The Evidence

by Christopher Priest

  ‘The fifth, indeed. My name is Frejah Harsent, which you will know is not a Salayean name. I was born Frejah Garten. Harsent is my married name. I left Salay Hames when I was six years old: for some reason my parents decided to move here to Dearth. Because I grew up here I see Dearth and its peculiarities as a kind of normal, and to me it has always been home.’

  ‘Well, I was born on Salay Raba, the fourth, and still live there. That also seems normal to me.’

  ‘That’s where the money is.’

  ‘On Raba? Maybe – there’s a huge financial centre, but none of the money comes anywhere near me.’

  ‘Then that’s a peculiarity too, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘I’m a writer. Money doesn’t really come into it.’

  She told me about her background, and the reason for her interest in crime. ‘When I went to university I began by reading social history,’ she said, ‘but after a few weeks I discovered criminology, and switched courses. I gained a good degree in the subject. After I left university I thought I should go into law, since most of the books I read had been written by lawyers. That didn’t work out, though, so I moved into something else. I’m still interested in crime, and read a lot of mysteries, the sort of books you write.’

  For someone I had only just met she was remarkably forthcoming about herself, and I began to wonder if I had met her before. Maybe at the pre-lecture drinks party? I had not been there long, but I had spoken to several people, a whirl of introductions and short conversations. I did not recall her, but then I did not recall anyone else apart from the two young people who were my interlocutors.

  ‘No, I wasn’t at the party,’ she said, when I tentatively asked her. ‘I’m not a member of the faculty, and in fact I’m no longer connected at all with the university. I saw your keynote speech announced online, and because I had read a couple of your crime novels I sent off for a ticket.’

  ‘So there is still an interest in crime, here on Dearth?’ I said.

  ‘Very much so, but these days crime goes by another name.’

  I waited for her to say more about that, but it was the end of a long day and I was tired of the whole thing. I did not press her. When she continued to tell me about herself I was content to let her.

  She told me she was a widow – her husband had died nine years earlier. She said she read thrillers and mysteries for recreation, but not just those, she added. She described some biographies she had read recently. They were of Dearth notables, but I had not heard of them. I guessed she was about fifteen years older than me. She took her drink in small sips, but at frequent intervals. We ordered another round. I was impressed by her: she had a calm, steady manner that made her seem in control, but this was sometimes belied by the way she spoke. Much of what she said, at least in those first few minutes, was questioning, enquiring. I felt she was used to asking questions.

  She asked me about my work. I was always guarded about this when meeting someone, but I told her a little, where I worked, when and for how long in a day, what I was writing at the moment. I told her something about Jo, the many years we had shared together, the contentment of a long relationship. I described where we lived: it was a large single-storey house on one of the coast roads to the north of Raba City. It was on the edge of one of the largest nature parks on Raba, a vast area of undeveloped tropical forest that spread across most of the width of that part of the island.

  We ordered more drinks – she switched to the Salay wine, which she said she had not tried before. The logs in the stove settled, sparks flew, a feeling of relaxed ease came over me. I cannot remember everything we talked about then. It was just an agreeable conversation between two people who had recently met. I remember asking Frejah Harsent about her present life, but all she would say was that she was semi-retired, past the official age of retirement. There was a project she was working on that she wanted to see through to a conclusion. Something about a colleague. The seigniory was keeping her on until then. She gave no details.

  The conversation drifted back to crime fiction. She wanted to know where ideas came from, how they could be constructed into a story. This is the question many writers are not only frequently asked, but often ask themselves. There is no easy or satisfactory answer. Certainly, in my own experience, working with ideas is a largely instinctive process, one you hardly recognize until afterwards. That isn’t what most people expect as an answer.

  I was worried that this was moving into chancy ground, somewhere by habit I trod carefully. Frejah Harsent had mentioned she had a degree in criminology – a warning sign. It sometimes happens that when meeting someone socially, and they discover what I do for a living, they start telling me stories of their own brushes with the law. A stolen wallet, an intruder into a neighbour’s house, an unfair conviction for driving too fast. That sort of thing. Sometimes I heard about incompetent police investigations, or brilliant and effective policing. The unfairness of magistrates or judges, or an unexpectedly sympathetic judgement. Not uninteresting in themselves, these anecdotes are commonplace but they do not suggest a plot for a novel I might like to write one day,

  I veered her gently away from that. But why did I write crime fiction? she asked

  I said: ‘Crime is something people fear. It’s a low-level fear, because ordinary people, that is, those outside the criminal fraternity, never really believe it will happen to them. But it does strike, and seemingly at random, and it’s always a disagreeable experience. Even what the courts treat as a minor felony can ruin your life. You hear about crime that happens to other people, or was witnessed by someone you know. Or you live in the same street or town where something awful takes place. It’s ever-present, but largely invisible. And crime has mysteries. Who did this terrible thing? And why? What was the motive? Will whoever it was be caught? How should they be punished if so?

  ‘Writing crime fiction is a way of trying to answer those questions. Most real crime is stupidly motivated, committed by unhappy or vulnerable people who have drug or alcohol problems, and often based on a grudge. Usually an unreasonable one. Many petty criminals have chronic mental health issues. This of course is not how most victims want to see it. They see crime as wilfully evil and they call for justice, when what they often mean is revenge.

