The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  “I just told the desk sergeant that I was here to post your bail. He checked your records on the computer, found them in order, accepted my payment, and here we are.”

  My immediate relief at being free is now tempered by my concern for her.

  “This is crazy. They’re bound to find out. And they’ll know you’re behind what’s happened. You’re going to get yourself in trouble.” I am about to tell her to turn the car around and head back for the police station.

  “Just hear me out.” She raises a hand from the steering wheel as if to quiet me. “In the first place, I checked the system for proof of the charges they’re bringing against you. It’s all there, Ross. Conclusive evidence that you and Mac defrauded Sligo-McNeil out of vast sums of money. Share dealings in your name involving the takeover target. Entries in your bank account. I suspect there’ll be worse stuff, yet. They’re really out to nail you.” She negotiates a tight corner, her knuckles white on the wheel. “Well, I couldn’t just leave you there to rot, could I? They’ve got you at their mercy as long as they control the computer systems. It occurred to me that our only chance was to play them at their own game.”

  I still don’t believe any of this. I’m getting into hard-core denial mode. “Are you crazy? Even if they’ve got me, do you think I want to see you brought into this?”

  She brakes the car to a halt at the side of the road and turns to face me. “Ross, in the first place, we’ve been in this together up to now. I’m not going to leave you to take the rap all on your own. In the second place, I was fond of Mac and I want to see his name cleared: even if he’s dead, I don’t like to see it covered in mud.

  “And thirdly, the police have already been in at work. Robin Langan refused to speak to them until his lawyer could be present, but he’s going to have to tell them that I was working with you.” She glances at her watch. “In fact, he probably has by now. After the trouble they’ve gone to, to get you out of the way, it stands to reason that they wouldn’t take any chances with me.” Suddenly her tough facade starts to crumble and she’s on the verge of tears. “They’ll be bound to include me in the charges and I’d rather fight than meekly give in and go to jail for years.”

  I want to put my arms around her, to console her somehow. As I reach my hands towards her, she visibly pulls herself together and I marvel at her toughness. I stop at patting her shoulder.

  “We’d better get a move on.” She puts the car into drive and pulls out from the curb. “I’ve already got a bag packed. I think we’ve time to stop at your place and you can get some things, if you’re quick. Then we need to get out of here.”

  My mind’s still racing. I force myself to breathe deeply and to start thinking rationally. “But where are we going to go?”

  “I’m not too sure. It needs to be somewhere where they won’t be able to find us. I think maybe a small hotel somewhere...”

  “No, I’ve got a better idea.” My brain’s starting to work again. “Skip going to my apartment. It’s too dangerous. A friend of my brother’s has a weekender on the lakeshore, up in Wisconsin. It’s in a sleepy little settlement, miles from anywhere. This guy’s had it for years—it used to belong to his parents—but it doesn’t get a lot of use. He’s away at the moment—working with my brother in the middle east—and he asked me to look in from time to time and make sure everything’s okay. He wouldn’t mind us staying there.”

  She glances at me again. “It sounds good. Does it have a telephone?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  She smiles grimly. “I just want to know I can attach a phone to the modem in my laptop and keep in touch with the outside world....”

  6

  The cottage is in an old beach area on the eastern lake, over the state border from Illinois and on the road to Green Bay, Wisconsin. Grassy mud flats merge gradually into fields ringed by wind-shaped trees. The air is sharp with the smell of open water and north country air.

  The area is as yet only half-discovered by the world of yuppies and cell phones. The house itself was obviously built at a time when land in the region was cheaper than it is now. Around it is a curious selection of buildings. Many are similar to this one, ancient-looking cottages with clapboard walls, peeling paint around the windows and lichen-stained tin roofs: while others are large, newer houses, built in a variety of styles, but having in common architects’ pretensions and unseen and hefty price-tags, evidence of changing times for the district as wealthy weekenders gradually supplant the long-term residents.

