by Gemma Malley
Frankie digested this. ‘So what, you come here to talk? To complain about Infotec?’
She sounded more patronising than she’d meant to; she could see the hurt in Jim’s eyes. But she needed to lash out at someone, and he was there. He was always there, she thought heavily.
‘To complain, yes,’ Jim said carefully. ‘But also to help others. To identify others like us. To eventually …’ He trailed off again. ‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are in deep trouble and we’re going to help you.’
Frankie exhaled loudly. ‘To eventually change things?’ she asked. ‘To show everyone what bastards Infotec really are?’
Jim didn’t say anything. There was a knock on the door; the waiter, Pierre, appeared.
‘I have this for you,’ he said, walking towards Frankie; she gave him her hand and watched silently as he inserted yet another new chip into her palm.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘They used me, didn’t they? I mean, that whole thing with Milo. It wasn’t real, none of it. He just wanted to turn me into a performing seal. He pretty much did. And I’d have married him too. I’m such a sap.’
She stared up at the tiny window, through which the faintest trace of sunlight could be seen. ‘And how about you?’ she said, turning to Sal suddenly. ‘You live here, right?’
Sal raised his eyebrows. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘The rowing machine,’ Frankie said with a shrug. ‘And it makes sense. You’re obviously the boss. So what, you started it up? This place? This … movement? Why? Did what happened to me happen to you?’
Sal smiled. ‘I’m not the boss,’ he said. ‘I’m just a communication midpoint. But yes, I live here.’ He moved a little and Frankie saw how pale his face was; she guessed he didn’t get out all that much, if at all. ‘And yes, I pretty much went through what you have. Not being made the most Watched person in the world, just the bit where the men turned up at your apartment and dragged you away.’
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. ‘So what happened then?’
Sal sighed heavily. ‘They took away my chip. That’s always the first thing they do. Your chip is your identity, it has every record, every message you’ve ever sent, all stored in it. Your number, all your contact details are on it; without it you can’t go anywhere, can’t contact anyone, and no one can get hold of you. Not the real you. Infotec put a stooge in my place too, just long enough to alienate all my friends, and to build a believable story about what had happened to me.’
‘They really do that?’ Frankie breathed. ‘I mean, a lot?’
‘When they want to,’ Sal shrugged. ‘Sometimes that’s enough. Losing your chip cuts you off, stops you talking to people, stops you getting into your home, your workplace, wherever. Stops you causing problems. They say that you did it yourself, that you’ve gone off the radar, that you’re dangerous and have committed some crime or other. Then they start to hunt you down, make you run, make you hide, make you steal to feed yourself, force you to accost family members, old friends, begging for help, looking and sounding like the crazed criminal they’ve made you out to be. That’s when you’re labelled highly dangerous, your image shown on every screen. Of course sometimes people are just taken away. If there’s nothing complicated about them, if no awkward questions are likely to be asked. But they can make mistakes. Your uncle was just taken away. And then your father started to dig for answers. That was a complication.’
Frankie’s eyes widened. ‘My father?’ she asked. ‘What do you know about my father? He died. He died of a heart condition.’
‘That’s what they told you?’ Sal shook his head. ‘Your father was a bright man. A tenacious one. But he was also naïve. He thought he had a right to ask questions, thought that Infotec would be grateful. He had no idea what he was up against.’
He studied Frankie’s face; Frankie shrank backwards. ‘He isn’t dead?’ she whispered.
‘He’s dead,’ Sal said gravely. ‘As is your uncle. But don’t go thinking that heart attacks had anything to do with it.’
Frankie blinked back more tears. She had seen those people, flashed onto her screen, hardened criminals that Infotec wanted to protect everyone from, renegade citizens who had taken out their chips and gone on the run. ‘They killed my father?’ she asked, her voice breaking as she spoke. ‘They killed my uncle and my father? Did Milo know that? Was he the one behind it?’
Sal was pacing around the sofa. ‘The final stage is when you go missing,’ he said quietly, ignoring her questions. ‘By then no one cares. Even your own family are relieved. You’re either dead, or you’ve escaped; either way, you’re not their problem anymore.’
