A User's Guide to Make-Believe

by Jane Alexander

  It was real. And what that meant—

  Everything. It meant everything. It changed everything.

  It meant that when she’d sat on a bench outside Alan’s ward at Raphael House, and Make-Believed – when that technicolour shift had made her think there must have been an upgrade, or a glitch – that afternoon, what she’d taken for Make-Believe had been real. The Alan she’d lost to madness had been there with her, and Make-Believe nothing more than the place where she had found him.

  And it meant that from then on, every time she’d Believed him, it had been real: shared, and shaped by them both. She didn’t know how this could be true, but it was. It was true. She was certain of that.

  ‘Mum, look, it’s cool!’ The boy was still grabbing at nothing but light, captivated by the display.

  ‘Marcus, come on out of there!’ The mum shot a look at Cassie, half sheepish, half defensive. Cassie smiled, shook her head to show she wasn’t bothered by the boy’s intrusion – not in the least. It was fine. It was perfectly fine.

  There was room inside for two.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘Alright, Cassie? Earth to Cass …’

  She was staring at her bike lock when she realised that someone – Nicol – was speaking to her.

  ‘What’s up, something wrong with your bike? New, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah – well, borrowed actually.’ It was Lewis’s: the purple mountain bike. It had been his suggestion she should use it when she stayed with him – though best not to risk it at her place, they’d both agreed. On the pitted tarmac of the city’s roads, it was like riding on air. ‘Only thing is, I’ve forgotten the numbers. The—’ She couldn’t think of the word. Gave the chain a shake, by way of explanation.

  ‘Combination? New lock as well?’

  She shook her head. ‘Had it for years.’ She didn’t have to think, usually; the code was automatic, embedded in her long-term memory, in her fingers. But she’d left the Make-Believe display hardly knowing her name. Her interview with Professor Morgan – the implications of what Morgan had let slip – had knocked everything else clean out of her head. ‘Blanked,’ she said, simply.

  ‘Don’t try too hard. It won’t come that way. Think about something else.’

  She felt a slow smile arriving on her face: that was easily done.

  ‘You OK? You look a bit fucked, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Fucked?’

  ‘Aye. Spaced. Stoned.’

  ‘Ha. No – I’ve been to that exhibition, that’s all. The one in the Newman building.’

  ‘Not seen it. I should, though, by the looks of you. Must be properly mind-blowing.’

  ‘It is. Yeah, they’ve got this head, made out of light and …’ She shrugged, at the impossibility of explaining. ‘It’s all about Make-Believe, showing how it works.’

  ‘Oh. That.’ In two short words, he dismissed the whole thing; a hundred thousand virtual worlds, imagined into being by a hundred thousand individuals. ‘Nah. I’ll not bother.’

  She didn’t think she’d ever heard that tone in his voice. Not just dismissive; hostile.

  ‘How come?’

  His face screwed up, like his words tasted sour. ‘I disapprove,’ he said.

  She wanted to laugh, at the formality of the expression. But he was serious, and she stopped herself. ‘Of what?’ she asked. ‘Because they’re a mega-rich corporation? An anti-capitalist thing?’

  ‘Mega-rich, you reckon? Funny thing … I had a friend got a job with them, and the week before he was meant to start’ – he made a chopping motion with his hand – ‘sorry, pal: no job. Total hiring freeze. Weird, eh, for the most amazingly successful company in the history of the world, ever?’ His voice was coiled tight with sarcasm.

  ‘So is that why you disapprove, cos of your friend?’

  He scowled. ‘The whole thing!’ he said. ‘All their little tests, you know. How much do you earn? How much are you going to earn? How much does your daddy earn?’

  She didn’t say so, but that was just business. Imagen might have been spun off from the university, but it wasn’t a charity; it wasn’t a social enterprise, or a public service. Your net worth was their business model.

  ‘Ever been to the doctor feeling a bit down?’ Nicol was saying. ‘A bit depressed? Well then, sorry – you’re out. Can’t join our club.’