  The property is at the end of a short dirt track. On its southern-most boundary is one of the newer and more incongruous constructions, somebody’s idea of a Mediterranean-style villa, complete with Grecian columns by the front door. On the other side is a creek. The mud beach is a mere twenty yards from the back door. Although the sky is overcast and gray, the lakescape has about it a natural beauty, an air of wilderness that those who came here must appreciate as an antidote to the noise and clamor of the cities.

  We park Kathleen’s car at the side of the house. I retrieve the key from under a stone by the front door and push it into in the front door lock. The mechanism feels rusty—I haven’t been here for over a month and my brother’s friend has been away for over six. The lock yields with a grinding complaint and we walk into a dusty hallway.

  The cottage is roughly square in shape and comprises five rooms. On the side furthest from the beach are the kitchen and bathroom, both just large enough to avoid being cramped. A door from the kitchen leads through into a good-sized living room, with generous windows opening out onto the seascape. A door opposite the kitchen leads to a small deck and a sandy path that winds over the mud flats to the lakeshore. On one wall of the living room there are two more doors, each leading to a bedroom. The decor is tidy but basic: with the wide water view from the windows, it need be nothing else.

  Not surprisingly, the place smells stale and I stop to open a couple of windows and turn on the hot water system before walking back outside to fetch the bags from the car. When I return through the door, I guess Kathleen has had a look around the small house. She’s standing in the living room with a strained look on her face. I think at first that she’s feeling a reaction to our flight. Then, as I carry her case into one of the bedrooms, I realize the truth: that she’s embarrassed to find herself alone with me in this strange home.

  I walk back into the living room, not sure what to say.

  “Don’t worry, there are two bedrooms. And no one need know you’re here. There won’t be any—” I smile awkwardly, “impropriety.”

  “There’s impropriety just in my being here,” she says sadly. “I’m still a married woman. I’ve had to lie to my parents. I told them I was going to New York for a few days on business. They’d think I was some sort of a sinner being here alone with you.” I see again that she is close to tears, but I know that it would be wrong to try to touch her.

  “I’m sorry.” What else can I say?

  She shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. Maybe I’m just being stupid. It’s just...with my marriage breaking up and everything that’s happened in the last few months...I think my emotions are in kind of a mess.”

  She turns and walks back out through the front door. I watch her pace round the cottage towards the lakeshore. For a while, she stands, watching the low waves, the slight breeze ruffling her shiny black hair.

  ***

  At last, she comes back inside to where I’m waiting. I can see that she’s firmly in control of herself once more. She smiles at me. “It’s beautiful here. It’s as though we’re a million miles from the city.”

  I nod. “For the first time in weeks, I’m beginning to feel almost safe.”

  Suddenly, she’s all efficiency again.

  “We passed a town ten miles back. We need to get back there and do some shopping. I’ve looked in the cupboards and, apart from a couple of cans, there’s no food. And we need a change of clothes for you. Unless you’d rather stay in what y
ou’re wearing.”

  I realize that I haven’t had a chance of clothes in days. God knows what I smell like. “Fine,” I say. “And let’s draw as much cash from our accounts as we can while we’re there. We’ll take a chance on them tracing the cards: hopefully they’ll think we were passing through on our way northwards. Anyway, it’ll be worth it if we can avoid using them later on.”

  I pause for a moment before continuing. “I’ve been thinking: I want to try to call Jackie Paris, just to explain what’s been happening and see if there’s anything she can do to help.”

  “Well—” Kathleen looks doubtful.

  “I’m sure we can trust her.”

  “It’s not that. It’s...well, two things. First of all, is it fair to bring Jackie into this now? We’re fugitives from the law. And, secondly, the people we’re up against are so resourceful, it may be dangerous to call her.”

  I think about what she’s said. “As for the first thing, I wouldn’t want to get Jackie into trouble, but she’s a big girl and a reporter. I think we should let her decide whether she should be involved. My guess is that she’d be furious if we didn’t tell her what’s been going on.