Frankie cleared her throat, tried to look like she was listening, like she hadn’t been transported back to the apartment they’d lived in, the men in dark suits coming to tell her and her mother about her father’s fatal heart attack at work. ‘And what … you end up here?’
Sal laughed, a dry, dirty laugh. ‘The lucky ones do. The ones we can get to. The ones we know about. I ended up here, but that was because I was prepared. I had this place all ready for me just in case. Most people … don’t.’
‘My father,’ Frankie managed to say. ‘So where do … the others … where do they end up? What does Infotec do with them?’
‘Taken away to be disposed of discreetly,’ Sal shrugged. ‘Or there’s always the bottom of the Seine.’
Frankie’s eyes widened. ‘They jump?’
‘Sometimes. But more often they’re pushed.’
Frankie began to shake again. ‘Milo wants me dead,’ she whispered, ‘doesn’t he? This isn’t a punishment. This isn’t him showing off his muscle. He actually wants me dead. But why? Because of the blog? Because I didn’t do what he said?’
‘Because you struck a nerve. Because you reported on something that Infotec doesn’t want anyone knowing about. And I suspect he doesn’t want you dead quite yet. You’re a more complicated case. Too high-profile. So he got your replacement all ready; I suspect he’s had one waiting in the wings for a while now. But what he really wants is your contact, this person who put you in touch with us, sent us to help you. He’ll be hoping that they contact the new Frankie instead, that he can trace them. But after that, you’re just a loose end. And that is why you are in such grave danger. That’s why we’ve got to get you out of Paris as quickly as possible.’
Frankie stood up. ‘This is bullshit,’ she said angrily. ‘This is just bullshit. They can’t do this. Milo can’t do this. Who the hell does he think he is?’
‘He doesn’t think, he knows,’ Sal said seriously. ‘He’s the most powerful man in Paris. In Europe.’
Frankie shook her head. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘So this imposter. This girl. She knows what’s going on. All I have to do is get to her, make her tell the truth. I’m not leaving Paris. I’m going to let everyone know what an evil bastard he is. Show him that he can’t bloody well mess with me.’ She walked towards the door, opened it, then closed it again and turned around. ‘You have to help me,’ she said to Jim. ‘I can’t get in anywhere. I can’t even get into my apartment. You have to take me to Le Bon Pain tonight. That’s where we’re … that’s where Milo and this girl will be having dinner. We have to confront them. You have to get me in there. You have to … What? What are you looking at me like that for? Stop shaking your head. Stop looking at me like I’m stupid or something.’
Jim stood up. ‘You’re not stupid,’ he said gently. ‘But do you really think Milo’s going to let you anywhere near him or the new Frankie? He’ll have people everywhere looking out for you. The new Frankie will have been told that you’ve gone mad, or bad, that you’ve been corrupted by evil forces, that you need protection, that you’re dangerous.’
‘People will know it’s not me,’ Frankie said, her voice choking because she knew it wasn’t true. Her parents were dead; she had no close friends other than Jim. Had Milo known that? Had he chosen her knowing that one day he would dispose of he
r?
‘Anyone who suspects something will be strung a line too,’ Jim said, reaching out, holding her arms. ‘They’ll be kept at arm’s length, told you’re too busy. Maybe an argument will be initiated. Something. They control everything, Frankie. Every message. Every post, every image. No one has noticed have they? No one has noticed it’s not you.’
‘But they will eventually,’ Frankie insisted desperately. ‘This new girl can’t go to the Library or hang out with any of my real friends, can she?’
Jim looked at Sal; a silence hung in the air. ‘What?’ Frankie demanded. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
Jim bit his lip. ‘The new Frankie … The likelihood is, she’ll have an accident pretty soon,’ he said quietly. ‘Something tragic. Something where the body isn’t …’
He trailed off; Frankie pushed him away, walked over to the sofa and sat down, letting her head fall forwards into her hands. She wanted to cry; needed to cry. But now no tears would come.
‘So that’s it?’ she managed to say. ‘He’s won?’
