by Liam Brown
I close my eyes, begin to breathe deeply.
In … Out …
In … Out …
‘Come on, David. I’ve already seen your party piece.’
‘I said hang on.’ I snap. ‘I’m trying to get some privacy here. I need to talk without everyone seeing.’
Alice groans in frustration, puts her face in her hands. ‘Give me a break, will you? First of all, you send me a cryptic message from an anonymous email account saying you want to meet up to discuss the book. Next, you attempt to turn your hand into a shish kebab. And then, to top it all off, you drag me to an abandoned park in the middle of winter so you can start bloody meditating. I’m freaking out here. Can you just stop talking in riddles for a moment and tell me what the hell is going on?’
‘Talking in riddles?’ I say. ‘I spend half my life thinking in riddles just so I can get a couple of minutes of …’ I pause mid-rant. ‘Hey, I’ve just thought of something. The adverts.’
‘Adverts? What are you talking about?’
‘The car, the car. You remember, from last time we met. You said I think about it all the time?’
‘You’re still going on about that?’
‘How often? How often?’
‘David I don’t …?’
‘How often do I think about the car? Or the burger? Or the beer or whatever? How often do they show up on my feed?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know? Every fifteen minutes or so? It just depends. But seriously, David. I think I’m going to go. I don’t think you’re very well at the moment. Maybe you need to talk to someone?’
She takes a step back.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Just stay until the next advert comes on and I’ll explain everything. If you still want to leave then, you can.’
I can still see the uncertainty in Alice’s eye, the fear. But somewhere behind that is curiosity.
For the next few minutes we huddle over my phone, watching my thoughts skate and shimmer across the screen. Standing so close to Alice, I can feel the heat from her body radiating through her coat, a tingle of electricity between her arm and mine. To my horror, I involuntarily begin to imagine her body beneath her coat, her breasts shimmering with perspiration, her thighs parting …
Of course, these pictures never make it onto the screen. I picture a man in a dimly lit control room somewhere, hunched over a strip of film with a pair of scissors in his hands like an old-fashioned movie editor, a cigarette clamped between his teeth as he frantically snips away at the smut, sewing the strips back together and feeding them back into the projector. Interestingly, this man doesn’t appear either. Evidently he has censored himself too, maintaining the illusion of accuracy, of transparency. No, the feed keeps on rolling without a bump, skipping flawlessly to another memory or thought, each one triggering another two, then another two more, like cells dividing, multiplying, growing, evolving, the never-ending stream of pictures bringing with them a familiar wave of nausea.
Just as I reach the point where I feel I can watch no more, the feed switches again. A new laptop appears, a sleek, minimalist slab of aluminium and glass.
This is it, I realise. This is my chance to speak freely. I take a deep breath and turn to Alice.
‘I haven’t got long, so please just listen. I’m in danger. I think maybe you are too …’
As MindCast continues to show the image of the laptop, lingering on the magnetic power cable, on the cleverly concealed USB ports, I tell Alice everything I know.
I tell her about Katya. About the Skype call. About her warning.
I tell her about Sarah. How I don’t think it was an accident or suicide.
I tell her about Xan. About him admitting the adverts. About him editing my thoughts.
I tell her about him threatening me when I said I wanted to leave the show – though I leave out the part about the stockpile of sexual fantasies.
I tell her about the streaks of blood on his sleeve.
I tell her that I’m frightened.
That I’m tired of being watched.
That I can’t eat or sleep.
That I need to get away.
That I need her help.
When I finish talking, Alice stares at me, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open.
‘Can you prove any of this?’
I gesture towards my phone, where the image has panned out to show me rattling away on the laptop keyboard. I’m wearing my fake glasses, my hair swept into a neat quiff. I’m concentrating, but having fun with it. I’m being super productive, but also super social, chatting to my friends online, posting hilarious pictures, reading emails. I’m a multi-tasking maverick working in synergy with this beautiful, versatile machine.
‘I’m telling you, this isn’t what I’m thinking. None of it. What more proof do you need?’
Alice raises her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know? It’s all just so …’
‘Look, I don’t need you to believe me. I just need you to get me out of here.’
‘Get you out of here? David, I’m just a writer. Even if I did believe you, I don’t know what you honestly expect me to do?’
‘But don’t you see? You’re the only one who can do something. Do you remember telling me about your brother? The one who disappeared on his stag do?’
And then, as the advert on the screen plays towards its conclusion, zooming in on the illuminated Apple logo before the screen begins to fade to black, I tell her my plan.
It’s late afternoon, Christmas Eve. Everyone is busy. Shopping. Wrapping. Rushing. Finishing work. Getting on the road. Going home to friends, family, kids, lovers. The whole world panicking. Frantic. Not me though. I am perfectly calm. I am thinking.
Nothing.
For the last three-and-a-half hours I have been walking.
Forwards, forwards, forwards.
I am walking out of the city, heading north along Epping New Road. On my back, a rucksack stuffed with supplies. A change of clothes, a sleeping bag. A gas stove, a torch. A few packets of food, a bottle of water. Not enough that it might draw attention. Not enough to give anything away.
I keep walking.