  ‘But the elaborately planned murder of a wealthy victim in the conservatory of a remote country house, or any of the other classic scenarios of mysteries and thrillers, are the fantasies of fiction writers like me.’

  I was starting to talk too much, a sure sign that I should stop drinking. The time had gone steadily by, and now we were coming towards the end of the evening.

  Because I believed my wristwatch had suddenly become unreliable I asked Frejah Harsent the time. Her watch showed exactly the same time as mine – the sweep second hand was even in an identical position. It was late.

  I was astonished by the weird behaviour of my watch.

  ‘It’s a consequence of mutability,’ Frejah said. ‘A minor one. Everyone on the island is affected by it in the same way, so it never matters. Almost every clock, timepiece and digital gadget is synchronized to a central chronometer. They automatically update when it’s needed. If you’re ever unsure of the time there are public clocks in every street, but your watch is just as reliable.’

  ‘How can the time on Dearth ever be objectively accurate? If it’s constantly changing, does it fall out of synchronization with other islands, with other parts of the world?’

  ‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘If it’s out of synch with other places, it makes no practical difference unless you’re actually there. But when you travel anywhere you always use local time.’

  ‘I have to catch a train tomorrow morning,’ I said. ‘It’s supposed to leave at 10.30 a.m. What happens if the clocks change between now and then?’

  ‘That’s the sleeper service to Tristcontenta? The changes in time have no effect. The train will leave when the clocks say 10.30.’ She drained the rest of her glass. ‘Just rely on your
watch and turn up at the station in the usual way. You should be more worried about the food on the train.’

  ‘The food is awful,’ I said. ‘A real problem.’

  ‘It’ll be worse tomorrow. Most of the train company’s onboard chefs have gone on strike, and so are the people who refill the vending machines in the train corridors. If you want to eat, take your own food.’

  ‘How could I do that?’ I said. I was suddenly filled with dread: the two-day journey took on the aspect of a nightmare.

  ‘The hotel would prepare some meal packs. The strikes are a regular problem on the trains, so the hotel has a carry-out service for travellers.’

  ‘Expensive, though?’

  ‘Without a doubt. But beautifully prepared.’ She put down her empty wineglass and stood up. I did too, feeling unsteady. ‘On the other hand,’ she said. ‘A thought has occurred to me. You’re presumably heading for the airport. I’m planning to drive to the north part of the island tomorrow, and could almost certainly get you to the Hub the next day, in time for your flight. There are at least two flights to Salay in the evenings.’

  ‘That would a terrible imposition on you,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘Of course you could. It’s a long drive, and I’d welcome some company. Once out of the city and beyond the mountains the road is dull. I’d enjoy having a passenger. I know of several restaurants on the way, and there are a couple of good enough places to stay about halfway along.’

  I continued to protest mildly, but also half heartedly, because an alternative to that interminable train journey was tempting.

  We agreed to meet in Reception after breakfast. She added there would be no need for the bulky outer clothes. We walked together to the elevators – her room was on the fourth floor, while mine was of course two storeys above.

  I had drunk more than I realized. I lurched against her as we turned into the elevator block, and she helped me back upright with a swift, strong movement. I leant against the wall while we waited for the elevator car to arrive, and I stumbled as we entered. I said sorry several times, I hadn’t realized how long we had been in the bar, I didn’t normally drink as much as this. She laughed. The metal walls of the elevator car, the carpeted floor, seemed to be circling. Frejah was not as intoxicated as me. I held the hand rail as the elevator swished upwards. On the fourth floor she bade me goodnight. I continued on up. Suddenly aware of being alone I leaned drunkenly into one of the mirrors, abashed at my grotesque and dishevelled appearance.

  When the elevator stopped and the doors opened I made it out into the hallway without stumbling. I set off towards my room with a determined air, weaving from side to side.

  Inevitably, I went wrong and had to retrace my steps. I returned past the elevator block, and this time found the correct corridor. I had to lean down beside each door to peer closely at the room number, inscribed in small letters beside the electronic lock. I was embarrassed by how drunk I had become. I was wondering what regrettable nonsense I might have been saying to that intelligent and interesting woman. I felt blank about her. For a few moments I could not even recall her name.

  I found my door, rammed in the electronic key and lurched inside. Every light in the room was on. As I closed the door behind me, the television screen lit up with brightly saturated colours. Music was playing loudly, people were moving and laughing.

  Befuddled, I stared around. I had a distinct, pedantic memory of switching everything off, and before closing the door throwing the master switch. I was confused, annoyed. Had I returned to the room at some point and turned on the lights again? A memory lapse? But once the woman had joined me, I had not left the table in the bar, beside the fire.

  Something was buzzing irritatingly. I turned, tried to focus. There was a digital display embedded in the body of the door, next to the lock. I had never noticed it before, presumably because it had not been activated. I concentrated, leaned forward, looked closely. It said:

  Exit and re-enter your room immediately, using only the authorized electronic key. Statutory penalty for improper use of mutability procedures: Th 100.