Sal moved his chair round to face her; Jim joined her on the sofa. ‘No,’ Sal said. ‘He hasn’t won because you’re here. You’re safe. And we’ll get you out of Paris tonight and out of Europe by tomorrow. You’ll have a new identity. They won’t find you. You’ll be fine.’
‘A new identity?’
Sal nodded. ‘We have friends around the world. You can go to Australia. Somewhere far away. You’ll be fine, Frankie. We’ll make sure of that.’
Jim put his arm around her. ‘I’m sorry, Frankie. But Sal’s right. You’ll be fine. You’ll have a new life. And so long as you lay low, so long as you …’
‘As long as I don’t stick my head above the parapet?’ Frankie cut in. ‘As long as I mind my own business and forget all about my life here, you mean?’
Jim pulled a face. ‘Better that than the alternative,’ he said awkwardly.
‘No,’ Frankie said, shrugging off Jim’s arm and standing up. ‘No, I’m not doing it. I’m not going.’
Sal looked at her archly. ‘You’re going to stay here?’ he asked. ‘There isn’t a lot of room for two of us.’
‘I’m not hiding. And I’m not running,’ Frankie said, folding her arms defiantly. ‘This all happened because of what I wrote about, because Infotec were afraid. So I’m going to make them even more afraid. I’m going to expose what they’re hiding, expose what they’re doing. I’m going to tell the world what they did, what they did to my father, my uncle. I’m going to write about everything.’
‘No,’ Sal said sharply. ‘No, you can’t do that, Frankie. It’s no good going up against Infotec. They’re too powerful. You can’t win. You don’t know who your source is and now they’ve got no way of finding you.’
‘Maybe I can’t win,’ Frankie said. ‘But I can land a few punches. I know I can. And you’re going to help me. You’ve got to help me.’ She looked at them imploringly. ‘Please?’
Sal and Jim exchanged a glance. Then Sal exhaled slowly and turned back to Frankie. ‘You really don’t want to go to Australia? It’s lovely there, I hear. Beaches, sunshine …’
Frankie shook her head. ‘Either you help me, or you let me out of this place and I’ll do it myself,’ she said. ‘I just need access to a computer.’
Sal regarded her dubiously. Then he looked over at Jim. ‘In that case she should probably meet Glen,’ he said with a little shrug.
‘Who’s Glen?’ Frankie demanded.
‘Glen …’ Jim said, thoughtfully, then looked over at Sal, who smiled opaquely.
‘We should eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll go talk to Marco, get him to rustle something up. Actually, Jim, you go up and talk to him. And then leave. We don’t want your chip here too long, don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to this place.’
Jim nodded and pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said, giving Frankie’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘As soon as it gets dark.’
‘And then we meet this Glen guy?’ Frankie asked.
‘And then you meet Glen,’ Jim said, then left the room.
‘So,’ Sal said, a broad grin revealing large, yellowing teeth. ‘You play cards? I do hope so, because there’s really not much else to do around here.’
13
It was late. Frankie had spent hours in the café basement playing cards, watching the one screen on the wall, trying not to feel like she’d been punched in the stomach when she saw images of Milo and her doppelganger laughing as they came out of the restaurant she should have been at, their hands entwined, a blush spreading across her cheeks as people rushed up to see the rock on her finger.
What line had they fed her, Frankie found herself wondering. Did it even matter? How was it that no one noticed? Couldn’t they see it wasn’t her? Couldn’t they just … tell?
She had posed the question to Sal, but he had dismissed her with a shrug. ‘Seeing is believing,’ he’d said. ‘And believing is seeing. There is no truth in what we see, just information that we can accept or reject. Mostly we accept. If things follow a correct order, we make assumptions, fill in any gaps and move on. Infotec knows this. Your followers weren’t following you. They were following the image of you, the idea of you. And those two things remain.’
‘But …’ Frankie had started to say, then stopped, because she’d known he was right. For a few days, anyway. The new Frankie wouldn’t go to the Library again, and no one would suspect anything; it would just confirm their suspicions that Frankie thought she was too good for the Library, especially now that ‘she’ was marrying Milo. Close-ish friends could be dropped easily; anyone who would spot that Frankie wasn’t Frankie could be avoided, expunged from ‘her’ life. And no one would really care. Perhaps no one ever had.
