicles waiting to take you home.’

I remain seated, as Fiona, William and the other two now unsuccessful candidates get up and prepare to leave. William offers me a warm smile as he goes, whilst the others leave without a second glance. Miss Mary Hain sits opposite me now.

‘Well, Peter, congratulations. We have been watching you very closely and think you will fit in just right at NewStateHeadQuarters in the work we have set ahead for you. I have no doubt you will be very happy.’ She smiles and extends her hand towards me. Though angelically beautiful, I cannot help but feel that there is something sinister behind her smile and the hand that I now shake. The warmth of her hand makes me tingle, as the feeling that I am signing my soul to the devil simultaneously sends shivers down my spine.