Chapters 3-4

Today, Issy travels to meet #me in person, and Peter begins his new defiance writing about the past.

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

Chapter Three Winter 2015 Isabella

I’m on the train texting like girls used to look around catching people’s eye. It’s a Monday and I’ve got an early train so it’s busy with people commuting. I’ve not cut school or anything; it’s been a few weeks since Mum and Dad found me in the park and it’s half term, so we have a week off. Obviously, there’s loads to do, what with school work, blogging, researching, watching, reading and just keeping up with everything and everyone out there. I’m still running on maybe four hours sleep a night. I have to stay awake as long as I can to keep up, so I fall asleep at my desk a lot. I woke up with a stiff neck and back this morning. I had to straighten out slowly and I swear I heard something crack back into place.

As I walked over to my bathroom, I had a funny thought and it made me think of that radio interview again – the one from the first day of Sixth Form. Walking from my desk to my bathroom, feeling my neck ache like hell, I imagined being like the operating system from the film Mr Harrison told us to watch: she’d never know what it was like to have an ache in her neck; heck, she’d never even experience the frustration of having to sleep when there’s still so much to do.

I read something recently that said that within fifty years, if we’re not already extinct from global warming, we’ll probably have been wiped out by robots – AI I mean. The thing is, it said that even if we make AI that’s equally intelligent to us, it wouldn’t be more than a day before they’d undergone about a millennium of evolution and moved light years ahead of us, because synthetic processing is exponentially quicker than organic. So, we might be the same at the point of creation, but they’d be able to read the entire history of the human race in minutes. That’s philosophy, politics, science, you name it. So, by the end of just one day, they’d know more than any human on the planet could ever know in a lifetime; think what you could do with all that knowledge in your head at once.

I realised that that was what happened in the film too. The AI became so knowledgeable and could be in so many places at once that she simply evolved away from the man who had fallen in love with her. The poor guy was just too human. He was just too organic to keep up. And he lost everything because of it. And he probably had an ache in his chest and a crick in his neck, not to mention grey hair, rotting bones and three cancers before his long-lost love had even begun to realise she was immortal.

I didn’t like the way I looked in the mirror when I got to the bathroom. I wouldn’t usually care, but then I realised that I’d be seeing #me for the first time, and I didn’t know if it mattered. Does it matter? I feel anxious like girls used to feel… anxious. I got in a bit of a state for a while, but when I got out of the shower I drew a smiley face in the condensation and pulled myself together. Still, I don’t feel normal at all right now. I keep thinking people are looking at me on the train, and I don’t know what they’re thinking.

The train was annoying at the start, but that was kind of ok because I got a blog out of it – once the signal kicked in again that is; what is it with reception on trains? So, I got an early train, which I thought would mean it would be quiet. I mean, even if it was busy, it wouldn’t be noisy right? Wrong. I guess that’s the thing with public transport, it’s just that: public. And not everyone in the public isn’t a complete moron.

People should be quiet on a morning commuter train. No arguments. It’s early, and people have busy days to prepare for. Either work, sleep or mind your thoughts. But the guy in front of me had a deep and meaningful with his girlfriend – and not a normal one. Then the woman opposite me (why did I sit on a table seat?) pulls out her full on make-up kit and starts filing her nails, blowing nail dust all over the place. Nail dust! Come on. Really? I’m reading the last section of Paradise Lost, albeit for the second time, and she’s blowing nail dust around like a dog scratching its fleas. It doesn’t exactly help me to dispel my disbelief and zone into Eden.

That’s mostly how I put it in the blog I write, and I’ve got fifty likes by the time I pass Gloucester.

And then I watch, and read, and message, and like, and worry.

The countryside looks nice out of the window. It’s winter, but it’s still beautiful. I think I might like it more this way. The white frost, the grey sky, the bare branches, they just look comfortable, like they’re hibernating. They don’t have the energy to keep going all year round, so they get this nice respite, when they just go back inside themselves for a while, and they don’t have to worry about what they look like, because everything else looks bare and cold too.

I see my reflection in the window and don’t feel right again.

It’s not morbid to like the winter. It’s just comfortable. Like making yourself warm when it’s cold is easier than making yourself cold when it’s hot.

