Chapters 7-8

Today, Issy, attends an assembly by Mr Harrison and the PauseTechGroup and feels very uncomfortable. Peter, is shown secrets by Miss Mary Hain and continues to dream about an alternative future where he fled NewState. After today, we have two days left until the end of the novel.

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

Chapter Seven Late-Winter 2015 Isabella

Time goes by and I don’t hear from #me. I can’t bring myself to message him. I read a lot, and watch a lot and blog a lot, and sleep a little. I don’t look in the mirror. It’s the holidays for us and Mum and Dad still have to work, but they’re home in the evenings.

‘Issy, do you fancy watching a film tonight?’

‘Oh, thanks mum, but, erm, I’ve just got to finish this essay.’ We’re just finishing dinner.

‘You’ve been working so much this week. Have you really got that much homework?’ She’s loading the dishwasher and I’m about to pass her my plate.

‘Yeah. It’s busy. I just don’t think I have time at the moment.’ She takes it and turns to load up.

‘Well, okay, but if you need any help, just ask?’

‘Mum.’ It’s Art. ‘Dad just got the third season of Merlin. You can watch it with us if you like.’

Mum turns to me again. ‘Oh, come on, Issy. Surely that’s an offer you can’t refuse!’

I don’t say anything.

‘Ah, come on Is,’ chimes in Art. ‘You know you want to.’

‘It’s not about what I want,’ I snap. ‘I’m busy, Art.’ I don’t know why I say it like this.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble, and I get up to leave the table.

There’s a knock at my door and mum comes in.

‘I know, mum. I’m sorry. I just felt bad, you know. I’ve got to get this work done and I can’t come down tonight.’

‘Issy, are you alright? You look tired. If you’re worried about falling behind, we can take a look at your schedule together – work in some time to relax, you know.’ She sits down on the corner of my bed. She looks a bit uncomfortable, but she smiles like all she wants in the whole world is for me to go and sit next to her.

‘Mum, it’s alright. I’ve just taken on some extra essays and I’m trying to get some extra reading done to really make them stand out. You know how Sarah’s sister’s at Oxford. Well, I want to be there too, but I won’t get there if I just go along with what we cover in class.’ I know that pulling out Sarah’s name, even if I am talking about her sister, is a bit of a trump card. Mum won’t push me now I’ve said that.

‘Issy, you know I understand. But there’s no pressure on where you end up after Sixth Form. Your father and I will be happy wherever you decide to go.’

‘I know, mum. Honestly, it’s fine. You watch Merlin with Dad and Art. Tell him I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean it.’

‘When is your next appointment with Mrs Bridges, Issy? I know it’s hard having a week off in the holidays.’ She comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder.

‘Yeah, I see her on Monday though. It’s fine mum. It’s helping.’

‘Because, since what happened in the storm, well, I’m sorry if your father and I have been working too much.’

‘No, mum. Thanks. Honestly. I like that you work. I mean, they keep talking about asking you to come into school. You’re an expert, Mum. That’s cool.’

‘Oh, well, you know I’d always be happy to. No one’s mentioned it to me, but I’d always be happy to if they did. Well, alright then, Issy. If you’re sure you’re ok. Just call if you need anything.’

‘Yeah, thanks Mum.’

‘Love you, Is.’ She starts to leave.

‘Yeah, you too Mum. Love you.’

The door closes, and I dive back into the screen. Ten messages and I’ve got to finish this blog.

I can’t walk to school today. I’ve not really felt like walking since the night in the park. Mum’s dropped me a few times, but I mostly get the bus, which isn’t so bad. Sarah and I never really got the bus together because we used to love walking through the woods so much. It used to take us hours to get home sometimes.

It’s raining and the window on the bus reminds me of the train journey to Shrewsbury, and I feel like punching the window again. It’s been half a week now and I’ve not heard anything. Why did we have to ruin it by meeting?

I get to registration on time, but Mr Harrison isn’t here. I look around and then I notice a message on the board. It says we have an assembly this morning. I pick up my stuff again and head to the theatre with everyone else.

