Hashtag

by David Wake

  Back at the station, Oliver joined Zack and Bob in the observation room. There was a pot of coffee ready, but it wasn’t Hasqueth Finest, so Oliver gave it a miss. Carl Jürgens was already seated at the table in the interview room. Oliver could see him through the one–way mirror, but by standing at the back he was beyond the recognition range. Max stood on guard by the door, his arms folded and his scowl directed down towards the suspect.

  Lawyer, Jürgens demanded.

  Mox showed him five fingers and then added in thought, if you’re lucky.

  The door to the interview room opened and in rushed a middle–aged man wearing a formal suit that was more of a uniform than the uniform division wore. Oliver recognised him as Mellors_Jnr from Mellors, Mellors and Smyth. Strange that a lawyer would have an underscore in his recognition. The man put his briefcase down on the table.

  “I’m…”

  Yes, I recognised you, Jürgens thought.

  “For the record,” Mellors_Jnr said, pointedly. “I’m your court appointed lawyer.”

  Mellors_Jnr glanced at the CCTV camera in the corner of the room. Those in the observation room looked up at it too, despite knowing that they were invisible behind the one–way mirror. The lawyer stepped up to the window.

  “I recognise that we have a lot of police observing,” said Mellors_Jnr to his own reflection, before he pulled a chair to the table, so he could sit closer to his client. He leant in to whisper. Despite the amplification from the microphones in the interview room, none of them could hear what he was saying.

  I understand, Jürgens thought, don’t say anything, don’t think about that piece of arse, don’t let them rile you, don’t react, don’t say anything… I understand. Yes, I understand, I do–

  “I do understand,” Jürgens said.

  Mox suddenly opened the door and Maxine walked in. Clearly Mox had been following Maxine.

  “I see your brief has finally arrived,” said Maxine as she glanced pointedly at the camera.

  “You’re the one who was late,” said Mellors_Jnr. “For the record.”

  Maxine took a seat opposite Jürgens, like chess players, with Mellors_Jnr to his client’s right. Mox stood back.

  “Jürgens, Carl,” said Maxine. “Stalking… planned sexual offence.”

  “That remains to be proven,” said Mellors_Jnr.

  “I didn’t do anything,” said Jürgens.

  “Please, Mr Jürgens, Carl, I advise you to remain silent,” said Mellors_Jnr. The lawyer turned to Maxine. “He has that right.”

  “Of course,” said Maxine. “He doesn’t have to talk.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I can still ask questions though.”

  “Yes,” Mellors_Jnr admitted.

  Maxine stared at Jürgens: that playground game of trying to make the other child think something.

  “Mum’s the word,” said Jürgens, smiling. You’re not getting me, he thought, which left a self–satisfied and confident aftertaste.

  Maxine looked at him closely and then smiled. Oliver didn’t catch her thought as Jürgens’ reaction was so strong.

  No, she isn’t!!! She gorgeous, a fucking gorgeous piece of arse, which I’d like to f–

  Oliver unfollowed: he knew where this was going and didn’t want to accidentally rethink any of it to his own friends.

  There was a general outflow of breath in the observation room.

  What a fucking pervert, Zack thought.

  “I heard that!” Jürgens screamed in their direction.

  “Admissible in court,” said Maxine, scraping her chair back and making for the door.

  Jürgens turned his attention to Maxine: You bitch! I’ll get the Chinese Room onto you. I will. I’ve got the Chinese Box. They owe me. Then you’ll be sorry. Do you hear!

  Mox stepped in front of Jürgens, his hand out, and the man sat down.

  Maxine didn’t even turn round, but simply stepped through the door and let it close.

  Mellors_Jnr put his head in his hands, crinkling his smart suit around his shoulders.

  “I said nothing!” Jürgens shouted.

  “It’s…” but Mellors_Jnr couldn’t articulate, and Oliver wasn’t following his thoughts.

  Result, Zack thought.

  Everyone else in the observation room liked this.

  She just thought of the victim’s name, Bob thought, that’s not leading him on. You’ve got to admit she’s good.

  They filed out and their thoughts turned to coffee: Hasqueth Finest, tastes so good.

  What kind of sick bastard stalks women, Mike thought.

  What kind indeed, Oliver thought back, but he had other things on his mind: At Jasmine, looking forward to tonight, Oliver thought.

  He didn’t receive a reply and noodled her recent thoughts: she’d been thinking with her friend Cheryl, they were planning a trip to Norway, and with her boss about some report. She’d booked the tickets for the evening. While he drank his coffee, he skimmed up and down the record as if caressing her. It made Oliver feel warm and happy. Who needs special thoughts? So good.

  He sipped his coffee.

  I wonder if this is contentment, he thought.

