by Terry Tyler
Dex and his friends thought Grant and Lawrence were no more than artfully chosen figureheads. Unicorn believed the site's inception to be the major step in a cunning data analysis plan masterminded by the NSA.
Does that sound ludicrous to you? It did to me. Oh, and the NSA is the US National Security Agency, in case you don't know. I didn't.
"Such a clever idea I could almost give a round of applause, if I didn't suspect it was a whole heap of bullshit," he said.
Much though I adored Dex, living with someone who insists that the world's population is constantly having the wool pulled over its eyes by those in power could be wearying.
"Dex, why? What possible reason could there be?" We were watching Janey and Maria on a Sunday morning news programme at the time, and I thought Private Life sounded great.
He leant back against the pillows, arms behind his head, like he does when he's sure he's right about something. "It's too perfect, they're too perfect. And the timing: isn't it a bit too convenient, after the much publicised fall of Facebook?"
"That's what gave them the idea." I gestured towards Maria Lawrence's smiling face. "And if they're making a fortune out of it, good for them."
He answered with his patient, long-suffering sigh. "You just don't get it, do you? Vicky, I don't want you and Lottie anywhere near those sites."
This didn't go down well with my daughter; she was only fourteen at the time.
"You can't stop me! Everyone at school's on MyLife, I'll be the only one who's not, except for the geeky Offliners—they'll think I'm one of them!"
A movement quietly gaining popularity, the Offliners eschewed all social networking sites and apps. I understood where they were coming from, but it was hard on their kids. I made Dex relent where Lottie was concerned, and we agreed that she could sign up, as long as I monitored her usage.
I didn't want her to feel like the odd one out. I remembered how I felt when I was the only girl in Year 6 not to be allowed a mobile phone.
Some Offliners took the ethos further by not banking or shopping online, and then there were the hardcore, who didn't use the internet at all. Small communities of these curious folk existed around the country.
"I don't know how they manage to live," I said, when we read an article in The Guardian about them—in the newspaper itself, that is; they agreed to be interviewed only on condition that it wouldn't appear in the Guardian Online.
"Very peacefully, I should think," Dex said.
I'm fourteen years younger than Dex. I was born in 1990, and used to listen with amusement (and the occasional yawn) when my parents told me about the good old days of the 1970s and 1980s when people kept in touch via snail mail, and there were only three or four television channels.
Mum thinks modern technology has gone too far. "There's no mystery any more," she says. "Everyone, everything, is too accessible."
Dex was born in 1976, and remembers a time before the world was connected at the touch of a screen, too. Back then, before Bat Fever, I couldn't imagine it.
"Wasn't life really slow and frustrating and boring?" I remember asking him, once.
"Of course not; it was all we knew. And yes, it was better, in some ways; I understand what your mum means. People had more patience. If someone was out, you waited until they got back. If you wanted information, you consulted books."
Dex taught English literature. I met him in 2018 when I decided to take the 'A' Levels I never took at school because I was pregnant with Lottie.
Lottie's father, Ryan, was the same age as me. Our parents were massively disappointed in both of us, and his were adamant that he should not miss out on his education, despite becoming a father. They helped towards the upkeep of their granddaughter until Ryan was in a position to do so; he swore he would study hard to provide a good life for the three of us, but within a couple of months he'd embraced student life, and I knew I'd lost him. He'd come round to see harassed little me and our screaming bundle of joy, dressed in full Emo with his newly dyed, jet black hair hanging over his eyes, talking about books I'd never have time to read and people I didn't know, feigning care and interest, itching to leave. I was semi-heartbroken, but I didn't fool myself. I didn't blame him, either.
He played an active though limited part in Lottie's life, and more recently went to live in Lincolnshire with his latest girlfriend, Bethany, who Lottie called the Zombie Chav. Or just Zomchav. "More Botox than brain cells."
I had a few other boyfriends, but when I met Dex I knew they'd just been time-fillers.
