by Tony Salter
'Remind me where we're going. What should I wear?'
'Bloody hell. Grow up, will you. Don't you even look at your diary? It's the Imperial College fundraiser. I'm hosting it, so we can't be late. Wear the blue Brioni. I've put it out. Now get moving for Christ's sake.'
I sloped off to my dressing room thinking how lightly I'd got away with the exchange. I'd expected to get a full roasting and, when I looked in the mirror, my hair wasn't even slightly singed. I now had a good idea of why she'd gone easy on me this time though; Julie was like a jellyfish – invasive, stinging tentacles everywhere but, in the right light, totally transparent and exposing her inner workings to anyone who knew how to look.
For such a sophisticated and manipulative woman, she was surprisingly childish and vulnerable and she was always going to be nervous and out of her comfort zone at the fundraiser.
She'd arranged to be appointed President of the Imperial College business fundraising programme six months earlier but hated the social obligations which went with it. It was one thing being queen bee at business meetings and conferences; she always knew her stuff and, in any case, people would defer to her wealth even if she did say something idiotic. Tenured academics were different and didn't play by the same rules.
Most of them didn't think much of wealth and tended to judge people on their academic background and whether they understood what was being explained to them. Julie was incredibly smart, but there were times when a professor of applied nanotechnology would leave absolutely anybody hanging with their mouth wide open.
It amused me that, with all her money, prestige and experience, Julie still craved approval like a little girl. I dreaded these events for different reasons. I wasn't nervous and didn't give too much of a damn what these professors thought of me. My problem was that they were so unbelievably boring.
At the last one we'd been to they'd served a multi-bird roast with a partridge inside a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey. It was a perfect metaphor for the dinner itself – pomposity inside pointless formality inside undeserved vanity all rammed into a shell of mind-numbingly-dull scientific twaddle, marinated in mediocre wine and cooked for an eternity.
There was one exception to the rule, and my only hope was to be seated near him. Professor David Bukowski was only a few years older than me and was already a world leader, if not the world leader, in nano-genetic research. I'd met him a few times – Pulsar was sponsoring his research – and he was unusually normal. He had a massive brain of course, but managed to avoid all of the defensive pomposity which his colleagues cultivated. Maybe it was because his brain was bigger than theirs? Or because he could still run 10k in less than thirty-five minutes?
Pulsar's technology hadn't stopped with the original cardio-identifier – that had first been hacked over ten years earlier and the whole business of identification and authentication was still growing like tropical bamboo. Everyone wanted a piece of the action and it was all about keeping ahead of the curve. Which was where Prof. Dave came into the picture.
On the face of it, everything was hunky dory in Pulsar heaven. It was still market leader, based on its flagship product, the 'Pulsar Trust', which was a pair of tiny, titanium implants injected into the bicep – one in each arm. They measured cardio-rhythms extremely accurately and were virtually tamperproof. They worked as a pair and, if one was removed from the body or damaged, they immediately de-authorised themselves.
Although easy to insert, people tended not to want to mess with them once they'd taken the plunge, and Pulsar's dominant market share was well established. Pulsar Trust was linked to everything – virtual passports, permanent health monitoring and every kind of smart device imaginable: watches, smart glass, smart lenses, wearables, car locks, door locks, fridge locks for dieters, payments and money transfers. Everything.
Very difficult to hack, but nothing is impossible and, although only a few people were aware of it, the first cracks had been appearing for some time. It wasn't easy but, with recent sensor technology, it had become possible to record heart rhythms remotely and simulate them in playback; a small market was building on the dark web for stolen cardio-identities which could then be used to impersonate the victim. Like every innovation before it, the Pulsar Trust's days were numbered.
Julie wasn't the sort of person to retire and let her business slowly decline. I suspected she didn't give a damn about her thirty thousand employees across the world, but she didn't like to lose. She'd been working with David Bukowski for four years and they were currently running final, live trials of a next generation product, Pulsar Trust 360, which combined the traditional cardio-rhythm implants with on-the-fly DNA matching.
The DNA matching was where David came in; he had developed a radical and unique method of attaching nano-genetic carriers to the haemoglobin cells in the blood. It was all extremely hush-hush but, if everything continued to go to plan, there would be a huge launch event within a few months.
I was showered, shaved and dressed in record time and looking like a perfect, happy toyboy when I joined Julie in the living room. I thought a bit of charm was in order and could sense her tension reduce as I grabbed her coat and held it out for her – half gentleman, half matador.
'Shall we, Senorita?' I said, fluttering the black cashmere gently.
She stood and allowed me to slip her into the coat, laughing despite herself. 'You are a total plonker sometimes, Sam.' She turned and kissed me. 'But a cute and amusing one. Vamonos?'
As we stood in the lift going down, I couldn't help thinking how gorgeous and sexy she was. When she focused her attention on me, it was as though I was stepping out from a dark room into tropical sunshine. Mesmerising and deeply, deeply compelling.
The evening should have gone well after that.
But it didn't ...