  Damn right, thought Zack, we got the bastard.

  Good result, team, Freya thought, please pass on my congratulations. Hash Foxtrot.

  Chen clinked a spoon in his mug: I wonder what that Chinese Box was?

  DS Mike Milton rethought Freya’s congratulations.

  Probably nothing, Mox thought.

  Oliver was inclined to agree and didn’t want the case to develop any complications. He was going out after all. Even so, it nagged as he packed away his kit into his locker, and then made his way home to shower and change.

  So Oliver did think about it: What could a Chinese Box be?

  It could be pretty, Mithering thought.

  Oliver checked himself in the mirror as he left his apartment for the evening. All right, he thought.

  On the way, Oliver passed a Surprise Me! store and on a whim, popped in. The assistant looked very smart in her crisp blouse and smiled as Oliver approached. He recognised her as Matilda long before he read the name on her name badge.

  “Lovely day,” said Matilda aloud.

  “It is,” said Oliver, falling into the conversational pattern. “My er… girlfriend.”

  “Lovely,” she replied, “and…”

  “I’m Oliver Braddon,” he said, even though she was close enough to recognise him.

  She arched her well–groomed eyebrow: “Excellent… one moment – oh, you’re not in a relationship.”

  “No. I mean, yes; I forgot to change it: she’s Jasmine.”

  “Wait a sec… oh yes, here she is.”

  “Something…” said Oliver and he held his hands as if he was holding a small box. “In her handbag.”

  “I see. Price?”

  Oliver indicated on the chart and suspected he’d seen a disapproving look on the Matilda’s face, not enough to distort her forehead and reveal her brow, but fleetingly there.

  “I won’t be a moment,” she said. “Perhaps you’d like to peruse the distractions.”

  Oliver went over to some quaint old–fashioned video screens and watched the images flicker. They were enough to generate a few thoughts, although if any of his followers were paying attention, they’d know what he was up to. He saw the assistant standing with her arms folded, her weight on one leg so that her hip was pushed to one side. She was noodling, probably tracking down Jasmine’s trains of thoughts. Suddenly, she smiled, and then went back to tidying her counter.

  Oliver wondered if she’d forgotten and, after a noodle, he remembered the time and how long it would take to walk to the bar where he’d agreed to meet Jasmine; but then another assistant, who he recognised as Tammy when she was in range, arrived with a brightly wrapped present.

  Oliver went back: “Excellent, thank you.”

  Matilda indicated the till and Oliver waited for the buzz.

&
nbsp; God, it’s at the top end of my price range, he thought.

  He reckoned with his bank all the same, because there was no way he could argue the bill without a thought escaping.

  He took the present and went back into the pedestrianised area, walking quickly to make up time. He noodled and remembered that he had five minutes to spare at least. He felt foolish carrying the fancy package.

  Bar Terrific was in the trendy part of town, just by Tony’s Restaurant, and it opened out onto the canals. There were high rise apartments towering overhead, Delaware Towers and the West District Spires. Oliver was five minutes early, but knew from Jasmine’s thoughts that she was going to be ten minutes late. She’d thought to her friend Cheryl about making him wait.

  And he did wait by the door until his hearing adjusted to the ear–splitting volume of the music, and then he thought about getting a drink.

  Yes, Jasmine thought, I’ll have a white wine.

  Large?

  Yes.

  Oliver had been to the wine bar before, so he had it in his favourites and ordered his drinks before he managed to push his way through the throng to the bar. It was packed, the sheer number of recognitions disquieting. His drinks were waiting for him when he finally got there, and there was only a short queue for the till: buzz, reckon, all very quick. There was a lot of shouting from those whose alcohol intake meant they couldn’t think their order ahead and, even though it was early evening, the queuing was two tiers already.

  Jasmine had arrived by this stage, her cab being so quick that her fashionably late stance was ruined.

  Oliver worked his way back to the door, awkwardly holding a white wine, a bottle of lager and the present. The sound system was playing something phasial, full of drum beats and wailing sequences. As he walked past a speaker, he could feel the beat vibrating the skin on the side of his face. He felt deaf.

  He saw Jasmine come in. She looked smart, still in her work clothes, with her long black hair framing her face. She winced at the volume.

  You look nice, Oliver thought.

  Thanks.

  Here, he thought as he reached her, and she took her glass.

  And here.

  Oliver gave Jasmine the present.

  Oh lovely, she thought, and at the top end of your price range too.

  I hope it’s good, Oliver thought.

  I’m sure it will be.

  She began opening the wrapping, tearing it apart and then she gave a little squeal of delight.

  It is!

  You like it?

  Yes.

  Good.

  She started to tuck it away in her handbag.

  Oliver thought: what is it?