Mum and Dad loved the fact that he was an English tutor. "I think an older man is the right fit for you; he's seen something of life, got a bit between the ears," Mum said, after they'd met him for the first time. "You can learn from him."
That irritated me. Did she think I was so green?
I did feel a bit inferior to his intellect, sometimes, though. Dex reads and thinks, watches and discusses, constantly. He's interested in politics, history and sociological trends, and talks about his pet subjects a great deal. He used to say he loved that I was quiet. That I listened and wanted to learn. He said he felt at peace around me.
If he liked to teach, I was an open book with blank pages as far as his wealth of knowledge was concerned.
When we'd been together for around six months, he told me about Unicorn.
He insisted they were not conspiracy theorists, and neither did they like the label 'truth seekers', or bang on about this or that person who was really murdered by the CIA. Although such matters are all linked (he says), they were more concerned with the present, how the media manipulated the thoughts of the masses, and demonised certain groups of society to stir up prejudice.
"Like the Nazis did with the Jews," he explained, "but now it's immigrants, the disabled, other races and religions, and those who live off the state. The encouragement of prejudice is more subtle but, just like in the 1930s, it's effective enough to make the masses turn a blind eye when war is declared on a particular group, or even see it as a good thing."
He was right about the benefit claimants. When, in 2019, new conditions were introduced into the receipt of Universal Credit and ESA, with ridiculous sanctions that resulted in many being forced to eke out a mean existence between visits to food banks, there were a couple of protest marches that erupted into riots, but that was all. The media focused on the riots themselves, rather than the social injustice that had caused them. Articles in the Guardian were passed around Twitter, and then forgotten.
As a single parent, I was one of the lucky few. Even before I moved in with Dex, I had my little flat that my parents bought me, and my job at Shipden library, which became the donation-funded Book Exchange after the library closed down. It wasn't all I wanted to do with my life, but I was bringing up a child when I should have been getting an education, worrying about the day-to-day, the practical. I'd planned to start an English degree when I was thirty-six, but of course that will never happen now. As it happens, I'd have been better off learning how to build walls or grow crops. Or hotwire a car. Now that would be a useful skill to have.
I didn't think much about the wider world until Dex came into my life. And, like most people, I took what I saw on the news at face value.
As Private Life's popularity mushroomed, Unicorn posted blog articles on Twitter giving voice to their suspicions that its main purpose was to act as a hugely effective data collation tool. Anyone could join in discussions on their forum, but would-be members had their online presence thoroughly vetted by Scott, their resident IT expert and some-time hacker. Which I thought was a bit rich, given their stance on online snooping, but Dex said it was a necessary evil.
"We have to guard against government infiltration," he told me. I laughed my snuggly cashmere slipper socks off the first time he said this. Surely the government wouldn't care about a little organisation run by a few conspiracy theorists?
"You'd be surprised. The internet is the best tool Big Brother ever had, but in other ways the
worst, because it educates." He raised his eyebrows at me. "And we're not conspiracy theorists."
Unicorn overlord Jeff Finch is a sixty-five-year-old former psychologist who shares Dex's obsessions. He's a 'prepper'; before Bat Fever, he lived in an isolated village in Northumberland, and set up a bunker, location undisclosed, in which he could live for up to two years, should society collapse. The more Dex talked to him, the surer he was that our way of life was approaching 11.59 on the clock. They were convinced that the publicity about the shortcomings of Facebook, etc, was staged to make way for this shiny new social media site that encouraged people all over the globe to freely disclose information.
I thought they were nuts. "Why would they go to all that trouble to spy on a load of housewives posting pictures of their kids?"
He was patient with me; I suppose he was used to enlightening non-believers. "That's just a tiny part of what happens on social media, Vick. It's where the world shares its opinions, political affiliations, criminal activity, and innermost secrets. How do we know that Private Life is totally secure? Because we're told it is, by a couple of chat show-friendly moms?" He raised his hands skywards. "Oh, I don't know. Half the world still thinks Osama Bin Laden was responsible for 9/11, and another quarter believe in UFOs and fairies at the bottom of the bloody garden, so I suppose they're going to trust in the words of Janey Grant and Maria Lawrence, aren't they?"