'You fucking little idiot.'
'Sorry.'
'What were you thinking?'
'It was Dave's idea.'
'Dave? You mean Professor Bukowski?'
'Yeah, Dave. Went and got the grappa from his room.'
'I've never been so humiliated.'
'I said I was sorry. Not my fault, though.'
'Do you know how important this project is to Pulsar.'
'We only had a little drink.'
'You can hardly fucking stand.'
'I'm fine. Stop shouting at me. And swearing.'
'I'll do what the fuck I want. I should've known better. I really should.'
'I need a piss. Back in a minute ...'
Ink and Tears
May 15th 2013
We brought him home today. Our beautiful, perfect little Sam. I can't believe how small he is. He's so tiny and fragile, it seems impossible that they've left us in charge of him, all by ourselves. He's not got anything to worry about though. I'll look after him and I'll keep him safe forever and ever.
So tired now. Everything's catching up with me. I'll write more tomorrow.
When I woke up, the mid-morning sunshine was burning through the windows and sticking knives into my skull. Why did it have to be so bright and shiny? As I staggered to the bathroom, there was one word on the tip of my tongue (and coating the roof of my mouth). A small, a seemingly harmless word – grappa.
It wasn't my first encounter with that devil's brew but I thought I'd learned my lesson the last time. There is nothing to compare with the acrid, rancid revisiting delivered by a post-grappa hangover belch and the memory should be enough to ensure that 'never again' is diligently obeyed.
Realising I was probably going to die, I double-dosed on paracetamol and iboprufen and plodded back to bed. As I hid from the vicious, uncaring sunlight, I tried to remember exactly what had happened and why I'd broken my sacred no-grappa rule. There were glimpses, flashes of clinking glasses, but not much more. I was definitely in trouble – that was a given – but how much trouble was unclear.
I didn't die but, when I woke up again at half past four, I had a sneaking suspicion Julie would be waiting in
the kitchen with a big knife to finish me off. More and more memories were surfacing like dead goldfish and I realised I'd excelled myself at the Imperial dinner. It actually had been Dave's fault though.
I'd ended up in one of the spare bedrooms. No surprise there. Not quite sure how I found my way but Julie would have kicked me out if I'd been half as drunk as I must have been. I guess I'd still been compos mentis enough at the time to find my way to a bed.
A shower helped a lot and I couldn't avoid Julie any longer. Apart from anything else, if I didn't eat something soon I would fall back into the clutches of the grappa devil.
I was ready with my defence arguments as I slunk into the kitchen but there was no wrathful, knife-wielding harridan lying in wait. The flat was empty apart from me and the note on the table:
I'm in New York until Thursday. Back late. We need to talk. Don't bother to call.
Of course. She had a big strategy meeting to plan the launch of Pulsar Trust 360. I was saved for now, but it wasn't over. What if she broke up with me? I wasn't sure I was ready to give all of this up quite yet. Maybe I should have thought things through more carefully?
Worrying about all of that could wait; I had five clear days in front of me and it was time to give the bloody hamster some time off. I grabbed a banana, threw on my jacket and shoes and set off for Paddington. I could get the diaries and a Burger King at the same time.
The box sat on the table in front of me, gaping open, and it was time.
Touching the soft leather was electric; I couldn't stop myself from lifting the diary to my face and breathing in the smell – musty vanilla and chocolate mixed with something else. A familiar scent, but elusive.
As I read the first words, I immediately understood how painful this journey was going to be and why my father had avoided it. It was as though my mother was speaking directly to me for the first time and right there in her first words on the first page she made me a promise. A promise to look after me forever. I was two days old.
Why did she break her word? Hopefully, after so many years, these two slim volumes would finally give me some answers.
I needed less than two hours to read through the first diary which took me almost up to my second birthday. Mum kept her commitment to write something every day but often a single line or a couple of words were enough: 'great day!'; 'Sam's got a cold and is VERY grumpy'; 'Roop made homemade ravioli for my birthday. Actually quite good. I'm so lucky to have him.'. I could feel her love for me and Dad in every word.
I knew about the bad times, of course, but it was easy to forget that, even in the worst periods, most days were normal – daily life with its predictable ups and downs, laughter and happiness, tantrums and tears. It hadn't all been bad.
The things which happened to her in that first year – her 'incidents' – were recorded in detail, as were her counselling sessions. She was clear and precise in describing what had happened and in setting down her internal doubts and debates about what was happening to her. She seemed to be a logical thinker and, although she could never quite believe she was responsible for any of these incidents, she could also see that there was a weight of consistent evidence proving her wrong.
Overall, there hadn't been so many events – less than twenty – and none of them were particularly major, but her words shone on her increasing self-doubt; layer upon layer of uncertainty combining to form a cancerous black pearl, glowing and growing deep inside her.
After reading the pages about the missing car park ticket, I had to stop for a few minutes and went out to the balcony for an illicit smoke. Such a small event, but huge for her and it seemed as though something had snapped as she sat in the car screaming and pounding the steering wheel.
