by Robert Sims
Loftus sat at his desk running a hand through his greying hair as he read the two documents Rita had produced for the coroner. There was no problem with the first. It was her substantive account of the events immediately preceding Josh Barrett’s death. But as he read the conclusion of the second - a supplementary report - his worry lines deepened.
The crimes of Josh Barrett should not be looked at in isolation, but in the context of a new game that appears to trigger psychotic episodes in susceptible people. Research indicates the technology produces intense neural stimulation in structures such as the frontal lobe and amygdala. By implication it also affects the dopamine pathways associated with schizophrenia. The risk is clear for those with medical or psychological weakness in this area. The receptive mind adapts the content of the game to personal delusions that are magnified and acted out in the real world. There is a rapid progression to paranoid aggression, culminating in a schizoid breakdown and suicide. To put it simply, the game can induce accelerated insanity.
Loftus rubbed his temples slowly as he read it. He could feel a headache coming on.
There are two cases on police files: (1) Josh Barrett has been identified as the Hacker; (2) DNA tests on hair taken from the personal belongings of Ormond Keppel prove that he was the serial offender known as the Scalper. In the light of these parallel cases among a small group of people intimately connected with the game, there can be little doubt that it was instrumental. If it is released on the open market the result could be psychosexual violence, murder and suicide on an epidemic scale.
When Rita entered his office, Loftus was standing with his back to her, hands in his pockets, looking through the window. She knew what that meant.
‘Sit down,’ he said solemnly, which she did.
‘What you’ve done is a brilliant piece of detective work. You’ve effectively closed two cases for the squad. But as far as the inquest goes, the supplementary document exceeds your remit. Only your first report will go to the coroner.’
Rita folded her arms and said nothing.
‘I know it’s disappointing after all your hard work,’ Loftus began.
‘Jack.’ She cleared her throat, trying to keep a lid on her anger.
‘You don’t think I’ve been objective?’
‘I think you’ve been clever. Too clever. You want to turn the inquest into a platform to launch a consumer crusade and discredit Martin Barbie.’
‘The game should be stopped and Barbie should be prosecuted.’
‘Under what laws? You’ve got a well-argued theory with a strong coincidence, a touch of melodrama and no criminal evidence.’
‘He paid Kelly Grattan two million dollars to keep her mouth shut about Josh Barrett.’
‘Will she testify to that?’
‘I knew you’d do this,’ she said bitterly. ‘Thank me and file it away.’
‘I’m being pragmatic.’ He sat down at his desk. ‘Apart from a lack of evidence against Barbie, there’s another reason to let it rest.’
‘He’s friends with Nash. The old boys’ network.’
‘That’s how the world works,’ said Loftus wearily. ‘You and I may not like it, but we have to deal with it.’
‘Sounds like a sell-out.’
‘Wrong. The worst thing I could do for you is release this report.
It’s the ammunition Nash needs to go after you again. He’d use it as proof you’re a loose cannon. As for the game, it’s way beyond our jurisdiction.’ He looked at her with something of a hangdog expression on his face. ‘I’m just protecting you. And I hope we can agree on keeping your second report confidential. What do you say?’
‘The whole world’s a sell-out. And Barbie is the salesman.’
Barbie was escaping retribution for the time being, but someone else wasn’t. Mike Cassidy sat rigid in his TV newsroom, a sour look on his face, while colleagues mocked him mercilessly. On his desk lay a late edition tabloid with a picture of him on its front page.
The photo, taken by Rita while they were still together, showed him in costume for a private Rocky Horror party they’d attended. He was wearing Rita’s stockings, suspenders, high heels, knickers and black camisole top. Above the raunchy pose, in large bold print, was the headline: butch cassidy! With a sense of the inevitable, he realised the image would stick to his reputation like a perennial joke, and he’d spend the rest of his career trying to scrape it off.
Martin Barbie stood in the building that housed the old Gothic bank feeling strangely at home. The extravagant interior was a product of the 1880s land boom when speculators celebrated being rich, dishonest and vulgar. The place where he was standing - the vestibule to the original Stock Exchange - was known as the Cathedral Room. It was obvious why. Columns of grey granite were capped by carved white limestone, with elaborate arches vaulting to a groined roof. The walls, clad in polished French marble, were also fitted with Gothic tracery windows and stained-glass panels. The floor was laid with mosaic patterned tiles. The style was ecclesiastical rather than commercial. Or, as Barbie decided, a profane use of religious symbols.