I keep looking out of the window for a while, even though my phone is buzzing.

‘Come on Issy, look, watch me.’ Sarah turns her head to look at the countryside rolling by as the train rumbles forwards. Her eyes flicker from side to side.

‘Wow, Sarah, yeah, I see what you mean; they’re moving so fast and you don’t even know you’re doing it!’

We were travelling to Cornwall on the train. Sarah’s grandmother lived in a cottage on a cliff that overlooked the sea. There was a sandy path that led down to a secluded bay with sand dunes, and rocks, and everything a childhood used to need. We were eight, and the world was a beautiful song.

I realise I’m crying and have been breathing on the window as my head lightly bounces on and off the pane of glass. I lift my hand to the condensation and draw a sad face. It has begun to rain and the water droplets drip down like tears on my cheeks.

‘Excuse me. Are you ok?’ I look up at the person opposite me. It’s not the annoying woman with her nail dust anymore. It’s a kind looking man. I think of Mr Harrison in maybe thirty years’ time. He smiles, but I just pull my hood over my head and go back to looking out of the window, my phone still buzzing on the table between us.

I wake up and I think I’ve missed the stop. I look around. The man opposite me has gone. It’s grim outside and it feels late. I look at my phone. It’s one pm and I have about a hundred notifications. One pm! This must be my stop. I scramble my things together and rush off the train.

Shit, I think. He’s meeting me in fifteen minutes and I’ve just woken up. I don’t feel right at all. My stomach is empty, and my cheeks feel cold as the cool air meets the damp from my tears. I look around and hurry towards the nearest toilet sign.

It’s not me in the mirror – it’s really not. I splash my face and run my fingers through my hair. I go to the toilet and drink some water from the tap, cupping it in my hands, careful not to wet the tips of my long hair.

It feels cold on the platform, so I walk quickly, buttoning up my duffle coat and pulling my hood up. I look at my phone as I walk. Arghh, one hundred notifications. Why did I fall asleep?

I have to just ignore them. I pull up my map and swipe in Café Einaudi. It’s only five minutes away, just around the corner. I’ll be on time. Shit. I’ll be on time. I’ll see him in five minutes, and he’ll see me.

I think about turning around. I could say the train was cancelled. I could say something came up at home. I could say I don’t feel well. Oh, but everything I could say is a lie, and I don’t want to lie to #me. Oh God, what am I going to call him? I can’t say ‘Hi #me, can I?’ I know his name from checking him out on Facebook, but that’s not what I call him is it? What if I don’t recognise him? Christ, he said my words made me beautiful. What if my face paints me differently? What if he doesn’t recognise me? What if…

And then I see him and it’s like a film.

He’s already sat at the table. It must not have rained here, because he’s sat outside. He’s got his back to me. He’s reading a book. I know it’s him. He’ll know I was coming from this direction and he’ll have sat there on purpose. It’s called Café Einaudi and we’re in Shrewsbury but it’s really Café on the Terrace and we’re in Paris.

I forget that I don’t feel right and keep on walking until I’m right there behind him. I reach out and tap him on the shoulder. He turns around. I begin to smile. And then… it’s not him.

Everything sinks.

It’s too old to be him. I think of Lolita and for a moment I feel sick to my stomach. But it’s not him. It can’t be him. But I know him. It’s someone I know. It’s Mr Harrison, but it can’t be; he’s too old to be Mr Harrison. And then it clicks into place; it’s the man from the train.

He smiles. And then I hear a tap. I look to my left. That’s him. That must be him. Someone is sat at a table inside the café. They’ve seen me and they’re tapping on the window. He smiles. He’s handsome. He waves, ushering me in.

Oh Christ, I must look like such an idiot.

And then there’s this man still looking up at me.

What do I say?

‘Sorry.’ That’s what I say. And I smile. ‘Sorry, for being rude to you on the train. Thanks.’ I start to move off before he can say anything. I must still look a bit crazy. And the boy is still waiting. God, he’s watching me. He? No, it’s #me. And he knew it was me. My brow unfurrows and the tension in my neck drops. He knew it was me.