The door opened; Jim appeared and Frankie looked up at him, immediately having to suppress the tears that had been absent for hours and which now threatened to flood out of her eyes like a child whose mother had just appeared to collect her from school, all the pent-up frustrations and adrenaline of the day immediately unlocked.
But Frankie couldn’t cry. Wouldn’t. Not over Milo. Not over what had happened. What she’d worked out that evening, her mind whirring as she played cards on autopilot, was that she’d allowed this all to happen; had allowed herself to get swept away. Had allowed that bastard to manipulate her. Because she’d liked the fact that Milo had liked her. Because she liked all the attention.
Because she’d been a sap.
She pushed her chair back and stood up. Her muscles were tight from sitting down for so long and she got a rush to the head as her blood failed to circulate quickly enough; grasping the table, she steadied herself.
‘You okay?’ Jim asked.
She nodded quickly. ‘Are we going to meet Glen?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ Jim said. ‘Put this on.’
He threw something into Frankie’s hands; when she picked it up she saw that it was a wig. A dark crop with a fringe. She raised an eyebrow, then put it on. Sal gave her the thumbs up.
Jim looked at his watch. ‘Ready?’ he asked. ‘We need to give you another new chip upstairs. You know. Just in case.’
‘Ready,’ Frankie said grimly, and put on her leather jacket – the only thing that connected her to her former life. ‘You coming?’ She looked over at Sal, but he just smiled and shook his head.
‘Where you’re going … it’s not for me,’ he said with a knowing shrug, then turned back to the cards in front of him, picking up Frankie’s hand and folding it into the pack. ‘Look after yourself, won’t you?’
Frankie nodded, then glanced over at Jim, who was holding the door open.
‘Okay?’ he said.
‘Okay.’ She nodded, and followed him up the stairs.
They walked silently through alleyways, down quiet roads, their hands in their pockets, their heads down. Jim had briefed her before they left the café: her new chip, he told her, had belonged to an unremarkable girl of a similar age from Toulo
use. When Frankie asked him how they had got hold of it, he shot her a look that suggested she didn’t need to know. ‘No one was hurt, no one’s in danger,’ was all he’d say. She was to stick with him, draw no attention to herself. And that’s exactly what she did, walking through the streets of Paris. It was like she was walking through a new city: it looked the same, but underneath it was different, with depths that she hadn’t known before and threats that she’d never had cause to imagine.
Every time someone looked at her she felt her heart clench; every time a camera swivelled in her direction she froze momentarily. But after a while she started to enjoy it, started to feel slightly lighter than she used to as she glanced up at the large screens hanging across the roads and saw not herself, but the other Frankie. Earlier that day, Frankie had loathed this girl, this pretender. Now, she just felt sorry for her, felt sorry for the girl who had taken on her straightjacket, who lived within her prison.
‘In here.’ They were in the Marais district; Jim pulled her down a narrow staircase towards a dingy-looking club. Frankie followed uncertainly. Two bouncers were on the door. They opened it and nodded Jim and Frankie in; a deafening beat suddenly filled the air. Frankie followed Jim in, her chip allowing her access, drawing no attention from anyone, and immediately the heat, dry ice and smell of sweat hit her like a wall, the trance music so loud she felt disoriented for a moment or two. Then she saw Jim waving at her and followed him through the throng of moist, dancing bodies, skimpily clad, moving in virtual unison to the heavy beat, their arms in the air, their faces uplifted. The place was packed, full of beautiful, strange-looking people who would stand out in the street, their necks adorned in collars, the girls wearing shorts, trainers and bikini tops, the men wearing baggy trousers and little else, their torsos gleaming under the flashing lights.
She looked around; there were screens but the darkness of the room combined with the strobe lighting meant that the images couldn’t be seen properly. There were cameras, too, but Frankie immediately realised that they would see nothing because they were covered in condensation. Nor would the microphones be able to pick up anything other than pounding beats.