Very gratifying. It could be his spiritual home.
He was there because of Van Hassel. She’d rung him on his mobile - interrupting his business conference to call him a prick and insist on a face-to-face meeting. When he said no, she said,
‘Plato’s Cave - meet me or I blow the whistle.’ It was an invitation he couldn’t refuse. The Cathedral Room was the nearest neutral turf he could think of.
It wasn’t long before the tap of her heels sounded ominously along the inlaid marble of the entrance hall. When she entered the room she found him propped against a pillar, in an obvious pose, inspecting a stained-glass window. She stopped beside him, hands on hips, her face glowering. But he didn’t avert his eyes from the window, where a panel depicted a bare-breasted woman, shouldering a mallet.
Still admiring the image, he said, ‘That’s you up there, Van Hassel.’
Curiosity got the better of her and she looked up. ‘So that’s how you see me?’
‘Absolutely,’ he insisted. ‘Topless, full-bosomed, strong and with a dirty great hammer slung over your shoulder - ready to beat the crap out of someone.’
‘Always the flatterer,’ she said.
‘Even the face is yours. Attractive and tough at the same time.’ He turned to her with a flawless smile. ‘You could have been the model.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment - because she represents honest labour.’
‘Is that so?’ Barbie smoothed down the jacket of his pale grey tailored suit. ‘She looks just like a female cop to me.’
‘You know why I’m here?’
‘Because you can’t resist my charms.’
‘No, you arrogant prick. Because your game is lethal.’ She brandished a folded sheet of paper at him. ‘Plato’s Cave is a killer, and you’re putting it on the open market.’
‘That sounds like a wild allegation. Where’s your proof ?’
She thrust the sheet of paper at him, but he wouldn’t touch it.
‘Sorry, but I only accept documents from my lawyers.’ He strolled away to the centre of the room and stood on the glass floor prisms, craning his neck to look up at the old skylight. ‘What exactly do you think you’ve found?’
She followed him and waved the paper in his face. ‘This is a copy of my report. Giving details of two software engineers who suffered violent schizophrenic breakdowns because of the game.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘The new-wave technology you’re using. It’s too powerful. It has a direct effect on the brain.’
‘It’s revolutionary. I can’t argue with that. The most realistic VR to date. And the most stimulating.’ He adjusted his mauve silk tie. ‘I’m even told it can produce a cerebral orgasm. What a selling point.’
‘It deranges people.’
‘If that’s the case’ - he frowned as if perplexed - ‘why hasn’t everyone who’s entered Plato’s Cave go
ne nuts?’
‘How do you know they won’t?’ Now she poked him with the printout. ‘And don’t you care that such a high level of criminal insanity is associated with your product? What happens when millions of people start using it? It’ll be like unleashing hell on earth. Is that what you want?’
‘Actually, Van Hassel, it’s out of my hands now.’ His eyes looked directly into hers, and in that moment she saw what Kelly had seen.
A coldness at his core. A dead place, where there was no emotion.
There was a chilling edge to his voice as he added, ‘If you’ve found a problem with the game, you’d better go tell the Japanese. It belongs to them now.’ He straightened up. ‘Now, I must be getting back to my conference - unless there’s anything else you want to ask me.’
She looked at him in silence, a tightening knot of disgust in her stomach. If she fought him, she’d lose. He had power and influence on his side. She didn’t. Like Loftus said, it was the way of the world.
She’d gambled on provoking him but it hadn’t worked.
‘Well then,’ he said with an affable nod, ‘I’ll be on my way.’
As he turned she asked, ‘Why that title for the game? Why Plato’s Cave?’
He stopped, shook his head whimsically. ‘It’s a tribute to the father of western philosophy, who invented the idea of virtual reality.
It’s there in The Republic, along with a description of universal nerds immersed in their own light and shadow technology - the realm of illusion we inhabit in our daily lives. Except he called it a cave.’
And for a moment it was there in his eyes - a profound disappointment with existence. ‘Get the picture?’
‘More than you realise,’ she answered. ‘It fits in perfectly with your psychological profile.’
‘Does it really? And I thought I was just being clever. I had the idea years ago, when I was young and living in Sydney. The first carefree days of my life. Between work and debauchery, I read the classics. Plato’s cave seemed the perfect model for a computer game - and a metaphor I could relate to. Seeking enlightenment. Climbing out of hell.’
‘And did you?’
He shrugged. ‘Do any of us?’