  “As for the second—you’ve got a good point. I’ll use a public phone”—I’ve still got my cell phone in my pocket but it’s too easy to pinpoint the location of cell phones using GPS systems—“and if she wants to know where we are, I’ll tell her a white lie. I’ll say we’re making for Canada and that we’re still on the road.”

  “All right.” Kathleen’s mind is still working. “But I’ll drop you off on the outskirts of town and pick you up again later. It’s best that you’re seen by as few people as possible. They’ll probably be looking for you by now—or both of us together—so I’ll be safer on my own.”

  ***

  I get lucky. Although Jackie is scheduled to fly to the West Coast that evening, she’s still in the network studios when I phone from the outskirts of the small town.

  I murmur a hi and she nearly destroys my eardrum. “Ross? My God, Ross, what’s been happening?”

  I smile and wonder whether her concern is for me or for the story she thinks she’s missing. Talking quickly, I tell her what’s been happening. “So we’re on the run. I reckon we should head north. We’ve just stopped off on the way,” I say, fingers crossed.

  “What can I say? It’s...” Jackie pauses. For once in her life, she’s lost for words.

  “Hard to believe?”

  “I think that would understate it nicely. We’re talking large-scale conspiracy here, you know. Police involvement and all.”

  “Don’t you believe me?” That’s the crunch question. If I can’t convince Jackie, what chance do I have with anyone else? There’s another pause before she answers, but then her voice is decisive.

  “Yes, I believe you. It’s crazy, but I can’t accept that you’re really a criminal and if it’s both you and Kathleen... Well,” she continues caustically, “I can readily believe that you’ve left reality behind, but not your lady friend. She’s a woman, after all. What can I do to help?”

  “I don’t know. Can you go to air with our side of the story?”

  Again she seems to think quickly. “Why the hell not? I don’t know how much we can do to investigate your allegations. But we can do a feature about you, saying that we’ve had a call from the accused... Here’s their side of the story... That sort of thing. And maybe I can go now with the story about the phantom network?”

  “Why not? Look, give it a try. It’s best if I don’t hang on to the line for too long. I’ll call you again tomorrow.”

  “I guess,” she says, “this means you’ll be dropping out of the play? You and me within a couple of days. Our beloved director will have a breakdown.”

  “I suppose if I go back now, we’ll be guaranteed a full house for opening night. Seriously, you’d better give them a call from me and tell them I’m sorry.”

  “I will.” Her voice is solemn again.

  I pause. Such a minor thing, but the fact that I have to withdraw from the production, after all the hard work I’ve put into learning lines, brings home to me how much my life has been dislocated. Like Hamlet, I think, the time for me is out of joint. I think on and another quotation comes to me. This time, I say it aloud. “Though justice be thy plea, consider this, that in the course of justice none of us should see salvation; we do pray for mercy.”

  “Yeah, right,” she replies sadly. For once, she doesn’t join in the game. It is, I realize, a measure of her preoccupation—or concern.

  I hang up and wait for Kathleen to return. When her car pulls up beside the phone booth, the back seat is covered with groceries and bags of clothes. I get in and check them out. Blue jeans, my size, tee shirts and warm sweaters. Socks and underpants. I swear she blushes when she sees me looking at them.

  ***

  Back at the cottage, we start up Kathleen’s laptop. For a while, we have problems getting the telecommunications to work properly and we’re concerned that the local switchboard might be inadequate for the task. Eventually, through a process of trial and error, we succeed.

  I look out towards the lake. The springtime light is starting to fade. There are wisps of cloud on the horizon and I know that the daylight will soon be gone. The evening promises chills.

  “Let’s call it quits for now with the computer, shall we? I don’t know about you, but I’d rather start afresh in the morning. Also, I’m famished.”

  “As you say.” She smiles. “Are you cooking dinner for us?”