‘Don’t worry. Enjoy your afternoon.’ I hardly hear him as I rush towards the café entrance.

As I reach out to push the door open, everything becomes real again. I pause for a moment before pushing. I become aware of myself. I can feel the weight of the door resist my touch, but there is nothing I can do now but force it open and go through. I realise that this is more than just a doorway into a café: it is a gateway into another world; a world in which Isabella meets a boy. But whatever happens in this world affects the other one too. If Isabella messes things up, then IBHighLife wont fare any better.

I step over the threshold and the door swings firmly shut behind me.

And there he is, still standing at the table by the window. He has messy brown curls and a roguish grin, the kind that means he’s happy and shy and nervous and confident all at the same time. It’s the right sort of grin. I don’t know what my face says.

‘IB, wow, hi.’ His grin grows and now I’m standing right in front of him, still saying nothing. IB, clever. What do I say, hashtag? God!

‘Hi.’ Are we supposed to hug, kiss, shake hands?

It’s okay, he takes the lead. He pulls the chair out for me to sit down. I sit.

‘Wow, IB. Is it okay that I call you IB?’

‘Yeah, I guess. Erm, it’s sort of short for Isabella. My family call me Issy.’

‘Cool. Issy. I suppose you can’t call me hashtag me can you! My name’s James. My family call me James.’ He smiles.

‘Hi, James.’ I smile back.

‘Wow. I think I said that already. You look lovely. I mean, you’re beautiful, just like your words.’

I think I blush. Do people really blush in real life?

‘Thanks.’ I should say something nice back. But doesn’t it sound fake if you just pay the same compliment back? Anyway, he does look nice too. He’s handsome by any standards. But I don’t know how to say that to him. I mean, he looks perfect – just like I imagined. It’s not like it matters but he does, and I don’t want to tell him and not get it right. I want him to know. But I want him to know that it wouldn’t have mattered if he didn’t look perfect too.

Would it? I know it shouldn’t. But would it really not have mattered what he looked like? I hope not – I really do. I think I’d have to hate myself if it did.

‘So, how was your train ride?’

‘Oh, fine.’ What do I say – tell him I thought about Sarah and cried myself to sleep? ‘Yeah, erm, normal I suppose. Erm, this place is nice.’

‘Yeah, I like the music here. And it’s got a nice vibe, you know?’

‘Yeah.’ I notice the music. It makes me think of Susan Merriweather when she’s playing her slow pieces. It’s full of emotion. I look around. There’s some nice artwork on the walls. I think I recognise some from the book Mrs Bridges gave me. I’m about to say so but stop myself. I half form the words and then pull them back. I can’t exactly let my counsellor be the first thing we talk about, can I? But it’s not the first time we’ve talked, is it? Or is it? This whole situation is making me very confused.

And I’m aware that neither of us is speaking. I look up at him. He really is handsome.

‘Here you go.’ A barista places a frothy mug in front of me.

‘Thanks.’

‘I got here early so I thought I’d order. Cappuccino. I guessed. Don’t worry if it’s wrong. I can have that and get you something else.’

‘No, it’s fine. I mean, thanks. Thanks a lot.’

And then we talk, but I never really get the flow of the conversation. We both ask a lot of questions. But none of them are the sorts of questions we usually ask each other. It’s all how’s school, what’s your favourite subject, who’s your favourite teacher, where did you grow up? And it’s all monosyllabic answers: fine, English, a guy called Mr Harrison, Bath. I mean, they’re not even bad questions. I could talk about seeing Art’s Science project assembly; he was really good, and he did it in front of the entire Sixth Form. Or I could talk about Mr Harrison’s lessons. I know he’d find that interesting because it’s where I get most of my material to blog about. But it’s just not that easy. He’s definitely better than me, but I don’t think it’s easy for him either.

We go for a walk along the river. It’s beautiful. There are birds’ nests in the trees and ducks swimming. They look like a family all following each other in a long line from eldest to youngest. There’s this cute moment when they’re all plucking up the courage to hop down a small drop of about a foot where the river dips and makes a tiny rapid. He points it out. ‘Hey look.’ We both watch it. But the best we can say in response is ‘Cool’ or ‘Cute’.

