by Liam Brown
‘Jeez. And I thought I liked to party. Sounds like a hell of a night?’
‘That’s the thing, he didn’t even get trashed. Apparently there’s some weird company whose job it is to grab drug-addicted teens and drag them out into the wilderness, to scare them clean or whatever. I think it was an American thing originally. Anyway, for whatever reason Nick’s asshole friends decided it would be hilarious to hire these clowns to do the same thing to my baby brother.’
‘What, so they had him professionally kidnapped?’
‘Nice, right? Poor Nick was driving to work one day when four guys in balaclavas pulled up alongside him and literally dragged him out of his car. They then proceeded to put a hood over his head, tied him up and put him in the back of a transit van, before driving him a hundred miles, stripping him naked and dumping him in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Ah man, that’s genius,’ David laughs. ‘Please tell me they filmed it?’
‘Sadly not. Although it seems they did take pity and left him with a skateboard to make his way home on.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Oh, not much. He spent a day-and-a-half skating in the wrong direction, caught hypothermia, which later turned into pneumonia, and was eventually arrested by some yokel country cop for indecent exposure. As I said, nice friends.’
‘Yeah, that’s not great. But you have to admit that it’s kind of funny?’
‘Try telling his fiancée that. He’s actually been diagnosed with PTSD from the stress of it all. Anyway, that’s enough about me. My turn?’
David gives a resigned nod. ‘Shoot.’
‘Great.’ She reaches into her bag and produces an ancient-looking tape recorder.
‘Wait. Who the hell are you? A time-traveller from the nineties?’
‘My dictaphone?’
David laughs. ‘You know there’s about a hundred apps that do that now? Like, where do you even still get tapes for that thing? Actually, can I take a photo of you holding it?’ he says, reaching for his phone. ‘My followers are going to go batshit when they see it.’
‘What? No,’ she snaps. ‘I don’t want you taking my picture. I don’t even see what’s so amusing. Just because it’s not shiny and new and didn’t cost thousands of pounds. Besides, it gets the job done. I’ve used it for years.’
‘Okay, relax, Mum. But I have to say, you’ve never sounded so old. I bet you have a landline and everything, right? A dial-up modem?’
‘Very funny. Can we get on with this?’ She takes a breath, hits Record. ‘So, what’s the deal with this new show? What was it called again? MindCast? I’ve tried looking online but I can’t find anything about it. And what about Xan Brinkley? How’s he involved? I thought he’d be too busy screwing over low-paid workers by convincing them to electronically tag themselves?’
‘Now come on, Ali. You know I’m not supposed to be talking about any of this.’
‘And yet you were happy enough to talk about it at five o’clock this morning, Besides, I spilled the beans about my pathetically pedestrian family. You’ve got a debt to settle, mister.’
David stoops down and selects a flattish rock from the ground. He grips it tightly between his thumb and forefinger, before launching it at the lake. It skips, once, twice, three times before sinking beneath the grey slab of water.
‘Fine,’ he says, turning back to Alice. ‘Although there’s really not that much to tell. Xan Brinkley – who it turns out is actually a really nice guy – invited me over to discuss his idea for a new reality show. He’s developed a small microchip that they insert into me that translates my brainwaves into pictures. Or something. Basically it’s kind of like what I do now, but instead of having to film everything, my thoughts appear directly on the screen.’
Alice stares at him, trying to work out whether he’s joking or not. ‘What do you mean, your thoughts appear on the screen?’
‘It’s just like a dictaphone, right?’ He nods at her recorder. ‘But instead of words it records thoughts, along with dreams, memories. Everything.’
‘Sounds kind of … farfetched? And you say they insert a chip into you? As in surgically?’
‘There’s a minor operation involved, yes. It’s nothing though. Keyhole. No scar. I’ll be back out by Saturday.’
‘This Saturday? Christ, David. You’re really serious about this thing?’
‘It’s a huge opportunity.’
