by Liam Brown
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What I mean is we have an entire department dedicated to flagging and censoring any, um, inappropriate content.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘You want me to spell it out dude? Okay, put it this way. Did you ever hear the myth that men think about sex once every seven seconds?’
Already I feel my ears begin to burn. ‘Maybe?’
‘Well it turns out that it is definitely a myth. But not by much. Judging by our controlled study of one, I’d say it’s more like once every three minutes.’
My mouth is so dry I can hardly speak. ‘Huh?’
Xan raises an eyebrow. ‘So you’re trying to tell me that in all the time that the show has been running, it never struck you as odd that there’s never so much as a peek of pubic hair, despite the fact that you, my libidinous friend, have a mind like a proverbial sewer?’
‘I guess I never really thought about it …’
‘Oh you think about it alright,’ Xan says, exploding into laughter. ‘And how! You know it’s not even so much the volume of thoughts that gets me – and believe me, there’s a lot – but the sheer variety. The breadth of your depravity, if you will. Thin. Fat. Black. White. Male. Female. Animals. Is there anything that doesn’t turn you on? I mean, I always thought of myself as oversexed, but next to you I’m practically a priest. Although perhaps that’s a poor comparison considering the ages involved in some of your darker fantasies.’
‘What?’ I splutter. ‘You can’t honestly be calling me a …’
‘Relax, dude. I’m not sure age of consent matters too much when it’s just your imagination?’
‘But I didn’t. I’ve never …’
‘Ah, relax. Your sickest secrets are safe with me,’ he grins, slapping a filthy hand against my shoulder. ‘Anyway, the point I’m making is that we have a crack team of guys whose entire job is to weed out any problematic thoughts and then stitch the visuals back together so that nobody notices a thing. And it’s just as well, too. Can you imagine the complications if we just left it all in unedited? The public outcry? Not to mention what it would do to your poor parents. I mean, they practically disowned you after you let slip that Daddy was a little heavy-handed when you were a kid. How do you think they’d cope when the whole world discovers their one and only son is a sex-crazed pervert? Hell, it’d probably finish them off altogether …’
‘You wouldn’t … You can’t …’
‘And then there are the lawsuits to consider,’ Xan continues. ‘I mean, I know you’ve had a couple of legal problems of your own recently, but they’re nothing compared to what would be unleashed if that stuff ever got out. It would capsize the show. And I’m not just talking about sexy stuff, either. There’s the other things to think about.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The casual racism? And the violence. Wow, the violence definitely gets cut. There was that time you thought about decapitating your ex-girlfriend and stuffing her body into a suitcase. Sheesh, I can still remember the panic in the editing suite when you cooked up that little doozy.’
‘Racism? Violence? But I never … I mean, I’m not …’
‘Hey, don’t worry about it. We all do it. Those dark thoughts that creep into our subconscious. Man, if somebody could see into my head … Let’s just say they’d have nightmares for weeks, bro.’
He pauses, leaning closer, so that his stink fills my nose, choking me. He smells as if he is rotting from the inside.
‘All I’m saying is that it’s perfectly natural, man. Most of the time you’re probably not even aware that you’re thinking this stuff. But you are. Trust me. I mean, if you don’t believe me, we could go and watch some of it now? I have to warn you though, it’s pretty messed up.’
I swallow hard, trying not to be sick. ‘You mean … You keep it?’
‘Of course we keep it! We’ve got terabytes of the stuff. Petabytes of it. It’s a veritable mountain of shame. Hey, don’t look so worried, dude. It’s perfectly safe. It’s all stored offline and protected with 256-bit AES encryption. It’s the digital equivalent of a nuclear blast-resistant door. No one’s getting their hands on it.’
‘But why keep it? Why not just destroy it?’
At this, Xan’s smile drops, his eyes narrowing conspiratorially as he raises his thumb and forefinger, pressing an imaginary gun to my forehead. ‘Oh, you know. We like to keep it around as insurance. Just in case you try to do anything stupid. Like leaving the show.’
He holds my gaze for a moment, a chilling look in his eye, before he snaps his fingers and collapses into peals of laughter. ‘Jesus, your face! You need to learn to relax, dude. I’m joking, obviously. No, the real reason we keep it on site is that, simply put, it’s safer that way. Data recovery is so advanced these days that the concept of permanently deleting stuff is pretty much a fiction. Besides, keeping your dirty linen under lock and key rather than burning it out on the street is far less likely to draw unwanted attention, wouldn’t you say?’
I give a small nod, though in truth I’m struggling not to vomit.
‘Okay, great,’ Xan says, standing up and stretching, sending yet another wave of stench towards me. ‘I’m glad this has been such a productive meeting. I think we can probably leave things there for now. I don’t know about you, but I could really do with forty winks. It’s been a hell of a day, and tomorrow’s not shaping up to be much better. Here, I’ll show you out.’
As we traipse back through the maze of glass and mirrors, Xan continues to rabbit away, churning out the latest audience records we’ve smashed, the latest territories we’re set to conquer.