I don’t really notice anyone on my way to the theatre but when I arrive there’s a queue to get in, which is okay because it doesn’t get rowdy or anything at our school when you have to queue for things; we always line up properly and go in like it’s church in the 1950s: quiet and pretty solemn. It’s not long before I’m in and finding somewhere to sit.

I quite like assemblies, because sometimes it’s nice to just sit in a room with lots of people but not have to say anything. And if the speaker’s right, it can be like a good lecture. I sit back and smile, thinking that today’s assembly is going to be a good one because it looks like Mr Harrison’s doing it. If the head were here, he’d be introducing Dr Harrison, but it’s only a Sixth Form assembly, so it’ll just be Mr Harrison and whatever it is he wants to say today.

I realise my hand is in my pocket and I think of #me. I pull my hand out and sort of feel myself tense up. I wouldn’t normally dream of going in during assembly, especially when Mr Harrison is taking it, but I can’t help wanting to look. I mean, it hasn’t even vibrated, so I know I haven’t got anything, but, well, why hasn’t he said anything? I mean, I know why. Of course he hasn’t. I saw to that by crying my way to Shrewsbury, mistaking an old man for someone I’m supposed to know inside out, and then pointing and umming and ahhing my way through the most disappointing day of my life. I know why he’s so silent. I just wish he weren’t.

I look around the sea of silent faces filling this old school theatre and think, There’s no-one here I know. I scrunch my sleeve ends into my fists and cross my arms. In a pitiful sort of way, it probably looks like I’m hugging myself.

I don’t go in, but I never really relax either, although, when Mr Harrison starts talking, I do sort of sit back a bit.

‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen.’ I always like how Mr Harrison calls us ladies and gentlemen. It helps.

‘The world is changing rapidly and probably more dramatically than any of us can keep track of. You might remember learning about the dark ages in History. This was the age where society stagnated, made no progress, and probably regressed quite a bit too. Certainly, it was a far cry from the glory of the ancient Greeks. But then something amazing happened called the Enlightenment. This was the birth of Science. We knew the world was round, not flat; that the Earth orbited the sun; that the moon was held into place by something so important that without it life as we know it could not exist.

‘And then we discovered the power of industry and the world grew bigger and smaller at the same time. Bigger because anyone could travel further than ever before, and smaller because this meant that nowhere would ever be remote again.

‘And then, about fifty years ago, the industrial revolution became the technological revolution, and here we are today, with magical brains in our pockets, and unfathomable power at our fingertips.

‘And I say, wow. Wow for these feats of human intellectual endeavour.

‘But, thinking about it, despite all its wonder, I can’t help but question where we’ve ended up. The enlightenment has given us tools of such greatness and wonder; tools that, used properly, have the potential to eradicate the ills that still plague our race even today: hunger, thirst, poverty, disease and maybe one day even death. These are noble pursuits and they are pursuits that noble scientists and engineers and aid workers and academics the world over continue to move ever closer to conquering.

‘But there exists in my mind a fundamental fear in our progression. My fear is not a fear of the tools themselves, because tools of power, when used properly, lead to greatness. No, my fear is in the hearts and minds of those using these tools, because when these tools of power – science, technology, even religion – when these tools are used imperfectly, they have the exponential potential to turn the self-same greatness they create upside down, back to front, inside out, and from good to devastating evil.’ Mr Harrison’s always interesting, and so far he’s been as interesting as ever, but his talk makes me sort of sad too, because it sort of reminds me of #me again. I become aware that my hand is in my pocket and I’ve got a pretty firm grip on my phone so as not to risk missing it vibrate. I don’t know why I’m doing this: if it does vibrate, it won’t be #me anyway. It’s not been #me for days now.

Mr Harrison said that tools of power, when used imperfectly, ruin good things. Well, that’s what happened to me and #me. The outside world – something so natural and so normal and so beautiful – and it ruined us.

I get really glum now and wish I had more sleeve to scrunch into my fists, because that’s what happened to Sarah too. Our perfect tree and our perfect playground, always so glorious, so adventurous, so magical, the thing that made Sarah so alive, became the very thing that made her dead.

And what have the trees and parks and fields and forests brought me since then? The last time I ventured near them, Mum and Dad found me on my way to meet Sarah. I was on my way to meet Sarah. I was running towards her. I could hear her calling my name. I was screaming hers at the top of my lungs.