‘I’m sure it is. It’s just …’ she catches herself. ‘No, you’re right. Congratulations. I’m just surprised it’s happening so quickly. But I’m sure you’ll do a great job. Much better that I would, anyway.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well it’s just I don’t always say what I’m thinking. I mean sometimes I think crazy stuff. I’d simply die if anyone could see how neurotic I really am. And as for my dreams … But maybe that’s just me?’
He sniffs. ‘Some of us are just more open than others I guess.’
‘Right.’
They lapse into an uneasy silence. Alice hits pause on her recorder. ‘So do you want to ask me another question?’
‘You know, if it’s okay with you I’d like to leave it there for today? I’ve just got so much stuff I need to do.’
‘Oh. I mean, no worries. Maybe we can pencil something in for next week?’
They make their way back through the abandoned park, neither saying much. As they reach the end of the alleyway they say a stiff goodbye, before Alice surprises David by leaning in for a hug.
‘Good luck for Friday,’ she says as they break apart. ‘I mean it.’
‘Luck? Listen, if I can make it through today in one piece, Friday will be a breeze. Trust me.’
David opens his eyes. He reaches for his phone. He holds it at arm’s length. He hits Record. He says: Good morning, guys. He hits Send. Then he gets up, showers, gets dressed, and orders a taxi.
Today is Friday.
Today is the day.
As he drags his overnight bag down the stairs and into the street, it occurs to him how much has changed since meeting Alice three days earlier. Since then, his life has been swallowed by a landslide of meetings and briefings. Photoshoots have been arranged. PR campaigns have been scheduled. Interviews lined up. His phone has hardly stopped vibrating. There have been two separate medical check-ups where he was weighed and measured. Prodded and sampled. Meanwhile, Sarah calls almost hourly, harrying him to sign various documents and contracts. He is up to his eyeballs in terms and conditions and small print, all of it written in meaningless legalese, his inbox expanding, exploding. He agrees to everything without reading it, scrawling an x in every box with the tip of his stylus.
X
X
X
Buried treasure.
Careless kisses.
Though on one hand he relishes being so busy – busier than he has been in his entire life – he is still slightly uneasy about the veil of secrecy surrounding the project. While he continues to shoot his show as normal, the original video containing his MDMA-fuelled announcement has been taken down, and he is under strict instructions not to mention anything else relating to MindCast until after the official launch. This is uncharted territory for David. For the last three years, he has offered an unrestricted window into his life. No detail has been held back. His numerous one night stands. His concerns about his thinning hairline. His preposterously messy break up with Ella. Nothing has been judged too personal or off-limits. Now though, he finds himself in the position where he is legally required to hold something back from his fans. It feels like a betrayal. Worse still, the lack of information has left a void that some of his less balanced fans have attempted to fill themselves. Already the first green shoots of conspiracy theories are blossoming in the comments sections of his most recent videos. One viewer is claiming that the real David has been abducted and replaced by an identical imposter, while another insists he had proof of a blackmail plot. Though it’s easy enough to chalk up the ch
atter to obsessives and crazies, the situation nevertheless leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He looks forward to next week, when things will finally get back to normal.
The taxi journey is surprisingly quick, and before he knows it he is pulling up outside the familiar grey building that houses the glass orb. As he crawls through security, his stomach gurgles. Bitter metal floods his mouth. Due to the anaesthetic, he has not eaten a thing since last night, and as he submits himself to a second body search he begins to feel light-headed. He had hoped he might skip these theatrics, especially as he was apparently now so integral to the fortunes of the company they were there to protect. The guards remain impassive though, processing him with the poker-faced detachment of a doctor’s receptionist handling a stool sample. There is a process to be followed. Boxes to tick. Everything is double-checked before he is begrudgingly allowed to pass.
Although he is slightly early for his appointment, he is pleased to find Katya already waiting for him in the courtyard. She greets him with an affectionate hug, pulling him so close he can taste her expensive perfume.