  ‘I suppose they’ve got to make sure people are safe. Stable. Otherwise—’

  ‘Got any kind of a record? Maybe you were picked up for exercising your democratic right to protest, ended up with a caution on your file? You’re out.’

  No cash. Dodgy mental health. Blots on your copybook. Cassie slipped neatly into all three categories – but which applied to Nicol? It had to be personal, his dislike. But he seemed to guess what she was thinking.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t even tried. It’s like that celebrity soap opera shit. Either way, it’s a kid-on world. A tool to keep the people distracted. You know it’s government funded, aye? Suits them, to keep us docile. I’d rather spend my life in the real world. Real people.’ He scuffed his trainer across the grey slabs they were standing on, splattered with chuddy and pigeon shit. ‘Real fucking life.’

  She thought of pointing out the contradiction: that such an advocate for reality chose to be constantly, mildly stoned. He might claim to be a fan of real life, but even he needed its edges smoothed. It was the same cognitive dissonance, perhaps, that allowed him to pocket his fifty per cent from the academic services they provided, even as he argued against the marketisation of the university.

  ‘But I tell you what,’ he was saying. ‘If I wanted to play their wee game, their Make-Believe – I wouldn’t be doing their tests. Did you know they still own it, once it’s inside you? The network, the biomolecules. They own part of your brain. It’s their copyright, their patent.’

  ‘Maybe technically – but that doesn’t really mean anything. It’s not like they can recover their property. How would they even do that?’

  ‘Nurse – scalpel please …’

  ‘Don’t! Anyway, it would never stand up, legally.’

  ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law? And who do you think would have the better lawyers? No way. I wouldn’t be showing them the money, any of that.’

  ‘Well – how, then?’

  ‘Just got to know the right folk. There’s other ways.’

  ‘You mean – bioware. Hacked bioware?’

  He smiled. Spoke with exaggerated precision: ‘Black market. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘But …’ She frowned. Tried to quell a sudden surge of excitement. ‘You’d still need the biomolecular network, from the nasal spray. And you haven’t tried it, have you? So it might be a scam, for all you know.’

  ‘Like I say. I prefer real life.’

  So many questions, bottlenecked inside her. Who were the right folk? How was it modded, the stolen bioware? Would it work even if you were barred from Make-Believe, your DNA blacklisted? How much would it cost? But paranoia stopped her lips. Impossible to ask these things in the shadow of the Bray Tower. Could she even be sure that Nicol was solid? She thought she could trust him, more so than anyone else. She needed to be alone, to think it through, all of it—

  It came to her: she snapped her fingers.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, with a nod, ‘there’s a black market for everything—’

  ‘No, just – I’ve got it. Remembered it.’ She bent over the bike, clicked the wheels of the combination till the numbers were aligned, and the lock gave. ‘Freedom!’

  ‘See?’ he said, as she unsnaked her chain from round the railings. ‘Told you: just let your brain do its thing.’

  Cassie shoved the chain into her satchel, swung into the saddle. ‘Nicol’s Rules for Life, number 172 …’ she said, pushing off. Heard him say something, as she coasted – to himself, or to her. Something like, Don’t chase the lost stuff. Something like, It’s in there all along.

  CHAPTER TWENTY


  Lewis had cooked steak.

  ‘Two minutes each side,’ he said, ‘and it’s perfect. All it needs.’ He set Cassie’s plate before her with a solid clunk, sat down opposite. Started to eat.

  Cassie picked up her knife and fork, absently rearranged the French beans piled on the side, swirling them in their slick of melted butter. Lewis glanced up at her, waiting for praise.

  ‘You’re not hungry?’

  Was she? She thought about it for a moment. Yes: she was. She was hungry. It just didn’t seem to matter. The sensation was distant, unreal.

  ‘Not a fan of steak?’

  ‘No, it’s great. Smells great.’

  She dug with her knife. Sliced into the pink. Juice – blood – oozed across her plate. Alan’s voice: You could do with some blood. Some red meat. An enormous steak.