I shake myself. Sarah, #me, I can’t think about them here – not in the middle of assembly.

I allow myself one deep breath and tune back in to what Mr Harrison is saying. I don’t know how much I’ve missed.

‘And I think that this is a maxim that runs true in so much of life.’ I kick myself: I don’t know what maxim he’s talking about. ‘Let me give you another example. Now, of course I’m not as clued up on this as you are, but one of my classes has helped me piece the facts together. They were debating the pros and cons of Social Media in society, and they told me about something bizarre called ‘streaks’. Apparently half the teenage population are obsessed by them.’ I kind of was too, but that’s all gone now.

‘A streak, for the benefit of those who don’t know, is the number of consecutive days that you have been in a particular online communication with a specific individual, and they have been in contact back.’ I almost feel like I don’t want to listen. It’s not Mr Harrison’s fault. But, all the same, I’m trying not to think about people.

‘Well, on some level this sounds great: people are just staying in touch. They’re strengthening their relationships every day. They’re being sociable. But what I then asked my students was: if they were being completely honest, what did longer streaks really mean to them, and why did they want them. And, without exception, they all said that an impressively long streak was something to be proud of, and that it helped to prove that they were sociable and popular.’ I start to feel a bit out of breath. I mean, I think what he’s saying makes sense: it does sort of validate you, I guess. But it feels like one of those things that is true, and it’s ok that it’s true – in fact, it’s true for most people – but the truth gets lost in translation when you say it out loud. When you feel it, it makes sense. But when you say it out loud, well, it doesn’t capture the feeling at all. It makes it sound superficial and wrong. I don’t like that. It’s not poetry. Maybe the feeling could be expressed in poetry, but not in a lecture – not something so important. I suddenly notice the image being displayed on the projector screen behind Mr Harrison. It’s the Pause Tech Group poster. It doesn’t make me feel good. Mr Harrison continues,

‘But there’s got to be a problem with this, hasn’t there? Because in this world of streaks, you are constantly in jeopardy of becoming outdated. Everyone wants to be on top, and so everyone keeps on lengthening their streaks. But that means that you live in a state of constant anxiety, always desperate to keep up. Sure, one day a one-hundred-day streak puts you at the top of the social hierarchy. But unless you keep going, within a few days – who knows, maybe even a few hours – soon a one-hundred-day streak is embarrassing. Everyone has overtaken you, and all you can do is feel rubbish. You’ve got no choice; you have to crack on and re-join the rat race.

‘What happens if the power goes out, if your phone breaks, or if you just have too much else to do one day and you can’t stay in touch? How many of us stop doing important things because they get in the way of maintaining this level of intense communication? How many of us get ratty when our parents or brothers or sisters are trying to talk to us, but we’re torn away by this more pressing responsibility of profile maintenance?’ For the first time, I don’t really like what Mr Harrison is saying. I mean, it sounds logical and everything, but I don’t like it. And then there’s that poster.

‘This has got to be a tiring way to live, hasn’t it? It’s dog eat dog, and even sleep is dangerous, because it’s just more time that everyone else could be leaving you behind.’ But that’s not why I don’t sleep too much. Maggy Thatcher lived on three hours sleep a night. We don’t need eight hours. It’s an outdated fact. I’m not passing up good opportunities for less good ones: #me and my blog and the threads they lead to are good opportunities. They’re great ones. It’s where I live. And last week out there, beyond the walls, on the train, in the café, by the river, those weren’t better opportunities. Me and #me weren’t better out there. We weren’t passing anything up when we weren’t meeting. And look what we’ve passed up now because we did.

‘So, some people might say that an impressive streak helps to boost their self-esteem, and that social media, by valuing social correspondence and by making it easier, more efficient and more public, is maximising the chances for you young people to feel good about yourselves. But, not too far beneath the surface, is a dark and disturbing truth: this form of esteem-boosting is not working fast enough to combat the esteem-reducing by-product it is simultaneously creating. In other words, it is creating a huge problem, and then only partially solving it. It’s one step forward, and two steps back every time you send a message or post a picture or share a link. And what is at the heart of this soul-crushing contradiction? It’s that same maxim: when you value quantity over quality, your happiness never lasts. You keep reaching the finish line, only to find that it is no longer where you thought it was. Your eyes are black, and your brain is tired and your body is shaking with palpable anxiety.’