‘David! So excited to see you again. How are you?’
‘Nice to see you too. I’m good. A little nervous, I guess. But I’m good.’
‘That’s completely natural. But really, there’s nothing to worry about. Xan wanted me to tell you that Doctor Khan, who’s performing the operation today, is his own private physician. In other words, you’re in good hands.’
‘Xan isn’t around himself?’
‘Ah. Not today. He had to fly back to the States unexpectedly last night.’
‘The trouble in New York?’
Katya swats at an invisible fly. ‘It’s nothing. He should be back by the time you wake up tomorrow. Anyway, forget all that. Are you ready to make history?’
Like the rest of the building, the hospital ward is constructed entirely of glass. Not the opaque, frosted stuff that lines Xan’s private office, but completely transparent, without even so much as a curtain to hide behind. After he’s said goodbye to Katya, David changes self-consciously into the green robes provided for him, crouching awkwardly behind a heart monitor and IV drip, attempting to shield himself from the eyes of the workers who occasionally pass by. Not that any of them so much as glance at him. As before, the whole place is a breathless hive of activity, the young employees hardly looking up from their phones or tablets as they charge down the corridors that surround the ward.
He has only just finished changing when the double doors gasp open and a sharply groomed middle-aged man walks in, accompanied by a young male nurse.
‘David,’ he says as he extends his hand, an expensive watch flashing from beneath the sleeve of his crisp white jacket. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. And how are we feeling today?’
Before he has a chance to answer, the nurse is by his side, rolling up a sleeve, fastening an inflatable cuff around his arm.
‘We’ll administer the anaesthetic here and then wheel you down to surgery,’ the doctor continues. ‘I just have a few routine questions to ask first.’
While the nurse continues to fuss around David, the doctor runs through a list of things David has already answered before. Allergies. Medications. Medical history. As he checks off the answers on his tablet, David has the sudden impression that none of this is real. The doctor is too handsome, his lines too polished. It is as if they are both actors in a hospital soap opera. They are both just playing their part.
When he’s finished, Doctor Khan asks David to hop onto the trolley while the nurse slides a needle into the back of his hand and then tapes a thin plastic cannula into place.
‘Great,’ the doctor says, exhaling a wave of mint in his direction. ‘If you just lie back and make yourself comfortable. That’s it. Now, you may feel a slightly warm, tingling sensation in your arm.’
As David sinks into the pillow, he stares up. High above him, he can make out the faint shadows of MindCast employees. Scuttling. Skittering. It makes him think of an ant farm he had as a kid. He gives a sharp intake of breath as the drugs enter his bloodstream, so cold it burns. He pictures liquid metal pumping into his veins.
‘Just relax and count backwards from ten.’
David glances down the bed to where the doctor is standing, his face set in a professional rictus.
‘Ten.’
The coldness has spread to his chest now, his ribs like the branches of a frozen tree. It’s a struggle to breathe, but he’s too tired to panic. Too tired to …
‘… Nine …’
The world is fading out, his own voice no more than a distant murmur. He looks down the bed again, but the doctor has gone. Unable to move his head or neck, his eyes flicker around the room until he spots the faint shape of a person standing just behind the glass wall at the back of the room.
‘… Eight …’
The person leans closer, pushing their face up against the glass so that David can make out a ragged beard. A beanie hat. A pink scar.
‘… Seven …’
Xan?
‘… Six …’
Xan is mouthing something through the glass. He is trying to tell David something.
‘… F …’
Something important.
‘… i …’
Something he’s forgotten.
‘… v …’
And then.
PART TWO
Blink.
I’m awake.
I’m not sure I’ve even been asleep. All I did was …
Blink.
There’s something on my face. Pinching at my jaw. Suffocating me.
Panic.
I reach up, yank it away.
