A User's Guide to Make-Believe

by Jane Alexander

  ‘I know what you mean. I am real, though, I promise.’

  She gave his arm a mock-punch, prompting a yelp. ‘Just testing. Maybe it’s not like a dream up here. More like something from Make-Believe.’

  ‘Except in Make-Believe there would be no DANGER. No currents.’

  ‘And you’d be able to breathe underwater.’

  ‘And I’d probably swap the ducks for mermaids.’

  ‘Oh, you would?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? Perched round the edges. Bobbing up to say hello.’ He waved at the water, sandwich in hand, at the ducks and gulls and moorhens sailing on the surface. ‘I think they’d enrich the scene.’

  ‘Sure. Very enriching.’ She picked up an apple, polished it on the hem of her vest. She could stay here for ever, just her and the water. It was hard to believe there were fish in there, and currents that wanted to drag you down, invisible under the bright, smooth surface. It was hard to believe that the first time she’d seen Lewis, his shorts had offended her so. Now she let herself look at him, muscles and brown skin, easy and healthy and strong, propped back on his elbows, legs bent in front of him. When they were together she felt that, somehow, things were going to be OK; she liked the thought that being with her might make him feel the same.

  ‘Do you iron them?’ she asked.

  ‘What? My shorts? Course I don’t iron them. They come out of the wash like that. They’re technical.’

  ‘Ah. Technical.’

  ‘You should get some.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my shorts?’ She looked down at her legs, her denim cut-offs.

  ‘Can’t be that comfy in the saddle.’

  ‘Yeah, but they didn’t cost a hundred quid, so …’ Immediately she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She sounded chippy, and she hadn’t meant to. He had bought the picnic; he’d been keeping her in dinner, and breakfast, and it was out of order to throw it back at him like that.

  ‘You do look good in them, though,’ she said, trying to make amends. ‘So I guess they’re worth it.’

  ‘They totally are. They last for ever – and they’re seam-free. No chafing.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I’m finding them strangely less attractive now.’

  ‘I’ll just shut up, I think.’

  ‘Good idea. Less talking. More eating.’ She handed him the apple she’d been shining, chose another for herself, and began to twist the stalk. A, B, C – an old game, one she used to play with Meg. Each twist was a letter, and when the stalk fell off you had the first initial of the man you were going to marry. It was a loaded game, of course. You had to master a really vicious twist-and-tug to get yourself an A, and otherwise you were stuck with a Dave or an Ed, a Fraser or a Greig. H, I, J – the stalk came free before she reached L-for-Lewis. Kevin, Kieran, Khaled, whatever. Then for the surname you tapped the stalk against the fruit till the skin broke, but she couldn’t be bothered with that. The whole game was ridiculous. She dropped the stalk, crunched into the apple. Chewed, swallowed. Turned to Lewis.

  ‘You know what you were saying a while back. About Imagen losing subscribers.’

  Lewis stared at her.

  ‘And about, if we knew something that Imagen didn’t want us to know?’

  He frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about that.’

  ‘I know. It’s just, you put it in my head, I suppose.’ She waited for him to speak, but he stayed silent. ‘Were you serious about it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Like, serious about using it, if we had something to bargain with.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said instantly. ‘Yeah. Absolutely.’

  ‘Even knowing how much of a risk you’d be taking? You know what they did to me … that doesn’t put you off?’

  He stared out across the reservoir. Shook his head.

  ‘And all so you can get back to Make-Believe?’

  Lewis shrugged. Finished his second sandwich, and started on the apple she’d given him.

  How come? That’s what she wanted to ask. What could make it worth the risk – worth risking everything? Was it anything to do with the woman whose bike she was riding? But every question she asked, every answer he gave, allowed him an opening in return. So she swallowed her curiosity.

  ‘Thing is,’ she said, ‘your idea about the drop in user figures? That those lost subscribers could be like us, that Imagen could be cutting them off? Well, I don’t think it can be like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s the scale of it. All those hundreds of people, maybe a thousand of them. How could Imagen keep that quiet? All it would take is one single person to post something online, and it’s out there.’