I think of that radio programme from the first day of Sixth Form, back when the summer was still ending, and the autumn hadn’t started waking yet. I don’t agree. My train journey was just a series of prompts that made me unhappy. I don’t value quantity over quality. It’s just that quantity is part of life. I mean, what’s the point of a blog if people don’t read it. What’s the point of a thought if there’s no one to listen to it. That’s not unique to social media. That’s human nature. Surely Mr Harrison can see that. Why is he attacking social media? Why is he attacking the only thing that ever made me happy since Sarah died? Why is he attacking the thing that would have saved Sarah from dying? Why is he doing this? I’m not listening properly now. My head is thinking too much. It really is hard to breathe when the world is breaking.

‘But if you could only value quality over quantity, there would be no competition. Who can judge the quality of your friendship compared to theirs? Who would want to?’

‘And it’s not just our emotions that are being wrecked by this rat race communication; there is a great deal of research that suggests that our brains are being reduced to mush too. Yes, after thousands of years of evolution we are moving the brain backwards.

‘When we concentrate on something, and give it our full and undivided attention, it is more likely to be a success. Imagine you are revising for a test, and then your little brother or little sister starts screaming, or runs into your room, pestering you about something – you lose focus and you get frustrated and agitated and the revision suffers.

‘Ok, now imagine you’re watching something on TV. You are focusing and concentrating, but then you hear a vibration, something pops up on your phone and you check it. Maybe it’s a quick message. Maybe you send off a quick reply. And then maybe you go back to watching the TV programme, but now you don’t recognise what you are watching. Someone’s been shot, and you don’t know who did it or how it happened; you don’t even know if you’re supposed to know who did it or how it happened. And so, you get frustrated, agitated and give up.

‘Now, times this by ten, or a hundred, or a thousand. If it keeps happening when you revise, you end up failing the test, either because you simply end up spending less time on what you were supposed to be doing and more time dealing with the interruption, or because, even if you still spend hours looking at the pages of your text books, your mind can’t really concentrate anymore.’ I keep listening.

‘Well, the same goes with television. Maybe you give up entirely and stop watching TV, or reading books, or talking to your family – whatever it is that is being interrupted by the things popping up on your phone. Or maybe you still do these things, but they get harder and harder to enjoy, and eventually you give up.

‘What is happening here is that the constant interruptions are preventing you from practicing extended concentration. Think of your brain like a sport and concentration like a muscle. If you don’t train it, it gets smaller.’ I keep listening, but I don’t feel good about it at all. I don’t feel like Mr Harrison knows me at all. I mean, he’s my teacher and I don’t need him to know me too well, or in a weird way or anything, but I sort of thought he knew I like listening in his classes, and I like doing well at school.

‘And what is more, whilst reversing your ability to concentrate for longer periods of time, you are also developing a skill, but the skill you are developing works in exact opposition to the one you are giving up. You are developing an impressive skill for maintaining focus on small pieces of information, for short periods of time, back to back, side by side, and over and over. So, you can send a thousand messages a day, so long as they’re short. And you can listen to a thousand things or watch a thousand clips – some even at the same time as others – but just so long as they are equally short and easy to digest.’ I’m taking his lecture pretty personally now. I don’t like how it feels. It’s true, I don’t watch Merlin with Dad and Art, but I have read Paradise Lost twice in six weeks. Surely that has to count for something to someone like Mr Harrison. I don’t feel good at all.

‘So, what are social media, texting, online communication and bite-size videos doing to us? They’re devolving the human brain. They’re taking away our ability to concentrate on meaningful tasks. And therefore, by extension, they are taking away our ability to enjoy meaningful tasks, just like the child opening the present, and thinking immediately of the next one. These modes of communication and forms of entertainment are making us stimulus junkies, who are only ever satisfied by instant blasts of colour. The joy of a message is real, but it does not last. The joy of a five second video clip is real, but it does not last. And so, if this is the only way that your brain is trained to receive happiness, then you are joining a dangerous race. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day has to be filled, and the filling has to keep changing or else we become tolerant to its gratifying effects.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is a drug. We are addicted, and the withdrawal symptoms fill us with so much anxiety that we are too scared to let it go. Where will it end?’ He pauses and lets the question hang in the air for a moment. It feels like it’s doing more than hanging over my head.