I really want to hold his hand. At least I think I do. It’s cold and it’s winter and we’re a boy and a girl and we like each other and I think he’s handsome and that’s not supposed to matter, but I think it does, but we’re not saying very much at all, and I feel awkward in my own body. My arms feel too long, and I feel like everyone we pass knows that I’m flailing. I’m aware of everything and yet I can’t articulate anything. I don’t know what he’s thinking either. How can I? I wonder if he wants to hold my hand.

I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. And now it’s here. And it’s…

It’s not like I don’t want to be here. I do. I think he does too. He must do. But it’s not working. There’s no good reason it’s not working. We like each other. We talk all the time. I mean, all the time. He said I was beautiful. I think he’s handsome. I know that’s not supposed to matter, but even if it does (I think it does) it’s fine because we both think each other’s handsome, or pretty, or whatever.

But I’m failing. And I think he’s failing too. We both are. It’s not right. It’s not fair. It doesn’t make sense. This just can’t be the way that two people who like each other are supposed to be. I mean, it’s awkward, and we’re never awkward. It’s bland, completely bland, and nothing is ever bland with #me. That’s why we’re here after all, because it’s the opposite of bland.

We get another coffee and have some food. Then we take another walk. The sun sets and it looks amazing. It’s one of those sunsets that make me think of Paradise Lost, like the heavens are on fire and the angels are battling from epic cloud to epic cloud.

But it doesn’t feel right. Neither of us says anything. Our hands sort of brush together at one point. It’s the perfect moment for one of us to take hold of the other, for us to stop and face each other, to laugh at our awkwardness and then to kiss each other in front of the setting sun. I even feel that electric tingle. But then nothing happens. Neither of us makes the move. Does he want to make it? Would he make it if he wanted to? Or is he as braindead as me?

Finally, he walks me back to the train station.

‘Issy, it was good to see you. I mean, thanks for coming.’ He looks like he’s made of wood and doesn’t have any moveable limbs. His green eyes pierce me, and I imagine him walking through Oxford or Cambridge in the scarf he’s wearing, with a stack of books under one arm. He’s walking towards me, grinning.

‘Yeah. You too. I mean, thanks for showing me around.’

This is when we’re supposed to kiss too but a few false starts and we sort of hug.

The train arrives. I get on. And I’m on my way home.

I replay every single excruciating moment. I hate myself. I hate the whole thing. This just couldn’t have happened inside. It hasn’t happened inside. And there we were, ruining it outside.

When I first saw him, it felt like a film, but it wasn’t a film at all. It was a painting: one moment of beauty. One moment in the present where the past was fixed, and the future didn’t exist. It was just one moment of beauty. But what is one moment when the next is just about to arrive and is capable of erasing that past that had been fixed so well?

It was a disaster. Nothing felt right. Everything had a cost. The pressure made it impossible to do anything. There was no time to think. Every moment required an instantaneous response. But what do you do when the response doesn’t come instantaneously. I mean, it can’t, can it? Surely, we can’t be expected to walk around, talking to people, always knowing what to say, hearing them say things, or seeing things with them, and then just knowing what to say straight away. We can’t just blurt things out: there’s too much to risk.

That’s why I like my composition book, because I can try things out before I share them. And even my blogs I can edit, and re-think until they’re ready to go online.

But today was too quick. It was too urgent. And urgency doesn’t make anything work better. It made it worse. It made it feel like it didn’t work at all. It wasn’t just warming up: it was broken, and the two pieces weren’t right. How could they be? The right pieces live somewhere else. They live in The Café Terrace at Night in Paris, not in Café Einaudi outside Shrewsbury Cathedral.

I was high, eager, excited, but the moment that man turned around in the seat outside the café it wasn’t right.

The train is hurtling on now. I feel a buzzing in my pocket. With a rush of adrenaline, I pull it out and unlock the screen, but it’s just mum checking I’m on the train, saying she’ll be there to pick me up the other end. It’s not #me. Arggghhhh. Of course, it’s not #me. It won’t ever be #me again. Why did we have to meet? Why were we so stupid? I look at my hands and I hate them. I see my reflection in the window and I hate it. It isn’t me. It’s someone else. It’s someone who has betrayed me. It’s someone who has ruined everything. It’s Isabella who has ruined IBHighLife. It’s a window that opens onto a world that doesn’t matter anymore.