Gasp for air. Then look to see what I’m holding. A plastic oxygen mask, soft and jelly-like. The kind flight attendants use in their safety demonstrations.
In the event of a catastrophic loss of cabin pressure.
My hand hurts. Sharp. Like teeth. A snake? Something snagged. A silver thread trailing from the back of my hand. Perhaps it really is a snake? Or maybe I’m just …
Unravelling.
Blink.
I remember.
The hospital.
The anaesthetic.
Xan?
And then …
Blink.
I’m awake. Really awake this time. I look around. Glass walls, ceiling, floor. A bed with no curtain. A drip. A heart monitor. It’s almost identical to the room I was in before. Almost, but not quite. The angles are different. The light artificial. The glass corridors surrounding the room are deserted. I’m alone.
I reach my hand to my head and feel a tight wrap of gauze. A slight sting at the base of my skull. I wonder what time it is? What day? It feels like seconds.
Centuries.
I slip a hand beneath the sheets and fumble for my phone. I’m still wearing nothing but a robe, totally naked below the waist.
No pockets. No phone.
Nothing.
I have no idea where my things are.
My whole head is beginning to hurt now. My eyes feel swollen and itchy in their sockets. I’m thirsty too. And ravenously hungry, though my stomach feels shrivelled and tender, as if I’ve been repeatedly punched.
I’m about to call out, when I notice a small green light blinking on the ceiling.
A camera.
I’m being watched.
Seconds later there’s a sharp hiss as the door slides open and Doctor Khan bounces in. Behind him, the nurse.
‘David. Glad to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?’
I open my mouth to speak, but no words will come.
I try to sit up.
‘Ah-ah. You need your rest.’
Somewhere behind me the nurse fusses with the various monitors. He pushes buttons, turns dials, as if I am a machine being finely tuned.
‘I’ll brief you properly a little later,’ the doctor continues. ‘I just wanted to let you know that the operation was a complete success.’
‘That’s
great,’ I say, at last managing to wrench a few words from my parched throat. ‘Do you think I could get a drink?’
Almost before I’ve finished speaking, a plastic tumbler appears from somewhere. I drink greedily, cool water sloshing down my chin, while the nurse fiddles with the cannula stabbed into the back of my free hand. When I have finished I glance down, just in time to see the white bulge of his thumb, a syringe of clear liquid pumping into me.
‘What the …?’
‘Just a light painkiller for your head,’ the doctor explains. ‘You’ll be a little sore for a day or two. This one will also help you get some sleep.’
Even as he speaks I feel my eyelids drooping, my vision smearing to a blur. The doctor says something else, but the words sound distant and distorted. As my head lolls back onto the pillow, I sense both him and the nurse beginning to retreat.
‘He-ey,’ I slur. ‘Wait a minute …’
I lift my head slightly, fighting oblivion.
‘What is it?’ the doctor says, his voice a distant echo from another galaxy.
‘The show,’ I say. ‘When’s it starting?’
Though I can no longer see him, this time I can hear the smile on his face.
‘It already has.’
‘Well good morning. Or should that be good afternoon?’
A woman.
A woman is speaking to me.
Is that … my mother?
Blink.
I’m awake.
The room blossoms into view.
This time things look a little different. Brighter, airier, daylight streaming in through the walls and windows. Katya is standing over me, her ever-present tablet tucked under one arm. ‘Ah good. You’re alive. For a moment I thought we’d killed you.’
‘No,’ I croak. ‘Still here. Just about.’
As I speak I’m suddenly aware of how terrible I look and smell. I make an effort to sit up, running a hand through my tangled hair. As I do, I spot the other person standing just behind her. A man I haven’t seen before.
‘Just as well. Lawsuits can be so time consuming,’ she says, handing me a glass of water. She doesn’t smile, and it’s difficult to tell if she’s joking or not. ‘Anyway, Doctor Khan tells me you’re making an excellent recovery. In fact, you should be fine to go home in a couple of hours.’