‘But, there is hope. You are all still in the unique position in your lives where you have the chance to train your brains. It is so much easier to develop faculties when you are young. And you are not so hooked that you cannot work hard to kick this habit…’

He continues and talks about getting outside, meeting people, forging quality relationships face to face, taking risks, being willing to fail, and all I can picture are two wooden people, walking side by side, seeing the family of ducks hopping down the weir as the sun sets in the distance. I feel like there is a human sized hole in my pocket. Tears begin to well up in my eyes and before I can blink or rub them away, I lose all focus.

Chapter Eight Late Winter 2035 Peter Harrison

When I wake up from my dream in the forest, it is still the middle of the night. I lie awake again, thinking through my plans for the future. I am writing my record, so that whatever else happens I can leave behind something that could make a difference. If I sense the end coming before I am ready, before I have worked out how to instigate something truly defiant, I will send it to everyone I can in the hope they make it viral. Curiosity is the cure. Make people ask the right questions again.

Then there is my dream. I will try to find out anything I can about any kind of outsiders or resistance. If they exist, then once I have uncovered enough information about NewState to be useful, then I will escape and find them, and I will use what I have learned to aid their cause.

The most exciting, and perhaps the most unlikely, idea I have is to find out where the information command centre is - the place where they broadcast messages to every screen in NewState, the daily promotionals, reminders of the greatness of SSC - and here I could send a message to every person in NewState, something that in one fell swoop would get the people thinking again, something that would ignite a change of direction. Not an ending, but a new beginning.

And then there is the future that I feel most compelled towards; the one whose gravitational pull is drawing me ever closer to its centre: somehow, sometime, I will meet Our Leader Day. I am going to work hard to achieve this end. Perhaps I will meet her and try to convince her. Or perhaps I will meet her and try to join her and use my position to execute subtler sabotage. Exactly what I will do I will not know until the moment presents itself, but there is something in this, something important about a face to face, a confrontation, a stand-off. Whatever else works or fails, I feel that this is the end that I am being pulled towards. It feels inevitable in a way that all other outcomes do not.

There is something cyclical in it.

Something undeniable.

Before I fall asleep again, I spend a long time wondering what I would say to Our Leader Day if I was to meet with her, and then what message I would send to every horseshoe screen in NewState if I had the chance.

What could I say to make the greatest impact in the fewest words?

When I settle on something, it makes me smile and my mind eases, and I am able to fall back into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Over the next few weeks, Mary and I resume our old routine, and whatever I have learned and whatever defiance I cling on to, I cannot escape the genuine affection I feel for her and the joy it gives me to spend time with her.

We eat good food alone after the cafeteria is empty. We drink good coffee in the mornings when we wake up together. And we have good conversations when we discuss books, music, simple pleasures.

I continue to feel guilt over our relationship, as much for the sex as for the emotions. I know that my plan makes it ok, that Janine would understand my subterfuge, that she told me to do it, to do whatever it takes, but I also know that I enjoy every minute of it, and whatever Janine would or wouldn’t understand about that doesn’t help me to feel happier with myself.

We have changed a lot, people, Janine and me. We have spent so many years apart, with only the briefest stolen moments to satiate our cravings for love that maybe it is ok for me to feel this way; maybe it would be impossible for me not to fall in love with the only real and beautiful thing that I can see every day, despite still loving Janine with all my heart from so far away. Maybe I would forgive Janine the same thing - surely now I would, knowing what I know, having felt what I feel.

Though it is a weight to bear, this confusion also helps to keep the fire of my hatred for NewState burning: look at what it has made inevitable, acceptable.

One night, at dinner in the cafeteria, we discuss coffee.

‘What was it about cardboard coffee cups that we liked so much?’ she says. ‘I mean, we could make it at home, put it in a travel cup and save three pounds a day, and yet something made the coffee house coffee in a cardboard take out cup so much better. I never understood it, even in myself. And to think of all the rubbish we generated and didn’t recycle!’ It feels strange to hear such passion for our old, abandoned luxuries.