  You’ve never said that before; about blood.

  What she knew now: she hadn’t imagined it, though she’d been in Make-Believe. It had been his real voice, his real words. Real face, warmth, body. Real mind. Real self.

  She forked up a chunk of meat, chewed and swallowed, and it tasted of nothing at all.

  ‘Cassie? Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘You’ve usually got a proper appetite.’

  ‘Sorry. Maybe I am a bit off.’ She tried a couple of beans: they were overcooked, slathered in too much butter, dissolving in her mouth. She wiped a smear of grease from her lips.

  ‘And you’re quiet too.’

  A wave of irritation caught her, carried her: could he not just shut up, stop itching at her? ‘At least I’m not speaking with my mouth full,’ she said. Saw him recoil, and wished she’d kept hers shut. He was meant to be Mr Casual, Mr Tall Dark and Kind Of Handsome, and here she was niggling at him like they’d been married twenty years. But it wasn’t contempt born of familiarity. His voice was a stranger’s, suddenly, and her being here was wrong. Who was he, anyway? This man she’d known for a matter of weeks, a man she knew nothing about? This man feeding her, fucking her, acting her boyfriend?

  He swallowed. ‘Sorry if my manners aren’t up to scratch.’

  ‘And would you stop saying sorry? You’re always apologising.’

  He stared at her. ‘What? No, I’m not. Like when?’ And thinking about it, she couldn’t isolate a single incident. It was more an impression she had; it was his face, maybe, or his posture or something.

  ‘I don’t know. Just, generally.’

  Lewis was frowning now, squinching up his narrow eyes, eyes so dark they let nothing in. Alan’s eyes were clear as water – or they had been, once. The windows of his soul. She stared at her plate, and thought of dinner in the locked ward. What was he eating, now? Food had never thrilled him: it was fuel, for walking the hills, for running, playing football. Fuel for fat, now. Featureless days, punctuated by mugs of tea sticky with sugar, with cheap biscuits, mounds of pasta with cheese, mashed potatoes with marge. But he was in there, wasn’t he? Her Alan. Beached in his armchair. Trapped under all that flesh. A young man, freshly made, with a boy’s leanness still, with all his youth still shining gold. And when he and she connected, that young man was made real.

  ‘Look,’ said Lewis, ‘do you want to go to bed? Alone, I mean. Have a lie-down, I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

  He spoke gently, watched her with concern, and she managed a smile. ‘No. No, thanks,’ she said. Looked at him: at Lewis, who was on her side. At Lewis, who wanted what she did. Put down her knife and fork.

  ‘I did something today that was – I took a risk.’

  ‘What do you mean? What kind of risk?’

  ‘I spoke to someone I used to know. Professionally.’

  A forkful of steak stopped midway to his mouth. ‘At Imagen?’

  ‘At the university. Someone involved with research, with the biotech. Someone … high up.’

  ‘Shit. Cassie. God, I feel responsible, I pushed you—’

  ‘Come on. You know I’m not likely to be pushed by you.’

  ‘Well. OK. But – was it worth it? Did you find out anything?’

  ‘Yeah. I think I did. It’s like you said. There are more of us.’

  ‘I was right?’

  She smiled again, felt her lips stretch thin. ‘You were right.’

  ‘How did you – did you just ask, straight out?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ She shrugged.

  ‘And he, she, they – told you this?’

  ‘Came straight out with it. Said there had been a few, isolated, instances of people hacking the bioware. Of which you, presumably, are one.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’ He pushed up from his seat, leant across the table: his mouth tasted of meat, and grease. ‘You are amazing.’

  She would have been pleased, before. Tried to find that feeling inside her. It must be there, somewhere. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m amazing.’

  ‘A few instances … How many, do you think?’

  ‘Presuming a certain amount of understatement: double figures, at least. Beyond that, who can say. But I’m not sure it matters – because then, after, I spoke to someone else.’

  ‘Another contact?’