She stood beside one of the grey granite piers and watched him walk away over the marble inlaid floor, beneath the series of smooth arches, down the steps, then pause at the carved wooden doors. The electronic glass barrier slid open, and he walked out into the bustle of the street as if the world belonged to him.
EPILOGUE
After months of preparation in Tokyo, everything was ready. Jojima and his fellow executives popped open bottles of the most expensive vintage champagne and drank a toast to their success. It was the eve of the game’s global release. The publicity campaign had guaranteed that the first delivery of stock to stores around the world would be sold within twenty-four hours. Advance orders alone were worth more than $1 billion. It was a marketing triumph - the must-have product of the year. All the mainstream news media were running the story, with TV camera crews staked out at computer shops to provide live coverage of the midnight release.
The only other big news in Tokyo was that the Samurai had struck again - his fifth attack in as many weeks. The serial killer picked up young women at bars and clubs, then drove them to isolated areas outside the city where he beat them unconscious, raped and beheaded them. His predatory presence had added a buzz of paranoia to Tokyo nightlife. Newspapers had come up with the name after forensic scientists identified the type of weapon used to kill his victims. It was a samurai sword. Police had built up a profile with the help of witnesses who’d seen him with women he’d picked up. He was in his late twenties, smartly dressed, well-spoken and worked in the software industry.
Jojima’s top team of software engineers had been too busy with every aspect of testing, formatting and overseeing mass production of the game to take much notice of the news. All, that is, except one of them - Kazuki Hasegawa. For him the sensational reporting of the case was deeply disturbing. The more he read about it, the more trouble he had coping. The story pressed in on him like a living nightmare. And while his colleagues joined in the champagne celebrations, Hasegawa made his excuses and went home.
He closed the door behind him and walked through his apartment to the bedroom. That’s when he caught his reflection in the bamboo-framed mirror. He stopped and stared at it in horror. There, in the mirror, he could see his own face and the other face inside it. It was the mask of his insanity. At that moment he knew that while he lived he was damned.
Before the resolve could leave him, he undressed and laid his clothes neatly on the bed. Then he knelt on the rug by the window and bowed his head. Clutching the samurai sword he’d used to decapitate his victims, he gritted his teeth against the searing pain and ripped the blade through his lower abdomen, disembowelling himself. As he lay there, feeling his life blood drain from his entrails, a coldness dulled the agony and a drowsiness eased his mind. Finally it brought a sense of relief. It was his only way of escaping the shadows of Plato’s Cave.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Acknowledgements
Exploring the dark labyrinth of Plato’s Cave has been a collaborative effort over six years, with invaluable help from a number of people.
Top of the list is BBC Assistant Editor Deborah Sims, my beautiful wife and frontline reader. Her encouragement, constructive criticism and storyline inspirations have played a crucial part in shaping the book, as has her patience while I walked around with my head in another zone.
Others I owe particular thanks to include: criminal profiler Deb Bennett of the Victoria Police for her advice on the role and application of profiling; computer expert Ziad Haidar for his input on the cybernetic background; Professor Ray Nichols for sharing his observations on two and a half thousand years of politics and philosophy; London Broadcasting executive Peter Thornton for his humanist critique of consumer society values; David Wilsworth for his reflections on literary themes and social psychology; TV journalist Sylvia Lennan for her insights on the dynamics of sexual relationships; Essex nature poet Mervyn Linford for elucidating primal moods and motifs; BBC radio journalist Duncan Snelling for his informed views on the crime genre; Channel 4 correspondent Simon Israel for his analysis of the media and institutional bureaucracy; Nikki Davies for initiating the process of developing the novel and seeing its potential when no other agent did; publisher Louise Thurtell for her guidance on the plot and structure of the book; copy editor Ali Lavau for her uncanny attention to detail and engaging so thoroughly with the text; and finally my parents for their unstinting support always.
Note on quoted material: p. v, The Bible, Book of Psalms, Psalm 107: 10; pp. 146ff, Plato, The Republic, bk 7, 515a-518d*; p. 153, Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science, bk 3, sect. 108; p. 175, Lord Byron, Don Juan, canto 15, st. 99.
* For dramatic purposes, passages from The Republic have been adapted to produce a streamlined extract. An authoritative version from the nineteenth century, by Benjamin Jowett, is still widely available, including on the internet. Among the modern translations, the one by Robin Waterfield (Oxford University Press, Oxford World’s Classics paperback, 1998) is a thoroughly readable rendering of Plato’s text.
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About the author
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Epilogue
Acknowledgements