  I return the grin. “I don’t know about cooking—the kitchen here is kind of crude and the stove was old when Roosevelt was a boy—but I’ll prepare something that should be roughly edible.” She’s bought us rolls of French bread and three kinds of cheese, ham, salami, mayonnaise and dressing and enough green stuff to make a reasonable salad. And a half-decent bottle of Californian Chardonnay. I figure I’ll cope. I offer a makeshift Caesar’s.

  She jumps up and starts to walk towards her bedroom before I can answer. “It sounds great. Mind if I take a shower while you get it ready?”

  “Fine,” I call. I find a sharp knife in one of the kitchen drawers and set to work.

  7

  The old detective stands in front of the boss and endures. After a while, the captain’s rage begins to burn itself out.

  Crieff has no explanation to offer. Computer error, is all he can put forward. Fucked if he knows what really happens but he’s heard about computers making mistakes. Happens all the time, don’t it? Fortunately, the other man has no better explanation. Yeah, okay, the cap says. Fuckin’ computer error. That’s what the boys in HQ are saying, anyway.

  What the fuck, it’s out of their hands now. Leave it. Go back to catching penny-ante burglars and muggers. Or, not catching, more like. The crime rate rises and the detection rate drops. Maybe that bastard Garner is right. Ninety percent of officers in this station support him and think he’ll make their life easier if he’s elected. Crieff sniffs at the thought. He’s long since given up on believing a fuckin’ thing that any fuckin’ politician says.

  Dismissed at last, released from the sound and the fury, he wanders back to his desk. The Ross case is behind him. Several dozen others clamor for his attention. He tries to remember a time when he wasn’t old and overworked. No such time ever existed. The phone rings. He picks it up. A little pigeon has a story to tell. Stolen goods being recycled through a back-street warehouse. A known dealer, up to evil again. He grumbles to himself and picks up his dirty old overcoat. Colombo without the one hundred percent detection rate.

  Outside, the weather is chilly but fine. He decides to walk. Fuck the corns. As he walks, he thinks. Many things are wrong with the Ross case. Why would they give it to him and then take it away without a word of explanation? And it’s not just that they took it away. He’s been ordered to forget all about it. And how could the mistake with the computer system happen? Did someone enter details of a different case i
nto the records? It didn’t make sense.

  In the middle of the high street he stops and slaps a hand against his well-creased forehead. With the boss yelling at him and all, he’s missed the most obvious question. If it was a mistake, how could the young woman have known about it and arrived to pick Ross up at just the right time?

  Something stinks. He doesn’t believe there was an error. Somebody’s fucked the system over. And if somebody fucked the system to get Ross freed, what other fucking might have been going on?

  Something stinks. Bad. Maybe he should go ask someone. He carries on down the street, arguing with himself. Four years and he’s eligible for a pension. Fuck it. Better to mind his own business. It’s not his problem any more.

  8

  Before eating, we settle into separate armchairs in the living room and watch the evening news on the television, hoping to see some sign that Jackie has been able to convince the network managers to run our story. There’s no mention of it or us.

  Kathleen can see the disappointment on my face. “Oh, well, maybe no news is good news.”

  I sigh. “I guess it can take a while to put this kind of story together. Maybe there’ll be something tomorrow.” I brighten. “Anyway, dinner is served, if you would care to move to the dining area?”

  We sit at the small table in front of the living room window, washing down the simple meal with the wine. As we eat, the sun sets behind us, gradually subduing the variegated streaks of color over the water. There’s a full moon, looking unnaturally large and shiny. We sit quietly for a time, thinking our own thoughts, as the room grows dark around us.

  I’m the first to break the silence. The wine has relaxed my anxieties and, perhaps, my inhibitions.

  “I still find it so hard to reconcile this,” I wave my hand vaguely, “the woman you are, smart and intelligent, with the person who’s watched her husband walk off with another woman and just accepts that that’s it, that she can’t ever be free while he’s alive. It seems so… medieval.” In the shadowy room, I can sense—rather than see—her slight frown and I go on gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb your mood. It’s just that…” My words drift away.