‘There was a coffee house I used to go to,’ I say, ‘where the owners had stencilled quotations on the walls. I always sat by one from Winston Churchill: ‘Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense.’ It always stuck with me. It always kept me going. It sounds silly, but I always thought it helped me to be a good person, someone with integrity.’

‘I like that.’ She pauses, and we just look at each other in the silence.

This is life.

We spend the night together, and when we do, I am unable to write, but my guard is up, and I am being careful not to let it down. Every night I do not write, I go to sleep writing in my head. I won’t forget.

One Sunday afternoon a week later, we go for a walk. At first, I think we are only walking around a garden like the one we often sit in at night, but when we have walked to the back of the perimeter, Janine stops in front of a tangle of Ivy. She takes a key from her pocket. She looks up at my bewildered face and smiles mischievously. She reaches forward and parts the ivy.

‘Here, hold this.’ She hands me the tangle of ivy and then pulls another straggle the opposite way to reveal - I can’t believe it - a door. She puts in the key. It turns with a click. She steps forwards, pushes the door and steps through the ivy archway. She looks back.

‘Well, come on.’ And she disappears. I follow her and cannot believe my eyes when I walk out into a field beyond the boundaries of NewStateHeadQuarters.

‘Mary, wow. Are we allowed? It’s wonderful. But… well…’ I’m lost for words.

‘Oh, Peter,’ she says, playfully tugging me along. ‘Of course we are allowed. You’re with me.’ And she runs off. I let all questions wait and follow her under the faint late winter sun.

Tonight I do not return to Mary’s room, but to my own, and I make up for lost time writing. I write about many moments from my past, and I write about this afternoon in the secret garden outside the secret garden. The extraordinary event, going outside the walls, poses many questions. When she said ‘Of course we are allowed. You’re with me.’ what did that mean? Is anyone allowed? Does everyone have a key? Was she really allowed to take me? She evaded the question, but I got the feeling that this wasn’t normal practice. She seemed… what was it?... reckless, impulsive, romantic.

I do not know, but something was different, and it was wonderful.

As another few weeks go by, I sense this change in Mary’s behaviour continue. We go through the door behind the ivy again, and one Sunday we spend the whole day outside, even falling asleep under a tree despite the seasonal cold.

I continue to write in the evenings, documenting everything but now unable to analyse it with clarity. Something is shifting in our dynamic and it does not feel safe to ask questions: if this change in Mary is senseless abandon then I don’t want her to revert because I start questioning her. If it is a reaction to the stresses of her work, equally I do not want to provoke an argument.

No, disconcerting though it may be, I have to accept that I am playing a long game now. If it takes me months to settle in, so long as I continue to write and continue to maintain my guard then it is time well spent. I know now that this defiance cannot be rushed. We evolved into the new world, and we will have to evolve out of it too. And evolution takes time.

One night, just as I am falling asleep with Mary lying next to me, I hear her begin to cry. I turn over to look at her, but she keeps her back to me.

‘No, Peter. It is ok. Just hold me, please. Just hold me.’

And I hold her.

I comfort her.

Though I do not know what from.

Three nights later, I dream of Janine, and it is me who wakes up crying.

I am in that imaginary future that has now passed me by, or maybe still lies ahead. I am in the Outsider camp with Janine, and I can feel that I am about to go through with something significant. I am scared and anxious about what will happen when I open my mouth. My palms are sweaty though we are sat out in the cold. Janine is next to me. We have been asleep - the first real time we have been alone since we got here, since we fled the city.

I open my eyes fully and judging by the position of the sun it is moving towards late afternoon. After our week of travelling and the little sleep it afforded, we all but collapsed after our midday meal. I am slouched comfortably in a deep camping chair, and it feels good to wake with the cool, nearly spring air on my face. I turn over and realise that Janine is sat next to me, her head resting on my shoulder. She must have felt me startle awake. She squeezes my hand and I am reminded of how good it is to wake up next to the person you love. That makes what I must do so much harder. I realise what I am about to do and feel anxiety begin to swell in the pit of my stomach. I brace myself.