  The key I was holding in my hand was the red-bordered white card, the one I had been instructed never to use except when told to by a member of staff. I felt momentarily resentful of the complication they had created, which I would be penalized for. Why did they make things so difficult for people late at night?

  I swallowed, tried to take control of myself again. With deliberate motions I reached deep into my pocket, swapped one key card for the other, then returned to the corridor and closed the door behind me. I counted to ten, glancing furtively from side to side along the corridor. I was unobserved. I slipped in the correct key with precise, over-elaborate care.

  Inside the room the lights were off again, the television was dark and silent, as I was convinced I had left them. I pushed my hand against the master switch, then I turned on the other light switches by the door. The room filled with light.

  I was embarrassed by my blurry physical condition, but also vexed by this hotel and its weird systems and warnings. Was every hotel in town as obsessively, inscrutably, bizarrely restrictive as the Dearth Plaza? There must be a crummy one-star pension located near the train station, or the bus depot, where guests could come and go as they pleased, leave on the TV when they went to the bar. Maybe if I had owned up to Prof Wendow from the start that I was not an academic of his ilk, nor even the holder of a degree, I might have ended up in such a place.

  I used the toilet. I filled the hand basin with clear, cold water, then splashed it over my head. I took off the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower cubicle. I ran a warm spray over me. Across the bathroom space I could see myself reflected in one of the wall mirrors. With concentration I stared across at myself critically – I was looking overweight, unhealthy, my skin was blotchy. When I was at home I always thought I looked better than this. Maybe it was hotels with their unforgiving lighting, their mirrors in places you did not expect them to be. That was an excuse, I knew, but there was a tiny truth in it. I flexed my stomach muscles, tried to pull them in. I had eaten too much, but also drunk far too much. The words threaded repetitively through my mind. I stood there in the shower spray, staring at myself in the mirror and wondering what kind of impression I must have made on the Harsent woman. Harsent – Frejah! Her name came back to me now. She told me always to call her Frejah.

  It was so late now, even by my unreliable watch. I towelled myself dry, then pulled on the flannelette robe the hotel supplied. I loved the feeling of luxury from the sumptuously soft robe, knowing the one-star pension located by the bus depot would not have such a thing.

  I opened my laptop, connected it to the hotel wifi. This time I did not have to accept the Terms and Conditions, but a panel came on to warn of Broadband Mutability. During the evening it appeared that the risk level had risen from 6 per cent to 47 per cent. I logged on anyway. I was missing Jo.

  I started typing a brief email to her. All I wanted to say was that I was at last about to go to bed, and that because the return train journey was affected by strikes I had accepted an offer of a car ride to the airport. I should be home as planned.

  But the keyboard, or the software, or the email provider, was playing up again. The letter ‘h’ was still not registering normally, nor was the letter ‘s’. I pressed on, trying to find a workaround, other ways of saying what I meant. Soon the letter ‘c’ became unusable, and almost immediately after that the ‘J’. I could not even type her name. When I looked up at the email address I had used, that too was incorrect. The letter ‘t’ disappeared while I was trying.

  I gave up. I glanced at the emails in the inbox, skimmed recent social posts, then turned off the computer and put it and my phone on to charge overnight.

  I returned to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I drank some cold water, climbed into bed, lay down, did not even try to read for a while. I turned out all the lights.

  5

 
; The Money Trap

  Breakfast was a tentative matter. I chose carefully, took small portions, drank plenty of tea. I swallowed a paracetamol tablet. My head started to clear, but slowly. For a few more hours I would be suffering physical stiffness, mental sloth. This I knew. I did not see Frejah Harsent in the restaurant.

  I returned to Room 627. Remembering what Frejah had said I packed my outdoor clothes into the larger case, put everything else into the smaller one. I exited the room, first scrupulously checking the lights to be sure everything was off. I threw the master switch as I left.

  There were two short lines of guests queuing by the reception desk, so I waited my turn before requesting the account. The young woman at the desk ordered the bill from the computer and presented it to me without expression. I looked at it in horror and disbelief: it was immense, and ran to two pages. The total amount at the end was unbelievable.

  I said: ‘What currency is this?’

  ‘Muriseayan thaler. Would you prefer it converted, citizen sir?’

  I considered quickly. The currency used on Salay was the Aubracian talent, but the rate of exchange between the talent and the thaler was notoriously poor.

  ‘Into simoleons, please,’ I said. This was the currency used for general trade across the Dream Archipelago. It was the accepted currency within the publishing industry. All my book contracts were drawn up using simoleon amounts and rates, and the literary agent invariably sent me payment in that currency. I was used to it, knew instinctively what it was worth.

  The simoleon was the old standard currency. It had been in use for centuries when most of the main clearing banks were established on the island of Muriseay, but in recent years, because of the flourishing finance sector on Salay Raba, the Aubracian talent had become the new standard for banking and trade. As a result the simoleon had evolved in effect into a virtual currency. I had never seen an actual simoleon banknote or coin – nor had anyone else I knew who used them. It was accepted as a universal legal tender, but only a handful of the more remote islands were thought to still use it as practical money.