  Lewis looked reluctant: he could see the sense in what she was saying, and she knew he didn’t want to.

  ‘I’m not saying we’re the only two people who’ve been blacklisted,’ she went on. ‘Like you said, that’s too much of a coincidence. I know there must be more of us. But I can’t believe there’s that many.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Maybe not. But even if there’s another fifty of us – even another ten – that’s got to be serious, still. Otherwise why would they be so keen to make sure nobody knows?’

  ‘Yeah. I guess so.’ It was her turn to be unconvinced. ‘And – if not … there might be something else, I suppose. Some other thing they don’t want to shout about.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  She shook her head, gazed out at the water, at an upside-down puff of cloud drifting across the surface. ‘Just thinking. Nothing particular.’

  It was nothing she could explain. It was what she’d seen in Alan – that gesture – in the leap of his hand to his head. In the wound behind his ear. The girl with the ponytail, rubbing, scratching. A question, too unformed for words; a glimmer of a connection, between Alan and Make-Believe.

  ‘You could be right, though,’ Lewis was saying. ‘There’s loads of stuff they wouldn’t want anyone looking at too closely – I’d imagine, anyway.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘The kind of stuff people must get up to in Make-Believe. You know, they make such a big thing about it not being moderated – the only limit is you, and all that. And the advertising’s all, “Be a rock star, visit the moon”, but the subtext – is that the right word?’

  ‘Maybe. Depends what you’re trying to say …’

  ‘Well – they don’t come out and say, “Live out your darkest, most illegal sexual fantasies”, for instance, or “Murder your boss with impunity” – but that’s part of it. And everyone knows it, but it’s not real so it doesn’t matter. But imagine if they had to release details of what everyone was getting up to.’

  ‘I mean, the data’s anonymised, so it wouldn’t be like unmasking the paedophile next door, kind of thing. And there’s less of the illegal stuff than you might think. Even with something so immersive, most people retain an awareness of – not of being watched, exactly, but of the possibility of being watched. But yeah, the categories we use – they use – for data mining and analysis: some of them are pretty disturbing. Wouldn’t reflect well on the company. But if it’s fantasy it’s not illegal, is it. You could say Make-Believe provides a safe outlet for those kinds of urges. That’s their argument, anyway.’ Cassie took a last bite of her apple. Normally she would have eaten the lot, left only the stalk, but today the dark seeds nestling in pale flesh made her think of cockroaches breeding inside her walls. She dropped her core, and reached for the flask. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Please. So – what’s the worst thing you’ve done?’

  ‘Ow!’ Cassie passed him a flask-lid cup, and blew on her hand where she’d splashed herself. ‘In Make-Believe?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll share mine, if you share yours.’

  She knew instantly; she just didn’t know if she would confess it. The memory that still shamed her – in the visceral details of what she’d done, and in how it would be categorised (Violence >> killing >> mammal; blood – with no record of the remorse she�
�d felt). But perhaps Lewis would laugh. Perhaps the whole thing would lighten, become a silly joke.

  ‘I killed a cat,’ she said.

  ‘A cat? Why would you kill a cat?’

  ‘It was – I’d been working on data segmentation, and it’s like we were saying, some of the categories … Rape, murder, torture. Physical violence, psychological violence. And you could see patterns: like with a small amount of people it was all the time, every day, that was just how they used Make-Believe, but others, it was more like a one-off. Just trying it out. Like someone asking themselves: I wonder what it feels like to murder someone?’ She glanced at Lewis; he nodded slightly. She cleared her throat, and carried on. ‘I wanted to see if I could understand – why you would do something like that. But not with a human, I couldn’t … It’s not in me. And now I think, thank God at least I didn’t – because even though it’s Make-Believe …’ She took a sip of tea. It had a plastic taste from the thermos. ‘It’s like, you haven’t really done it – but you’ve still done it. I’m not … I don’t want to go into details.’ (A cry like the scream of a terrified child; the sick crack, the soft give of its skull under the iron bar; the caved fur, and the blood, and the staved-in eye still staring—) ‘But that’s what I did, and that’s why I did it. I had to force myself, and afterwards …’ She swiped a hand through the air in front of her. ‘I wiped it clean, completely clean. The mess, the … remains. Then I Make-Believed it alive again; but I still felt like I’d killed it.’