  She shook her head. ‘A friend, not from Imagen. But he knows about stuff. He’s a computer scientist, but – the sort of person who, anything you’re not meant to be doing, he knows how to do it. Know what I mean?’

  ‘And what did you ask him?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, exactly. It just came up in conversation.’

  He was leaning in like he might kiss her again. ‘OK – but what?’

  ‘He said – if you know the right people, there are ways into Make-Believe. Without Imagen. Without them ever knowing.’

  He was silent for a moment. Then: ‘What, even if your DNA’s been blacklisted?’

  ‘I don’t know, I couldn’t exactly ask for details. He just said, black market.

  ‘Black market,’ Lewis said. He sat back in his chair. ‘But then – it’s so simple; it could be so simple. No need for bargaining or blackmail or any of that. They’d never need to know.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. It was surprising, in a way, that Lewis hadn’t thought of it before. But he was too safe, too legit, to think in that way. More surprising, perhaps, that it hadn’t occurred to her – but then, until lately, she hadn’t let herself consider the possibility of return.

  Their plates sat abandoned between them, Lewis’s meal half-finished, Cassie’s barely touched.

  ‘How reliable is he, your friend, would you say?’

  Cassie hesitated – weighing the hostility in Nicol’s voice when he spoke about Make-Believe against the scores of deadlines he’d met for her. ‘He’s pretty reliable … no – he’s very reliable. But he’s not neutral. He hates them, hates Imagen, he’s got all kinds of conspiracy theories about them, so – I don’t know whether that affects things. What he might want to believe.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I could ask him – I could find out more. Who we’d need to contact. But the way he feels, I don’t know whether he’d help—’

  ‘No,’ said Lewis – just as she’d guessed he would. ‘Leave it with me. I can speak to some people. If it’s possible, I can sort it, I’m sure.’ For a minute he sat thinking, his narrow eyes almost closed. Then he seemed to refocus, stared at her with a slight frown. ‘You said we.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Find out who we’d need to contact. That’s what you said.’

  Cassie looked down, made to clear their plates away. ‘Finished?’ When Lewis nodded, she got up and scraped them into the bin.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Lewis. ‘I don’t want to sway you. I mean, I know you’re not pushable. And it might not work anyway, might not be possible – your friend might be, I don’t know, trying to impress you, or something. I just need to know: am I asking for me, or for both of us?’

  She turned on the taps, waited for the water to run hot. If it was possible, Lewis would sort it. That must have been what she wa
s hoping for. Why else would she have told him? If she said, Yes, both of us, it was nothing irrevocable. She could always change her mind. She pushed down the plug, squirted washing-up liquid; a sneeze of bubbles, a cough of fake lemon. She’d already left the shadows – and if Imagen were going to come for her, as well to meet them in the searchlight, full in its glare. In Make-Believe: where she’d find him again. Where Alan would be waiting.

  Lewis spoke over the gushing taps. Her name. A question.

  She turned the water off, plunged her hands into bubbles and heat.

  ‘For both of us,’ she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  From across the road, a little way down the street, Cassie watched the attendees leaving the meeting. They came out in threes and twos, said goodnight and vanished back to their lives. Sometimes a man or a woman left alone, head down: hurrying from contact, its promise or threat.

  At ten past eight, Jake appeared with the final stragglers. Waved them goodnight, and shut the door, ready to lock up.

  Cassie crossed the street. As Jake turned and saw her, she raised her hand. He stood, waited. When she was a few feet away, he checked an imaginary wristwatch.

  ‘You’ve missed it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting. I was hoping … but I guess you need to get home.’

  He studied her. She looked down at the pavement, then over the road: at a front door opening and closing, an old man doddering out with his old dog. When she glanced up again, Jake was still watching her.

  ‘Just give me a minute,’ he said, turning away.

  When he’d called his wife, he seemed to think for a moment, squinting into the evening sun, before he made a decision. ‘Half an hour,’ he said. ‘Come on – let’s walk.’