It was then that I had my first inkling of what might have happened to her more than a year later. She wrote at length about her fears and the animal terror which possessed her when she realised how little self-control she had at moments like this. She was becoming obsessed with the idea that she might do something in distraction, or by neglect, that could do me harm. I could taste the raw panic in each word.
When I came back inside and shut the door, the huge, empty flat echoed back at me and I felt an overwhelming urge to be around people, any people, it didn't matter who. Leaving the diary open and waiting in the middle of the table, I took the elevator down and pushed out into the chaos of early-evening Knightsbridge.
The noise and bustle was strangely calming; oversized, sharp-cornered shopping bags bashed and tangled, mothers struggled to keep hold of their children, young lovers strolled in double-width, self-absorbed bubbles and the river of humanity flowed along the pavement at its own pace. Any other day I would be dipping in and out of the traffic to try to move faster but just then I was perfectly happy to be a passive, canalboating passenger letting the stream guide me along.
As I walked I mulled over my mother's words, especially the parts which were completely new to me. The evening when the police had turned up and interviewed her about some anarchist called Jax Daniels was a surprise. The name Jax had also come up a number of times in earlier pages. Who was she? Why had I never heard of her? I would have to ask my dad. Or maybe Uncle Daz would be better as a first step?
Less surprising was a particular vein of frustration running through the entries from start to finish. Mum had struggled to find a good, balanced relationship with Granny and it was clearly an on-going sore that wouldn't heal. I wasn't even slightly shocked; I loved Granny dearly, but she was an incorrigible snob and the most manipulative, interfering person I'd ever met. Being her daughter-in-law was always going to be a challenge and, if you didn't come from the right sort of family ...
My body overruled the idea of stopping for a drink in Harvey Nichols, although a dry gin martini with a twist might have been the perfect cure. That was a worrying train of thought. Not the idea of a hair of the dog – that was still reasonable and logical. But when had I started seeing sixty-euro cocktails at exclusive bars as a 'normal' option?
With a drink off the menu, I switched flow and allowed myself to be drifted back to the flat. My mind was clear and I was ready for more. There would be time for regrets, sadness and questions later but first I needed to know everything.
The entries in the next half of the first diary – my second year – told the story of a normal, happy young family. Mum had finished her counselling, there were no more incidents and the pages were mostly filled with a comfortable optimism and peace. I learnt to walk and to talk, she wrote about going back to work and her need to find a different balance to her life once I was in nursery. She had even begun to think about the possibility of a little brother or sister for me and to ask herself when would be a good time to bring up the idea with Rupert.
Unfolding the memories of that simple, joyful year was more painful than reading the words of anguish and self-doubt which had gone before. As she wrote, she had no idea of what was to come. No suspicion of the tsunami that was building somewhere under a distant ocean. But I knew what was coming. I could see her optimism was misplaced and her future dreams were no more than that – dreams.
Empty knowledge. I was powerless. A passive observer wrapped in time's chains. Not able to do anything other than to watch the inevitable unfold.
It was almost midnight by the time I opened the second volume and, as I carefully unknotted the ribbon, a separate sheet of paper fell out onto the floor. It was folded neatly and, on the outside, 'My Darling Sam' was spelled out in her now-familiar flowing script.
I had to assume she'd written this after making her ultimate decision and my anger flashed. If my dad hadn't been too afraid to look at the diaries, he would have found this letter earlier and I wouldn't have needed to wait until now to hear what my mother had to say to me.
I didn't want to blame my dad though. He'd been through enough. I was tired, it was late, and I still had the residue of half a bottle of grappa poisoning my blood. This had waited so many years. It would wait until the morning.
Two Halves Don't Make a Whole
July 20th 2013
The strangest thing happened to me last night. I got an email while I was up feeding Sam in the middle of the night. It didn't look like an ordinary email.
There was no address in the 'from' line. Only a row of stars. Nothing to say where it came from and all it said was 'you should have listened'. I must admit it freaked me out a bit. It felt like a warning.
I told Rupert about the mail as soon as his alarm went off and he took the phone to have a look. There was nothing there. The mail had simply vanished. Roops is good with technology and he dug around for about half an hour. There was absolutely no trace of the mail ever existing.
He said it must be some weird webmail glitch and that we should forget about it, but I'm not convinced. It was too personal, too full of menace.
I know I saw it. It's not the sort of thing you make up is it?
I slept better than I had in a long time. It was probably a combination of emotional and physical exhaustion, but I also felt a sense of calm and peace. I knew that I would never understand everything that happened to my mother, and that I would never really know her, but I did feel certain that she'd loved me and, whatever had happened, it wasn't my fault. That felt pretty good.
With Julie away and the book finished, I had a totally free day so went out for coffee and breakfast at Jak's Cafe on Walton Street. As always, it was full of chichi Kensington types and a great place to people watch. I was early enough to snaffle a corner table and settled in to enjoy a huge smoothie, great coffee and a couple of homemade croissants.