  ‘You wish you hadn’t done it,’ said Lewis, and she nodded. ‘But it’s OK. I’m not judging.’ Then he did exactly what she’d hoped; he made a joke. ‘To be honest, I’m not much of a cat person myself.’

  Her laugh was unconvincing. ‘That’s the stupid thing,’ she said. ‘I really am. That’s why I chose a cat – to make it harder, more like a person. And I tell you what else: Pita knows. She can see straight into my soul – and it doesn’t matter how many extra biscuits I feed her. But, so – if you’re not a cat person – why do you have a cat?’

  ‘Yeah – I kind of inherited her.’ He held out his apple core. ‘Do you think it’s OK to chuck this in the water?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  He threw it instead into the long grass behind them. Snapped off some chocolate.

  ‘Your turn,’ she said.

  ‘Alright, well – I didn’t kill anyone. Or any thing. But maybe it was worse, what I did.’ He looked at her, and there was a hardness in his expression. A distance she hadn’t seen before. ‘I hurt someone.’

  ‘Hurt them. You mean …?’

  ‘I’m not going into details,’ he echoed, ‘but – badly, yes. And slowly. Intentionally. He deserved it.’ He shrugged, drained his flask lid.

  ‘And – do you wish you hadn’t?’

  ‘I don’t wish anything, one way or the other. It made no difference. To anything. But I wouldn’t do it again.’

  For a minute they were quiet, staring at the deep glittering water. Then Cassie shook her hair back from her face. ‘Worse things happen at sea,’ she said. She wanted to wash it off, their whole conversation. ‘I might go for a swim.’

  ‘No, don’t. Please don’t.’

  ‘Look. It’s like a mirror. There’s no way it’s dangerous.’

  ‘Cassie, come on. If you go in and there’s a current and it drags you down, I’ve got to go in after you, and I really don’t want to drown.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to rescue me. On my own head be it.’

  ‘Yeah, but I would. You can see that, right?’

  Reluctantly, she supposed she could. ‘Uch, really?’

  ‘Anyway, where’s your costume?’

  She shot him a slow learner look.

  ‘Oh. Well, maybe I wouldn’t mind if you had just a little swim, right at the edge … stop it!’ Cassie’s apple core bounced off his chest, followed by a scrunched-up sandwich wrapper. ‘Hey, listen: I’m sorry, though. All that … I didn’t mean to bring us down. But I like that we can talk about this stuff.’

  ‘About … skinny dipping? Murdering cats? Acting out scenes from Reservoir Dogs?’ She broke him off another piece of chocolate.

  ‘All of that. And about us, and Imagen, and Make-Believe. I suppose,’ he said, mouth full, ‘it’s meeting you that’s made me think – maybe, I can get it back. Reclaim it. You know, I can either sit here running my mouth off, or I can do something. Find something to bargain with.’

  ‘What kind of something?’

  ‘I guess – try to find any other users like us, anyone who’s been blacklisted. That’s what I need to figure out: how do I find those people.’

  ‘You could try visiting all the support groups in the country – same way you found me.’

  Lewis laughed. ‘Everyone gets their one coincidence,’ he said. ‘Can’t see that working again. But – I know it’s a long shot. I’m open to any better ideas …?’ He paused, and when she said nothing: ‘Well. I can do it on my own, if I have to.’

  ‘More chocolate?’

  ‘But if there was two of us …’

  ‘I’ll pack it away, shall I – and the flask, if you’re finished?’

  ‘Cassie.’ He moved the flask out of her reach. ‘Stop for a minute, and just … Look, do you think you’d help me?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know – if you had any contacts, still, at Imagen—’

  She thought of Harrie – of all her former colleagues, the only one she could call a friend – and shook her head. ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Or if you could remember anything that might help, from when you were working there, or if you had any ideas for finding people like us – or like you said just now, there might be some completely different thing they want to keep quiet – anything that could be a way in.’