‘Janine,’ I say before I realise I am saying it. ‘Janine, I have to tell you something. Before anything else, there is something you have to know.’ She does not move to look at me. She remains with her head resting on my shoulder as we both look out at the movement of the others around the campsite.

‘What is it, Peter?’

‘When I was in there, in NewStateHeadQuarters.’ I brace myself. ‘Janine, when I was in there I got to know someone. I got to know them intimately.’ As I pause, she doesn’t respond. We just go on looking ahead. ‘Janine, I got pulled in. I realised, even before I got the message from James, that I’d lost my way, that I’d started to believe that NewState could be the place for us, all of us. I learnt a lot in there, Janine, things we didn’t know before, things that could turn a weak mind, someone desperate for reprieve – things that are so close to being acceptable that it is hard to tell where philosophy ends and rhetoric begins. But, there aren’t any excuses, Janine. I could tell you that I was doing it to get closer to the inside, and I suppose that was part of the reason, but it wasn’t the reason that it was so easy. I was drawn to her, Mary, and despite her position, her beliefs, I was drawn to her, and I’m so sorry Janine. I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough to wait, even if the revolution never comes, and I had to spend my whole life waiting to live a normal life with you again and it never came. I am sorry that I was not strong enough to wait.’ I stop speaking. I feel a weight lift from deep within, not enough to forgive myself or forget what I have done, but a weight nonetheless.

She says nothing for ten minutes. We stare into the distance. I watch our breaths in the cold air. Waiting.

When she speaks, still looking into the distance, still holding me, resting her head on my shoulder as if nothing had changed, her voice is quiet. ‘Peter, I told you to do what you had to do in there. You may not have had to do it for the reasons I meant, but how can I think that I would not have done the same. The world has not been what it was, and perhaps it never will be again.’

‘But Janine. I’m so sorry. The world may have changed but that does not mean that we should have changed. That doesn’t make it right. No amount of emotion makes it right.’ It does not feel strange to be convincing her of my guilt; she should not feel obliged to accept my infidelity, not so easily.

‘Do you want to be with me Peter?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘And if she, Mary, if she were here now and you had to choose one of us, knowing that whoever you picked that the other would be lost to you forever, who would you choose?’

There is no question in my mind. I still feel drawn to Mary Hain, even now. It was not just a relationship of convenience. She was not simply an intellectual hope in a world of despair. And maybe in another life she could have been my Janine. But she is not. And if I had to choose right now, I would choose Janine. It would not be easy, but I know that is who I would choose. And so, I choose.

‘You. Always you,’ I say, meaning every word.

‘Then it is me you have.’

‘But surely. Janine, it cannot be that easy.’

‘It is not easy. It is only inevitable. I love you Peter and you love me. What use is there, given the state of things, to waste any more time on it than that? In time you may tell me the details, but for now, we have a home to think about, and, I think, quite a lot more besides.’

‘Janine, I love you.’

‘I love you, Peter. Just try not to be an ass for a while, and don’t let me catch you looking sideways at anyone, or I might drop kick you back to face whatever it is you’d face if you returned to NewStateHeadQuarters.’ She smiles. I cannot believe it, but she smiles. I can feel the movement of her cheeks on my shoulder where they rest. We continue to hold each other for a long time, looking at the birds and the sunlight and the trees.

I wake up, no longer in that mythological reality.

I lie awake for some time wondering. I feel that a weight has lifted - as if this dreaming confession and forgiveness has lightened the burden of my guilt. I don’t know when - if - I will ever see Janine again, so I suppose in some way this is the best confession I can hope for.

I wonder if Janine would really react the way she did in the dream. Would she really be so forgiving so quickly? Have we become so distant over years of almost total separation that she would no longer truly feel the hurt in the way she would have done a decade ago? Have we become so emotionless that my confession would be little more than a twist in a good book?

I hope not. I think I would rather Janine’s scorn than accept her forgiveness on the premise that we no longer had the capacity to care the way we used to.

I want her forgiveness, of course I do. And I think our love is strong enough that she could give it. But I would not want it on these terms.

Still, the dream has lifted some of the weight I bear.

I allow myself to drift off again, repeating my confession to Janine over and over the way people used to pray to God.