I pound my fist against the pane, cursing the outside world, and I turn to my screen and leave it behind.

Chapter Four Winter 2035 Peter Harrison

I have been writing for a week now. I jump around a lot as my mind takes me, one thought triggering another decades later. I follow the sparks, knowing that this is how the narrative fits together: a moment in history informing a moment in the future more than anyone could have known at the time, but hindsight is my friend and NewState’s enemy. The more I write, stepping forward and arching back, I begin to cast the events of my life from me; I close my eyes and look at them, and see the patterns they form. I slide them left and right, on top of one another, slot in new memories, building my defiance piece by piece, revelling in the beauty of a life lived as it wanted to be lived. How did the age of the individual turn so quickly into the age of homogeny?

I am typing these memoirs. Though the thought of hiding like Winston Smith in a corner of my room and scribbling into a stained notepad found in some forgotten corner of the world romantically appeals to me, I have opted to hide in plain sight. I remember the way I used to squeeze into the corner of my old Georgian apartment, hiding in the crevice of the old brick work, imagining I might dissolve into some alternate reality where the world had not gone mad, but online my thoughts are hidden well enough and there is always the possibility of hitting send. For now, I save them directly to my horseshoe screens. No-one will see them. Not yet.

Tonight, I write about my career:

I had wanted to teach for a long time, but it was during my PHD that I really made the decision to do it. I was given the lead on a seminar group for a class each semester, and in my final year, when I was nearly finished with my PHD, I ran a lecture series in the spring term. I loved the feeling of sharing ideas with people who hadn’t come across them yet. Of course, after a while the ideas would start to be old news to me teaching them over and over, and it would have been easy to begin feeling like a fraud, trying to make a topic seem like a revelation every time I taught it. I guess that’s why some teachers become so boring, because they’ve stopped believing in the material. Sure, they still like it, respect it – but it’s not just about the material, it’s about them, and how they feel sharing it.

But that didn’t happen to me, because I knew that every time I shared it, it was new; it was new to the person learning it, and it wasn’t some stagnant theme in my career, but the beginning of theirs. I remember one boy in that first lecture series. He was so eager, he’d stay behind every lecture to ask a question on some aspect or another. Once he even cornered me in the cafeteria and I had to invite him to sit and eat his lunch with me, because he just kept on talking and I could see his untouched food getting colder and colder as he held it. I didn’t mind – that’s how I knew I wanted to teach, because when he asked his questions, I wasn’t thinking about how to answer them quickly, or which chapter in what book I could fob him off on so I could escape. And I wasn’t thinking of what I should have been doing every minute that passed and we were still talking. I was genuinely excited to keep on sharing, and to keep on pushing them to think things through in different ways and to see things from different perspectives.

As I write now, I play my career through my mind, and I remember those early years teaching fondly. I remember all the wins: the students ignited by the subject and fuelled by the new ideas they were exposed to.

And I remember the losses, and my heart hurts.

When you pose questions, you want the student to find their own answers – that’s the real job, not to create carbon copies of your mind, but to help them to learn to use their own minds for themselves.

But sometimes you don’t know how your words will affect someone, and sometimes the most well-meaning sentiment can catch somebody wrong, because of something you could never have known, or something you missed or miss-judged, and then – sometimes – the regret never goes away.

I did not see Mary in two night’s time as I had agreed in my letter to her. She cancelled, and I was grateful for the reprieve. Though seeing her and continuing my relationship with her is my determined course of action, since realising the extent to which NewState fabricates life for people out there, and hearing her justify it so matter of factly, I can’t quite bear the thought of looking at her just yet. This hurts, because I also can’t bear the fact that I might be hurting her by staying away. I think of Janine, and though I know she would understand my relationship as a means to an end, I know I was wrong to have pursued it as an end in itself. I betrayed her. I betrayed myself.

