Patricia indicated a pile of cartons stacked against one of the walls across the room.
‘You should see some of the software that comes in these days,’ she said. ‘That lot arrived this week alone. The problem isn’t getting hold of the programs, but selecting what we can safely use. A government organization like the FBI wouldn’t have time to check everything that’s released, so they’d just buy in the commercial programs. You’re safe with those, but they aren’t always the most interesting. The cutting edge has been deregulated.’
‘So is there any difference in practice?’ Teresa said. ‘You mentioned safety. Is it dangerous to use shareware?’
‘No, there’s no physical risk, of course. But the commercial programs are always documented, and they have back-up.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Back-up means their scenarios are based on witness statements, hypnotic regressions, character evaluations, historical documents. They use film or TV footage wherever it’s available, and always go back to the scene of the original incident. As far as possible a commercial scenario is an actual re-creation of the event. Also, when the software arrives it comes with masses of hard-copy documentation: you can check just about everything. We do a lot of scenarios in-house. GunHo, the company that owns this building, started out as a software producer. With shareware, you have to take it on an as-is basis. We do all the checking we can, and some of the shareware companies are well known to us, but there’s no way you can check the authenticity of the scenarios. Some of them are brilliant: they come up with character evaluations or regressions that were completely missed by the big companies, and so they genuinely add something to what is already known.’
‘I’ve used shareware on my PC,’ Teresa said. ‘There’s usually something wrong with it. It always feels a bit unfinished.’
‘Yes, and that’s the other problem. From our point of view as a provider, we can never take for granted how good the programming has been. You get a lot of sloppy stuff, mostly from kids: they patch in routines from other scenarios, or they use the public-domain footage libraries, or they simply don’t bother with backgrounds. Others go the other way: you see some scenarios that are almost fanatically detailed and real-seeming. I sometimes wonder how they do it.’
While she spoke, Patricia was scrolling idly through the database, and Teresa watched the screen. She noticed that the William Cook case had at least twenty different scenarios attached to it.
‘Can I try some of those others?’ she said.
‘If you’re interested in the Cook case, you probably should. We’ve got the FBI scenario here, as well as police ones. Those are the most historically accurate. The rest are probably all shareware.’
‘I don’t have a special interest in the case,’ Teresa said. ‘But maybe it would be interesting to study it from different angles.’
‘Then you should talk to Mr Lacey. Have you met him?’
‘Was he the duty manager yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘I met him.’
‘Ted Lacey runs the education modules here. We have an affiliation to the University of Sussex, and there’s a whole range of study aids and courses. Do you want to sign up for one of those?’
‘No,’ Teresa said quickly. ‘Not just yet. But I wouldn’t mind using Elsa Durdle’s scenario again.’
‘No problem. You want to go back in now? We’ve had a couple of cancellations today, so there’s machine time available.’
Teresa considered for a moment, feeling another twinge of pain from the valve in her neck. ‘I don’t think so. Not today. But would you mind looking up a couple of other cases for me?’
‘OK.’
‘You got anything on Charles Joseph Whitman?’
‘I think so,’ Patricia said, starting to type. ‘That was Texas, 1966, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yeah, we’ve got a huge number of them. Let’s see…’
Teresa saw the name Whitman running down the left side of the screen, all the way through, as Patricia repeatedly touched one of the keys. Finally, she said, ‘We have two hundred and twenty-seven main scenarios for Whitman. With hyperlinked associate software, you’re talking about maybe twenty thousand access points. The Whitman case is one of the biggest we have. Not the actual largest, though.’
‘Which one is that?’
‘The Kennedy assassination, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Teresa said, wondering why she hadn’t thought of that herself. ‘Are the Whitman scenarios shareware?’ she said.
‘Many of them, but Whitman also generated a lot of commercial programs.’ She pointed at the summary box which had appeared at the bottom of the screen. ‘The FBI have sixty, but those aren’t publicly available. You could probably get access to them, I imagine. The ones we can run for anyone are from Travis County Police Department, Austin City Police, Texas Rangers, University of Texas Humanities Research Center, Fox 2000, Paramount, MTV, the Playboy Channel, CNN—CNN have a huge library on Whitman—and our own in-house compilations. You want to try a few?’
‘Not right now. Would you look up Aronwitz for me?’
‘How do you spell that?’
Teresa spelled it, hearing her voice unexpectedly slur.
‘OK,’ said Patricia, ‘Kingwood City, Texas. Let’s see. Texas Rangers again, Abilene City Police. The FBI have fifteen scenarios, not publicly available, Kingwood County Police, we have three of our own. CNN again, Fox News Network, NBC, a few of the religious networks. The rest are all shareware. Not many of them, but most of the source names are ones I’ve seen before. Pretty good material, I imagine. You want me to check them out for you, for next time?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ Teresa said.
‘Are you OK, Mrs Simons?’ Patricia was looking at her, affecting concern.
‘I guess so. Why?’