"Mm. Tell me again; who was the abominable snowman who shot JFK?" That made him laugh. I was allowed to tease him, as long as I chose my moment.
Despite my cynicism, though, I started to notice things to which, before, I might not have given a moment's thought.
Over the past few years, application for jobs via hard copy forms and CVs had become a thing of the past. Even casual factory or bar work required online submissions. Now, candidates for positions with large corporations, the Civil Service, what remained of the NHS, county councils and many similar organisations were asked, on their application form, if they were willing to 'connect' with fellow employees via Private Life, to promote a community atmosphere in the workplace.
If you already had an account, this meant opening it up to hundreds of strangers.
Unicorn claimed to have proof that applicants who ticked the 'I do not wish to open a Private Life account' or 'I have an account but do not wish to connect with fellow employees' boxes were unlikely to be hired. They were not the only ones who'd noticed. Twitter was littered with blog posts expanding on this theory.
However, most were happy to sign up and open their virtual doors.
"If you've got nothing to hide, you don't mind who sees it, do you?"
"I'm me, I'm not ashamed of who I am and what I do. If people don't like what I post, they needn't look."
The world was sucked in by Private Life. Every day, users were tempted into more activity:
"Congratulations: you added 50 new friends to your Private Life this month! Check your email inbox for your £20 iTunes voucher."
"Recommend Private Life to your friends—get 5 new users to register, and win £25 off Amazon Kindle books!"
"That's the 100th photo you've posted this week—you've been entered into the Private Life Christmas Draw: a hamper worth £500 could be heading your way!"
"Ker-ching! You just 'liked' your 50th product page; click to claim your Shen bath products voucher for £10."
Or Next, or Dove, depending on what you'd 'liked'.
And it was all so safe! Anything you posted would only be seen by your chosen friends. So (Claire Robertson told me) Jason over the road felt free to boast about how he'd fooled the Jobcentre staff into thinking he was really looking for work. Jenny who worked in the deli posted pictures of her and her mates smoking a bong on the beach.
"Jeff and I think the data's being analysed for blacklisting," Dex said, when I told him about Claire's gossip. "Though what the blacklisting might be for, we don't know yet." He was fidgety, restless. "But I got a bit of good news today. We might be able to get some concrete info soon."
"Oh yes? What?"
"Someone who works at GCHQ." He looked extremely pleased with himself. "Not sure if it's going to happen. We'll see."
That was all he would say. He wouldn't tell me who, or how, or when. Or exactly what GCHQ was, and I didn't like to ask because I had a feeling I was supposed to know, so I looked it up. It's the UK Government Communications HQ, apparently, the intelligence and security organisation. Who knew, eh?
During the winter before the virus broke, Dex became more preoccupied with Unicorn than ever. Before, he'd log in most nights and chat on the forum for a while, edit the odd blog post, then switch off. Now, I sometimes felt he was with me in body only, his mind mulling over whatever it was he talked about with Jeff and the others.
Mostly, I didn't enquire.
I was too happy to think about bad stuff. Dex and I were so in love, I mean really in love, not just jogging along contentedly; the initial passion hadn't cooled. I adored our little town, and never took for granted the joy of living by the sea. In our house, number eight, Beach Lane, you could hear the waves when you opened the windows. I'd wake up early on a summer morning, wander down to the end of the lane to say good morning to the sea, and feel like the luckiest person in the world. Claire and I used to take our mugs of coffee and sit at the top of the cliff. There was no 'Monday morning feeling' in Beach Lane.
I miss my house so much.
It was going cheap when we bought it, because of the erosion of the cliffs on that part of the coast; the vendor hadn't expected to find a buyer.