Forwards, forwards, forwards.
The tower blocks and offices are long behind me now. Even the suburbs have thinned out, replaced by a tangle of hedgerows and skeletal trees, their branches stripped of their leaves by the whip of the winter wind. Not that I’m cold. In fact, I’m sweating, though it is probably down to excitement as much as exertion.
Because today is the day.
After a week spent secretly scheming. A week desperately trying to act normal. A week of unbelievable stress, convinced that any moment my own thoughts will accidently give me away, today my plan is finally being put into action.
Today, I am going to disappear.
The light is starting to fade now, but the road is well lit, a constant stream of traffic hurtling along each lane, their headlights dazzling, blinding, bleaching the world white. Into the city, out of the city.
Forwards, forwards, forwards.
Faster, faster, faster.
Home, home, home.
Everyone except me.
I keep to the shadows, tucking myself into the verge. My head bent low to conceal my face. Nobody stops or slows down. Nobody notices me. For once I am invisible. I try to keep my thoughts clear, my mind empty. Determined not to think anything that might give away where I’m going, what I’m doing.
All at once, my parents’ faces flash involuntarily through my mind. How worried they’ll be when the papers report that I’m missing. How disappointed they’ll be when they discover the truth. That I’m a coward. That I ran …
I force the thoughts out of my head, working to keep my breathing slow, steady.
In … Out …
In … Out …
I picture blue skies.
White clouds.
I picture anything but the plan.
Wary of GPS tracking, I have left my phone at home today, so I’m unable to c
heck how many people are watching me right now. Over the last few days, the number of viewers has dropped slightly, people too busy with Christmas to spend their time staring at MindCast. Still, there are those who refuse to look away. Those who don’t stop, even to blink. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. I feel them crowding around me, leaning in and peering down. Suffocating me.
Watching, watching, watching.
All it would take is for one of those people to latch onto one loose thought, to put the pieces of the puzzle together and …
I keep walking, breathing. The traffic like a buzzsaw beside my head.
Forwards, forwards, forwards.
Blue skies, white clouds.
Nobody stops or slows down. Nobody notices me.
Not yet.
It was difficult to know how much to tell Alice. I was terrified of giving myself away. Or of her knowing so much that it would put her at risk. In the end, I stuck to the basics, the bare bones, leaving her to work out the details for herself. The less I know the better.
Talking in riddles, thinking in riddles, I told her I’d like her to speak to her brother. The one who was recently married. The one who was recently kidnapped.
The one who was taken and dumped in the middle of nowhere.
I asked her to find out the name of the company who carried it out.
Talking in riddles. Thinking in riddles.
I asked her if she was following me.
I think so, she said. I think so. When, though? And where?
Christmas Eve, I said. On Christmas Eve I’m going to walk to Epping Forrest. I’m going to walk there alone. Everyone will be busy then. Shopping. Wrapping. Rushing. If a group of unknown men in an unknown van was to drive past and pick me up, well who knows? Maybe no one would notice?
Did she understand? I asked. It’s important she understands.
Talking in riddles. Thinking in riddles.
I understand, she said. But are you sure?
I’m sure, I said. I don’t have a choice.
But where will you go, she asked?
That’s the beauty of it, I said. I have no idea.
The middle of nowhere, I said.
Alone, I said.
Alone.
Around me the evening turns into night. The winter wind keeps whipping. The traffic keeps hurtling. My t-shirt sticks to my chest. The straps of the bag cut into my shoulders. My feet ache and my stomach rumbles.
I keep walking.
Forwards, forwards, forwards.
Nobody stops or slows down. Nobody notices me.
Not yet.
I keep breathing.
In … Out …
In … Out …
Blue skies, white clouds.
Anything but the plan.
And then. Somewhere behind me. A sound. An engine easing off. The squeak of brakes in need of oiling. A side door sliding open. The sound of unknown men in an unknown van. The sound of salvation.
At the last minute I turn.
That’s when I see him. My guardian angel in a black balaclava. He reaches out, grabs me by the arms. I offer no resistance. The passenger door opens and more men jump out and take me by the legs. I smile, lean back, let them take my weight as I am lifted, up, up, up. As they begin to carry me back towards the van.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
‘Shut up,’ says a man.
‘Get in,’ says another.
I am shoved roughly through the open door, onto a waiting mattress. They slip a plastic cable tie around my wrists, even though I have no intention of escaping. Even though I’m happier than I can ever remember being.
‘Thank you,’ I say again. I start to cry. ‘Thank you.’
‘Go, go, go,’ shouts one of the men, thumping the side of the vehicle.
I take one last glance at the dirty December sky, before the door slams shut behind me.
Before the world goes perfectly, beautifully black.
PART FOUR
For a long time, I lie on my back in the dark. As we drive, I listen to the oscillating whine of the road as it unwinds beneath me, the changes in frequency indicating different surfaces and speeds. At first, I’m wary of paying too much attention to the direction we’re travelling. I don’t want to create a mental map that might give me away. Within a few minutes, however, I have totally lost my bearings. The vehicle seems to lurch in endless circles, until I can hardly tell up from down, let alone left from right. In the end, I give up and go to sleep. I dream that I’m an astronaut, untethered from my spacecraft, tumbling through the cold void of space as the Earth grows smaller and smaller behind me. Lost. Alone. Adrift.