‘Is the valve giving you trouble?’
‘It’s been a while since I used it. Maybe the connectors you use in this country are a different size or something.’
‘Should be standard,’ Patricia said. She had picked up her internal telephone. ‘I’ll get the nurse to check you over. It won’t take more than a couple of minutes. Hello?’
Teresa sat still, holding the valve against her neck, as if not to do so would allow it to rip away. She was drifting mentally in and out of the San Diego simulation, the shock of it, feeling that hot wind and the grit in her eye, remembering what it was to drive a 1940s model Chevy on a wide road, the smell of the leather seats, the soft, bouncing suspension, the gearshift sticking out from the side of the steering-wheel shaft, the parking-brake handle prodding out from beneath the dash. The memories were like…memories. Her own memories, real memories, things that had happened to her.
Yet only this place was real: the commercial facility building with its computers and functional furniture, the cubicles, the piles of unopened software, the painful valve in her neck.
Patricia said, ‘The nurse will be along in a moment. It’s always as well to check these things. You don’t want it to get infected.’
‘You’re right.’
‘While you’re waiting, would you mind signing this?’ She passed Teresa a plastic-covered clipboard with a sheaf of papers attached. On the top was a disclaimer form, and a printed invoice with a credit-card authorization on a tear-off slip below. Teresa signed woozily, and passed back the clipboard.
The woman checked the signatures, then tore off the top copies of everything and gave them to Teresa.
‘How’s the neck feeling now?’ she said.
‘Not too good.’
‘The nurse won’t be long.’
‘Look, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done,’ Teresa said.
‘That’s my job. I’m paid to help the customers.’
‘No, I mean, telling me about the shareware, and all that.’
‘It’s OK.’
Teresa was feeling as if she was about to faint. She s
tared at the computer screen, which was still showing the list of Aronwitz’s scenarios. She knew that somewhere in there, perhaps everywhere in there, would be living images of Andy. If she went into any of those scenarios she could see him again, talk with him again…
The poignant longing overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes, trying to control herself.
She knew she could have seen him while she was still in the US. Her section chief had offered her free access to the Bureau files, when the ExEx scenarios started becoming available a few weeks after the actual shooting. She had turned down the offer then, and knew she would have to again. It would be unbearable to be there, knowing he was about to die. All over again.
Waiting for the nurse, trying to distract herself, Teresa said, ‘Do you have scenarios about Gerry Grove?’
‘Not at present. We had shareware that’s about to be replaced. It’s not too good. They’re working on a couple of new ones at the moment, and they should be here in a few days. One before, one after. You know.’
‘No I don’t,’ Teresa said. ‘What do you mean?’
Patricia picked up her phone again. ‘Are you feeling OK, Mrs Simons?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Before or after what?’
But her hold on the conversation was no longer so certain. In the last couple of minutes the nausea had increased unpleasantly, a huge distraction. She wanted to find out more from this efficient young woman, but at the same time she could no longer focus her eyes. She sat helplessly at the side of the desk, from where she had been watching the monitor, unable even to turn her head. Patricia was speaking on her phone again, but Teresa could not hear the words.
Presently, a tall, youngish man in a long blue nursing jacket appeared, introduced himself as the duty nurse, and apologized for the delay. He helped her stand up, then supported her as he took her along to the treatment room, at the far end of the building, well away from the ExEx equipment. Teresa managed to hold back until she was there, but threw up as he closed the door.
An hour later he drove her back to the hotel. She went straight to bed.
CHAPTER 19
There had been American voices around her at breakfast in the hotel, or at least they spoke so loudly that they had seemed to be all around her. They were the worst kind of Americans, Teresa thought unfairly: young, ambitious, crude, loudmouthed, superficial. She despised their expensive but tasteless clothes, their bland Midwest accents, the gaucheness of their responses to things British. They made her feel like a snob.
Why does any of that make them worse as Americans? Or as people? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t suppress the thoughts, and disliked the feelings they aroused in her.
Normally she liked most of the people she met, a trusting kind of liking, just in case. But being nice was the last thing she felt like at present. After two quiet days, spent mostly in private misery in her hotel room, the dressing on her neck was ready to be removed and the sickness had passed. She was still on antibiotics. She found a weighing machine in the public toilet next to the bar, and if the thing was registering accurately it looked as if she had lost five pounds since arriving in England. She liked that news: in the miserable months after Andy’s death, she had given up caring about her figure and her clothes had started feeling tight. On the plane to England she had unbuttoned the top of her skirt, making the excuse that you always swelled up a little on a long flight, but knowing the truth was more prosaic. Now, though, things were definitely improving.
But she couldn’t ignore the Americans who had moved into the hotel. As soon as she was feeling better, and able to move around the hotel again, they seemed to be everywhere she went. They exerted a deadly fascination over her. They radiated insincerity and ambition, seemed to dislike or misunderstand everyone they met, even themselves, but suppressed their sourness unenthusiastically, keeping it deliberately unspoken, and thus underlining it.