‘Oh by the way, I’m not sure who advised you that meditation was a good direction to take the show, but from the viewers’ perspective, it’s like watching the screen saver at a health spa. You don’t get half a billion people tuning in every day to watch a cloud drifting across the sky. Trust me.’
At last we make it back down to the lobby. Xan stands facing me. Even dressed as he is, there’s still a hint of the entrepreneur about him. His capped teeth gleaming through his beard. His chest pushed out beneath his rags. He has the air of someone who’s just closed a major deal.
‘Do you need me to call you a car?’ he asks.
I shake my head ‘I’ll be fine. I might even walk. You know, get some fresh air?’
Xan shrugs. ‘Well, be careful if you do, bro. There’s a lot of crazy people out there.’
He reaches out a hand for me to shake.
And that’s when I see it. Just above his wrist, where his sleeve has pushed back, is an unmistakeable streak of red.
Following my gaze, Xan smiles and pulls down his shirt. In an instant the stain is gone.
I am thinking: Maybe it was just a splash of wine?
I am thinking: Perhaps it was never there at all?
I am thinking: Stop. Thinking.
We shake hands.
As I turn to leave, Xan calls out to me. ‘Hey, I meant to say earlier, but now that my business in the States is wrapped up, I’ll be around full-time again. In other words, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me, Dave. A lot more.’
I keep walking.
I don’t look back.
Outside it’s begun to sleet. Fat streaks of ice pummel my skin, my breath escaping in clouds. The streets are deserted, the police having long since packed up for the night. Even the press have moved on. On to the next story, the next victim, the next witness. An endless conveyer belt of misery rolling on and on and on. The only sign that anything untoward has taken place is a lone strip of police tape, fluttering in the wind.
I pull my coat tight around me and start walking, my head bowed against the onslaught. I have no idea where I’m going other than away from MindCast.
Away from Xan.
Away from Katya.
Away from it all.
I keep trudging forwards, my face and fingers numb, my head spinning. I try my best not to think. I
t’s easier that way. Safer that way. Instead I keep my eyes glued to the ground, watching my feet as I splash through an ocean of grey and brown.
Eventually I stop, too tired and frozen to go on. I take out my phone to request an Uber. When I unlock it, however, I see that I have thirty missed calls, all from the same number.
From Sarah.
Without thinking, I hit redial. The phone rings. Picks up.
‘Hello?’
‘Sarah? Can you hear me this time? I’ve just been to see Xan. Something terrible has happened. I need to …’
‘Hello?’ the voice says again, cutting me off. ‘Who is this?’
‘What do you mean? Sarah? It’s me, David.’
Yet already, doubts are forming. The voice is wrong. Similar, but off somehow.
Too young. Too broken.
‘Hello David.’
It’s not Sarah.
‘This is Pamela. Sarah’s sister.’
And even before she says it …
‘There’s been some kind of an accident.’
Even before she spells it out for me.
‘They did everything they could for her but …’
Her voice cracking.
‘I’m so sorry to have to tell you …’
The tears, now.
‘I know how much you meant to her.’
I know.
‘She was always talking about you.’
I know.
‘You were her favourite client.’
She’s …
‘I don’t know how to say this, but …’
She’s …
‘She’s …’
Gone.
Alice is early.
Alice is always early.
She’s sitting in the small café where I’ve asked her to meet me, a small cappuccino steaming alongside her trusty notebook and dictaphone. Even though I’m fairly certain I’ve not been followed, I’m still careful to walk past the window three times before I finally enter. I’ve instructed her to take a table at the very back of the shop, and as I slip into the seat opposite her, she does a double take, as if not recognising me at first.
‘Well hello, Jackie O.’
I pull back my hood and take off my oversized sunglasses, laying them down on the table. ‘Funny. You know how hard it is to go anywhere with this face?’
‘Okay, I’ll let you off. Although, I’ve always thought that if you’re looking to avoid unwanted attention, wearing sunglasses during the depths of the British winter is probably not the way to go about it.’
I sigh. Maybe coming here was a mistake.
‘Hey, I’m joking,’ she says, suddenly serious. ‘I heard about Sarah. How are you holding up?’
Sarah. The official story is that she’d suffered an accidental overdose. Some kind of mix up with the painkillers she’d been taking for a slipped disc, despite the fact I’ve never once heard her complain of a bad back. Either way, quite how she’d managed to accidentally swallow sixty OxyContin pills is beyond me. The papers had been vague. In fact, the papers had hardly covered it at all. What few obituaries there are seem to consist of little more than reposted social media quotes from her various clients, invariably accompanied by an extremely unflattering photograph taken on a beach in Bali about nine years ago. At her sister’s request, I stayed away from the funeral, her family fearful of me turning it into a circus. Since then, I’ve tried my best to keep busy. To distract myself. To not think. At the mention of her name though, I struggle to keep my voice steady.