  ‘I can have a think. I don’t know whether there’s anything …’

  ‘Even just knowing you’re with me. You’re on my side. So it’s not just me, David up against Goliath.’

  Cassie stretched for the flask. Screwed on the lid, and tugged to tighten it up. ‘D’you believe in that?’

  He laughed. ‘No. You?’

  ‘Nope. But belief doesn’t matter.’ She began fitting everything neatly back into the pannier. ‘People like to support the underdog because they identify with the weaker, the smaller, the upstart. We’re all acutely conscious of our vulnerability. Deep down we know we are tiny, we are nothing; we cling to anything that gives us hope that we might be more than we are. That it’s possible for us to achieve beyond our ability, beyond expectations. Pass me the sandwich wrappers? So, we’re all David.’

  He was staring at her, mouth half-open. ‘Sure you’re not Goliath?’

  ‘Ha.’ She cracked a lopsided smile. ‘I’m definitely David.’

  ‘OK, David – what about you?’

  ‘About me, what?’

  ‘Miss U-turn. You said it was me put ideas in your head – about Imagen. So what are they getting up to in there?’

  She didn’t know, not really. But it seemed like both Lewis and Alan needed the same thing from her: to dig around Imagen, looking for – what? Something not quite right. It was as vague as that.

  ‘Oh – scuttling about a bit. Finding some friends, maybe.’

  He gave her a quizzical look. Reached out and, playfully, with one finger, tapped her forehead. His touch echoed through her: dot dot dot. A familiar chord, played just out of tune.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Even if she hadn’t been breaking the rules, Cassie would have felt uneasy.

  The Employee shall not contact, directly or indirectly, for any purpose, any persons employed by Imagen Research …

  As she shut the gate behind her, walked up the path to Harrie’s front door, she ducked her head under the too-big, drizzly sky. It was bungalow-land round here, dormered villas with double garages, back gardens stretching for ever. The doorbell seemed to announce her arrival to the whole cul-de-sac.

  ‘Come in, come in
– you’re wet!’ Harrie swung the door wide, opened her arms. ‘Thanks for trekking all the way out to the suburbs.’

  Over the last few days the weather had settled into a dull, steady rain. Cassie kicked off her damp trainers before she set foot in the cream-carpeted hallway, followed Harrie into the kitchen. ‘Here, I brought house-warming biscuits. Cardamom and something.’

  Harrie put on a stern face. ‘Hobnobs would have been fine, you know.’

  ‘Well, you’re providing the tea …’ Harrie was right, the biscuits had been expensive – but that was OK. She still had enough cash, just about, to last her the rest of the week.

  ‘I’ll give you the guided tour in a bit, but sit down and let’s have some tea first.’ Harrie pulled out a chair for her at the table, set out a tea set that looked straight out of the 1960s, and sat down opposite. ‘It’s been ages,’ she said.

  ‘Ages,’ agreed Cassie. She’d seen Harrie just once in the six months since Ayesha was born. They’d gone for coffee in town, and Harrie had insisted on paying. ‘But then you’ve had your hands full. The kids, the move …’

  ‘Just a bit! You’re looking good, you know.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ Cassie looked down at herself, and shrugged.

  ‘No, but you are! Not your clothes, there’s nothing wrong with your clothes but it’s not them. It’s your skin. It’s your face.’ She stopped, looked at Cassie from over her specs. ‘Cassie McAllister. Have you been getting some?’

  Cassie tried for an indignant look, but at the same time she was smiling. She couldn’t help it.

  ‘Oh my God, you are!’ Harrie dissolved into laughter – a kind of overtired, uncontrollable giggling that set Cassie off too.

  ‘Stop it!’ The command came from the kitchen doorway, a small outraged voice. ‘Mummy, stop laughing!’

  Harrie pressed her lips together, turned her mouth down at the corners, but her shoulders were still shaking as she held out her arms to her daughter. ‘Why, don’t you like it when Mummy laughs?’