I wake to the rasp of the side door being wrenched open. For a second I’m unsure where I am, even as a pair of strong arms hoist me up from the mattress. My own hands are still bound and I’m unable to break my fall as I’m thrown from the van onto the cold gravel outside. I lie there, sprawled face down, the taste of blood in my mouth. Moments later my rucksack crashes down beside me, before the men retreat back to the van. Doors slam, and the engine splutters to life, bathing me briefly in the yellow spill of headlights.
‘Hey!’ I call, my words hampered by a rapidly swelling bottom lip. ‘Hey! What about my hands?’
There’s no answer though. Only the spin, grip and crunch of rubber as the van jerks forwards into the night, leaving me in a cloud of diesel fumes and dust.
‘Hey!’ I yell again. ‘Wait!’
It’s too late. Within a few seconds, the twin points of the van’s tail lights have retreated into the night, the growl of the engine growing fainter and fainter, before it’s lost altogether in the wind.
It takes me a while to clamber to my feet. The plastic cable ties seem to have drawn tighter while I slept, and are now biting into my wrists. I wince in pain, rolling first onto my side, then to my knees, before I finally manage to stand up. My head swims. When the world comes back into focus, I look around. It’s dark. Darker than I can ever remember it being in the city, the only light coming from a faint sliver of moon. Squinting, I see the road is no more than a track. Thick patches of weeds sprout between loose chunks of gravel. Rising up on either side, a dark tangle of woodland blocks my view, reawakening some ancient, childhood terror. Wicked witches. Big bad wolves. Without the constant drone of traffic to block it out, the night seems to fizz with activity. The trees above me groan in the wind. Somewhere nearby I hear the thump of falling branches. The crunch of dead leaves in the breeze. The pad and scratch of unknown paws.
Don’t panic, I tell myself. This is what you wanted.
And even if it’s not, what’s the alternative? To crawl back to Xan on my hands and knees? To end up like Katya? Like Sarah?
A solitary hoot rings out from the woods. I decide I’d better start moving. With some difficulty, I manage to hook my thumb under the loop of my bag. I straighten up. Take a last look over my shoulder. Then I start walking, moving deeper and deeper into the night.
I’ve been on the road for around twenty minutes when I realise my water bottle has leaked. Having already tripped over several times, I stop to try and fish the torch from my bag. That’s when I make the discovery. Holding the bottle to the sky, I can make out a small crack in the plastic. I curse to myself. Though I wasn’t particularly thirsty when I’d stopped, I’m suddenly parched. I begin to panic.
I’m all alone in the dark with nothing to drink. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know what to do. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I want to go home …
I wallow in self-pity for a while, until it occurs to me that half a billion people are still out there, watching me. I try to imagine what they might be seeing on their screens right now. What they make of my attempt to escape. Are they laughing at my ineptitude? Or do they feel sorry for me? Then something else occurs to me. Perhaps I’m simply boring them? Right now, they’re probably switching off in their millions. Tuning in to a new distraction. A new show with a new star. The thought makes me feel stra
nge. As desperate as I am to get away from Xan, I still can’t get used to the idea of no one being interested in my life anymore. After all, if nobody’s there to watch me, what’s the point in doing anything in the first place?
In order to take my mind off this increasingly bleak line of thinking, I force myself to focus on the present. To make a plan. First things first, I decide to take stock of my supplies. Though the cable ties make it awkward to manoeuvre, I eventually manage to empty the contents of my rucksack onto the road. Almost everything is soaking, including my spare clothes and sleeping bag. The torch isn’t working either. When I unscrew the head to check the battery, water spills onto the dirt. I toss it aside, along with the bottle, before repacking the bag as best I can.
Then, in the absence of a better idea, I once again begin to walk.
The hours trickle by and the night disappears, the first rays of sun streaking the morning sky purple and pink. The road has petered out altogether now, leaving nothing but frozen mud beneath my feet. The trees either side have gone too, replaced by low hedges and stone walls, with gently rolling fields beyond them. At one point I begin to plot a radius around London, trying to work out where I might be, before I catch myself. The less I know the better. I keep going, my breath billowing before me, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. Something will turn up soon, I tell myself, though I’m not sure I really believe it. Like Xan says, I’ve never been any good at lying.
At some point, it occurs to me that it’s Christmas Day. Not that it really means much to me anymore. I’m not religious, and presents don’t seem to carry the same allure now that I tend to instantly receive everything I wish for. Nevertheless, I find myself thinking about my parents. No doubt they’ll be awake by now, perversely early risers that they are. Perhaps Mum will have already tried to call me, only to leave some rambling, nonsensical voicemail. The last few Christmases, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid visiting them; something about their tired decorations and fading plastic tree that’s just too depressing for words. I guess it’s ironic then, that this year it was them who’d made the excuse, Mum sheepishly explaining that they were planning on having a ‘quiet one’ and that it would be better if I stayed away. Fine, I’d snapped. I have other plans anyway.