‘Yeah, it’s crazy. I can’t get my head around it.’ I pause. Take a deep breath. ‘I mean, we hadn’t been in touch a whole lot recently. If I’m honest, we’d been drifting apart ever since MindCast took off. She was busy with the business side of things. And I’ve been so wrapped up in the show. It’s sad. We used to be so close. Especially in the early days. I mean, she practically discovered me. The only reason I’m here is because of her. Lately though, she was different. Distant. Evasive. I can hardly remember the last time we had a proper conversation. And then, just the other day, she called me out of nowhere. Literally just before it happened.’
‘What did she say?’
‘I don’t know. It was a bad line. She got cut off before she could tell me. She sounded weird though. Upset maybe. She mentioned finding something out. And then she was just … gone.’
Alice nods. ‘It’s tough. Addiction is a horrible disease. It makes you selfish. Isolates you from everyone.’
‘That’s the thing. I don’t believe she was a …’
I force myself to stop. Change the subject.
‘You know what? There’s no point in dwelling on it. It’s been a rough time, but I’m doing better now. Trying to stay positive. In fact I’m almost feeling … hopeful.’
Alice frowns. ‘Yes, I noticed that you’d been unusually cheerful on your feed. I was a little …’ She pauses, checks herself. ‘I mean, I’m glad that you’re managing to put such a positive spin on things. And obviously, if you need anything …’
She trails off, takes a sip of her cappuccino, an awkward pocket of silence opening up around us. I press my finger absentmindedly to the tender patch at the back of my head. It’s been hurting more than ever lately, a constant burning sensation that keeps me awake at night.
‘So anyway, you said you had a couple of last-minute edits for me?’ she says finally, reaching for her dictaphone. ‘Do you want to talk me through them?’
Without a word, I reach out and take the recorder from her.
‘Hey …’ she says.
‘Just watch,’ I say, sliding my phone across the table, MindCast open. The screen is littered with the usual cacophony of thoughts. The selection of muffins and pastries on the counter behind Alice. An unusual dog I spotted on my way over here. I close my eyes briefly, breathing deeply for a couple of seconds.
In … Out …
In … Out …
When I open them again, the screen is blank save for a single cloud, floating in the void.
‘Impressive,’ Alice says. ‘You’ve been practising.’
I ignore her, doing my best to hold the image in my mind. I keep breathing.
In … Out …
In … Out …
At the same time, I fumble across the table for her notepad and pen. Taking off the cap, I write upside down, trying my hardest to work on instinct, not to read the words, not to think, not to think, not to think.
Can’t talk here, I scrawl in shaky, childlike letters. Not safe.
On the screen, the cloud begins to flicker, my words beginning to appear in mirror image, emerging in scratchy flashes, like a brass rubbing.
‘Can’t talk?’ Alice reads aloud.
‘Shhhh,’ I say, writing as fast I can.
Go to park instead.
As soon as I loop the final ‘d’ I take the notepad and tear out the page, ripping it into confetti-sized flakes. It’s no good though. The cloud has vanished altogether now, my secret note shining brightly, the letters slithering like worms, reversing themselves so that they are almost fully legible.
Desperate, I take another couple of deep breaths, but it’s hopeless. I can’t get my thoughts under control. With a final glance at the screen, I take the pen, bite my lip and plunge the nib into the back of my hand as hard as I can. Even as I let out a muffled yell, I glance down at my phone, relieved to see the words on the screen consumed by a flash of white.
‘Jesus!’ Alice yells, staring down at the blood that is already streaming down my wrist and soaking into the cuff of my coat. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Did you read it?’ I ask, ignoring her.
‘You’re going to need to see a doctor,’ she says, handing me a fistful of serviettes. ‘Here, put some pressure on it. You could get blood poisoning or …’
‘DID YOU READ IT?’.
‘Yes …’
‘Well then. Why are you still talking? We need to go.’
Bandaging my injured hand
as best I can, I slip the phone into my pocket and scrape back my chair. As I do, scraps of torn paper flutter to the floor. Alice stoops to pick them up.
‘Seriously. We need to go right now.’
She looks up at me, and for the first time I notice the terror in her eyes. For a moment I think she’s going to bolt. At last she nods, sweeps her recorder and pad into her bag and, without a word, heads for the door. I slip on my sunglasses, pull up my hood, and follow her out into the street.
‘Where do you think the ducks go in the winter?’
We’re standing in the same deserted park we’d first visited back in the autumn. I’d hoped that we’d be safe here for a bit, especially as I’m not really sure where ‘here’ is. Glancing down at my phone though, I’m no longer so sure. Already the jumbled feed has recovered from the sudden burst of pain, and is currently spewing out a collage of churned mud and evergreens, interspersed with childhood kickabouts with my father. It won’t be long before they start figuring out where I am.
Before he figures out where I am.
I look up at Alice. ‘What’s that?’
‘The ducks?’ she says again, pointing out at the lake, which today has frozen solid, the surface clouded a dull, glaucoma grey.
I stare at her blankly.
‘It’s a joke. A reference to … Don’t worry about it. So, are you going to finally tell me what this is all about? Or do you want to have another rummage through my pencil case for more creative ways to mutilate yourself?’
‘Just give me a second, okay?’