She admired the calm way Amy had served them at their table, smiling and chatting with them, not letting her face or body-language reveal anything other than a cheery pleasure at seeing them there for breakfast. Yet she knew Amy must be feeling much as she did.
Teresa had spent the days dreaming of America, an older America, one where a hot wind blew and there was a sense of ever-unfolding space. She was stimulated by the idea of exploration, of pushing at the edges of reality, of moving beyond the limits of the scenario. She felt drawn by a mystifying kinship with the large, elderly form of Elsa Durdle, the woman with the big car and the gun in the glove compartment, and her drive along the wide highways of southern California.
She had phoned the ExEx medical room the previous afternoon, and arranged to call in this morning to have her dressing removed. If the infection had cleared up she would start exploring the scenarios straight away. The extremes were an allure to her, like the ultimate narcotic.
When Teresa left her room a few minutes later, to go to her car, one of the young men she had seen at breakfast was waiting in the corridor. She glanced at him, then let the hint of a polite smile rest on her face and went to walk past him.
But he said, ‘Excuse me, ma’am? I’d like to say hello. I’m Ken Mitchell, and I’m visiting from the USA.’
‘Hello.’ Teresa tried to make the word sound as non-American as possible, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation. She added, out of politeness, ‘Good to know you. I’m Teresa Simons.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Ms Simons. May I ask if you are staying in this hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, that’s what we thought.’ He glanced towards the door of the room she had just left, as if having established a significant proof. ‘Are you here in England with your family, your partner?’
‘No, I’m staying by myself.’
Who the hell was he to ask? Why did she answer? She stepped forward. He sidestepped as if casually, but none the less temporarily blocked her way.
‘Ms Simons, are you planning on checking out real soon?’
‘No, I’m not.’
She said it with as much of a British accent as she could muster, but he was clearly uninterested in anything about her, other than the fact of her presence.
‘Right, ma’am. We’ll see to that.’
‘Thank you.’
It was the only thing she could think of saying, but however inappropriate it was it gave her an exit line.
She pushed past him, picking up a faint whiff of scented soap. His skin was so clear, healthy, repellent. She went down the stairs and through the hotel to the car park. She was bristling with irritation, a familiar kind. It seemed to her that she had known people like him all her life, though she hadn’t expected to run into any of them here in England. Maybe they were everywhere, these Americans whom America had once kept to itself but was apparently now exporting. They promoted a distorted version of the American way of life, one of clean, groomed, highly paid, quietly spoken and superficially polite young men and women, narrowly pursuing their careers, completely self-absorbed and uncaring of anything or anyone else around them.
Her rental car was virtually concealed behind the bulk of the huge van in which the young Americans had arrived. One of the women was sitting in the front passenger seat with the door open, looking at a road map of south-east England spread on her lap. If she looked up as Teresa went past the gesture went unnoticed, as Teresa was intent only on getting out of the hotel as soon as possible.
She started her car, and after squeezing narrowly out from behind the van she drove it from the parking lot with a minimum of delay. She turned on to the Eastbourne Road, heading west, and almost at once found herself held up in the slow-moving crawl of traffic that seemed permanently to clog the roads during the early part of the mornings. After half a mile she took a right at a traffic signal, and headed up towards the industrial estate overlooking the town. She parked in a space at the front of what she now knew as the GunHo building.
Half an hour later, with her neck dressing replaced by a simple Band-
Aid, she was sitting in the driver’s seat of the car and looking through the road map of Sussex. She had been told she should not use the ExEx simulations for another two days, until she had finished the antibiotics and the infection on the valve incision had cleared up. Once again she had time on her hands.
The road map she had found in the rental car intrigued her. English roads spread out illogically, following no discernible pattern. The map showed features you would never see on its equivalent in America: churches, abbeys, vineyards, even individual houses. Clergy House, Old Mint House, Ashburnam House—did people still live in these places? Was the fact they were marked on the map an invitation to go visit?
There was for her something solid and real about the English landscape, unlike the sensuous glimpse she had had of the California of 1950 when she briefly took over Elsa Durdle’s identity. Then she had been haunted by the sense of an infinite unfolding of virtuality: nothing existed beyond her immediate awareness, but she had only to turn her head, or drive towards it, for it to spring suddenly into existence.
This English map was another intriguing code, like a programming language, a series of symbols depicting a landscape that for her was mostly imaginary, mostly unseen. The codes would turn to reality as she went towards them, the ancient England of her dreams would be there to be discovered, an endlessly unfolding panorama.
She left Bulverton on the coast road, crossed the Pevensey Levels, and after driving through several tiny villages reached the main highway between Eastbourne and London. Here she turned north towards London and let the car build up speed. She closed her window and put on a CD by Oasis, one of several records she had found in the car. She had heard of the band, but had never listened to their music. She turned the volume up loud.
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