"We'll never be able to sell it, it'll be impossible to get a mortgage, and it'll probably slide down onto the beach in sixty years' time," I said, when I went upstairs and looked out of the back bedroom window. But I already knew it was our home.
"More like forty," Dex said, coming up behind me and putting his arms around my waist; we looked out of the back window into the garden with the little gate at the end, leading up to the cliffs. "Or twenty, if there's a particularly fierce storm."
"Yes, but numbers nine to fourteen will go before us." I turned my face back so he could kiss me. "We needn't start worrying until number ten goes!"
I have bittersweet memories of that day. The way the sun shone on the white, yellow and light blue paintwork and the varnished floorboards; it gave me the feeling of being on a boat. The reluctant vendor (poor chap was moving to London) had gone to sit in the garden, leaving us to look round at our leisure, and we 'christened' the bathroom. Dex's tanned skin smelt of salt, the warm rays fell on us through the open window, and I was so happy I cried.
"That's it, then," Dex whispered afterwards, when we'd caught our breath (and stopped laughing in a red-faced sort of way when we remembered the window was open), "we've defiled the place, so we've got to buy it."
"You mean it?" I'd been so scared he'd say no; it would take all his savings, every penny of the proceeds from my old flat, every shred of equity in our current house. "I don't care if we have to live in a tent when I'm sixty, as long as we can live in this house now."
"I do, because I'll be seventy-four when you're sixty, which is not the best age to start living under canvas—but yes. Let's be happy now. Love the moment you're in, and all that."
I'm so glad we did. As it happened, we only had three years. But they were such good years. Lottie was mad about the house, too. Sandy trails led down to the beach, formed over the years by thousands of feet tracing the least treacherous paths, and she and her friends used to hurtle down them to the sands below, MyLife and phones forgotten. I loved to see her like that.
That was our world: Dex driving off to Wroxton College each morning, Lottie and her friends mooching up the Northstrand Road to Shipden High School, and me, Vicky Keating, officially the happiest woman in the history of mankind, wandering through the town to the Book Exchange, where I'd cut my hours to ten until three so I could have more time at home.
I loved our little town so much that even
the walk to work was a joy. Shipden is so small that everything is within walking distance, so we downsized to one car to save money. We rarely travelled far. Some Sundays, winter and summer, we'd hike over the cliffs to Cadeby, the next town, where we'd have food and a drink or four in a seafront pub, and get a taxi home. On Saturdays, Dex and I would shop at the local butcher, the fishmonger, the baker and the greengrocer, as part of our ritual; we'd wander down the coast road and have breakfast with Lawrie and Gemma in their café, we'd visit Jenny in the deli, Francis in his gallery and Ruth in her gift shop, and after shopping would be the pit stop at the King's Arms for a drink; if we'd bought fish, landlord Kenny would stick it in the fridge for us until it was time to go home, or we might buy a freshly caught sea bass from one of the barmen who fished off the end of the pier. Shipden was that sort of town. A real community. Life was more than good; it was grand.
I didn't know danger was floating behind us on the breeze as we walked along the beach, seeping in through the windows of our picture postcard life.
It's hard to remember now, and I believed us to be so hidden away in that tiny nook on the North Norfolk coast that the problems of the world scarcely touched us, but the atmosphere of the whole country became more tense during the winter of 2023/4.
Every evening, it seemed, there was another TV programme about the disproportionate amount of income tax revenue 'plundered' for benefits for the unemployed, the disabled, the elderly who had not thought to set up private pensions when they were working. We heard that, despite the Armageddon-style benefit 'restructure', hardworking British taxpayers were still going without improvements to healthcare and education because of the country's welfare commitments.
We heard that those same hardworking British taxpayers were being refused essential operations because the country was overcrowded with immigrants, whose large families flooded schools with children who didn't even speak English as a first language.
We'd watch reports about dwindling NHS funds being used to treat the obese, the alcohol and narcotic addicted.