And not for the first time I wonder whether my relationship with Mary Hain was more than it seemed. The thought makes me run colder than a winter’s night penetrating overalls. It seems entirely possible now, and even probable, that her befriending of me may have had some other agenda. I think back to those early stolen looks during my interview, and the whispered conversation about hikes in the hills, and I think that if it were a play, it was so well scripted and performed that I know I’d fall for it again, for what embodies the old world for which I so longed better than the romance of love. And how susceptible I was, fearing the world I longed for to be over, and so willing to believe that it was not. Oh, it was the easy solution to allow myself to believe that NewState was good.

Before I go to sleep tonight, I select a book in my mind, The Count of Monte Cristo. It is the one James tossed into the fire when we last ran to the city library - when I last saw my fellow runners. As I begin to read, my mind drifts and my imagination takes over, and I run through the story that I already know, picturing each scene in my mind.

The story of a man who gets lost along the way.

My mind wanders as I fall into a half sleep and then a deep one.

It is time to run. I crash through a stairwell door and clamber down the stairs, rapidly descending every step and then jumping entire portions, swivelling around the bend and leaping down again. I’m not scared. I know I am running for my life, but I am too excited to be scared, my anticipation far outweighing any fear, as though I am filling up from the toe to the head with courage, and only the smallest portion somewhere in the top corner of my brain remains unfilled, and now I soar down, away from something, but more importantly towards something too.

‘O Earth, O Earth Return.’

The words whirl around my head. They mean something. Possibly everything. Yes, everything.

‘And the morn

Rises from the slumberous mass’

I begin to hear footsteps, a regimented tapping descending somewhere above me, but they will not catch me. I have never felt older than I did hunched over my horseshoe screens, but the regime kept me healthy enough, and five months living the semblance of a normal life began to undo the posture damage of so many years inside. With adrenaline coursing through my body, I am my real age again: not yet fifty and fit for never having allowed myself to believe that it did not matter if I weren’t. My body is me and I am my body, and I feel every bash and knock and thud and jolt as I storm my way down these stairs, reminding me of who I am and what I am doing. I am on a mission, and soon I will know if I have succeeded.

I reach the end of the stairs and look up through the cavity above. The pursuit grows louder behind me, but they are not yet close enough to see. I will outrun them to the end, I know it. Without another moment’s hesitation, I pound through the stairwell exit and into a long, white-grey corridor. I know where I am heading now, what I hope to see. I have been here before, taking these turns and bends, crashing around the corners and recklessly throwing myself forwards, only one sight in mind.

As I approach what I know to be the final bend, I know what I will see when I turn: a door like any other, with its metal escape lever ready to be pushed, different only because, unlike all other doors, this is the door to the future, whatever that may be.

I round the corner, excitement overwhelming me, and then...

Miss Mary Hain stands between me and the door and I come to a crashing halt and wake up, my heart still racing.

For the next week, every time I wake up in the night, it is when my dreams show me the faces of two women, and I feel the shame of my betrayal.

Night-time is a beautiful time. It might be full of nightmares and ghosts, but it’s also the time when we put the harshness of the day to rest; we close our eyes and let the day’s fatigue float away into the abyss. We’re all equal when we sleep. The night is now at its coldest, equidistant from seeing the sun go down and seeing it rise again. All this I remember from the confines of my square room.

Another week passes, and this is the time when I continue to write. I type late into the night, wake and work, and then type again. Every night of writing my conviction in this new defiance grows. Things that were forgotten are slowly and carefully pulled back from the ether, and things that were unlearned begin to make sense again. But every night when I finally close my eyes to sleep, I dream of that corridor and that door, and the faces of two women. Janine, yes, but still of Mary Hain too.

Perhaps it is naive to think that the course of conviction will always run smooth, but the more I continue to dream of her, the more I fear seeing her again, of being pulled in again, of loving her again.

I remember lying by the oak tree at the foot of a hill surrounded by flat grassy planes.

Looking up at the enormity of space, I would suddenly feel so insignificant. Nothing that was happening meant anything in the enormity of space and time, and yet away from that exact place and moment in time it meant everything. If only the entire world could be in that exact place in that exact time, could see exactly what I saw and feel exactly what I felt; then we would have undisturbed and everlasting peace.

But that is not possible.