  Never you mind, Jasmine thought with a smile: It’s the thought that counts.

  The present disappeared, secreted in Jasmine’s bag, and Oliver resigned himself to never knowing. He’d just been the messenger. It reminded him of something, a package going from A to B, but the–

  Oliver was jostled by some new arrivals, so he and Jasmine shuffled away from the door. Oliver didn’t know them, had never met them, but as they rushed past he recognised them as Bill, Nancy, Tom and Kenton. They soon disappeared into the maelstrom of other names jostling in the crowd.

  Oliver drank for a while looking at the apartment lights reflected in the canal outside. There must be a spectacular view from up there, he thought.

  Shall we buy one?

  On my salary?

  If you pass your Sergeant’s Exam?

  It’s in two days’ time.

  I know.

  God, it’s the day after tomorrow.

  Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.

  She put her hand on his shoulder and somehow it turned into an awkward kiss.

  Shall we go, Jasmine thought, the music is so loud I can hardly hear myself think?

  It was cool outside, refreshing, and they walked along the canal side enjoying the night air and the quiet. Oliver’s ears still felt like they were hissing. He and Jasmine held hands as they took the long way around to the theatre.

  I’ve got tickets reserved, Jasmine thought.

  I know, Oliver thought back and then he realised that she was communicating with the box office. As they came in, their tickets were being held out by someone Oliver recognised once they were inside.

  “Doors are open,” said a front–of–house staff member, an old chap, Macduff, holding the door to the auditorium open.

  The Menagerie Theatre was a fringe venue, maybe sixty seats, arranged on three sides of a dark, black box of a room. Bizarrely, there were actual programmes. These had been laid out on the seats and gave the event a wonderfully quaint feel. Oliver picked his up when he took his place in the second row. Jasmine sidled in beside him. The programme itself looked neat and sparse, most of its information being given in the form of a hashtag. Oliver accessed it to follow the evening’s events, luckily just in time, as the lights dimmed making any further reading impossible.

  There were two pieces: a Souza, which was short, obviously, and consisted of an extract from The Deep Castle with live commentary from the director and, after the interval, there was to be a mask work. The cast list had been rethought about half an hour ago, so he skimmed down that to see if he knew anyone and then set up the recommended follows for the actual show.

  This was all done easily, which left Oliver fiddling with the paper programme unsure what he was supposed to do with it. Finally, he folded it and slipped it into his pocket.

  A few stage hands came on with some furniture before a man in a tweed jacket, Adamson, stood to one side and addressed the audience.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a full Souza, so please noodle us and follow the proceedings. You can either follow the characters or my commentary or both.”

  He bowed to faint applause and then stepped smartly into the shadows.

  The hashtag was rethought by the director and Oliver then unfollowed the commentary as he didn’t care much for pretentious opinions and instead decided to focus on the thoughts of the actors. They were already in character, somewhere in the wings, thinking about the relationships and improvising a preamble to the famous opening of The Deep Castle. It meant that the first entrance wasn’t much of a surprise and the lead wasn’t what Oliver had expected from the actor’s thoughts. He was too thin, whereas his thinking had a weight. Some of the dialogue had been replaced by thought and when this first happened, there was an “Eh?” from someone sitting behind Oliver: he’d obviously just been watching it or rudely checking personal thoughts.

  The Noodle version of the programme pointed out that the Director had wanted it to be like a foreign film without subtitles – whatever that was.

  Oliver knew the story, as it had been taught at school, and he’d thought it deep and meaningful then, but now he thought it trite. It was rarely performed in full nowadays as people didn’t have the attention spans to last the whole fifty–five minutes. The convoluted plot depended on the two main leads not knowing the other’s opinion. It was technically farce, each misunderstanding leading to inevitable confusion and finally tragedy, but it was ridiculous – people, not knowing what others thought. It might work set in the Dark Ages as some historical curiosity, but not as a modern piece, which this production was most assuredly trying to be with its costumes firmly in latest fashions, full of silver scarves, and the comedy character was portrayed in a tin foil hat, but the director had replaced lines of dialogue with thoughts, just to make it a Souza.

  At the end, the main character went from person to person trying to get them to understand.

  “Listen to me,” he said, and he thought: Listen to me, listen to me.

  It was a real blunder that the man didn’t simply follow their thoughts to find out why they weren’t listening.

  Unbelievable.

  And the whole point of The Deep Castle, at least according to his English teacher, was that the lead didn’t know why they didn’t listen to him. So, doing a Souza by ha
ving the other actors improvise their reasons in clear thoughts defeated the whole purpose.

  I wish you’d keep your opinions to yourself, Jasmine thought, but not harshly.

  The blackout was sudden and then the applause started before the lights came up. The cast stood in a row, bowed, and one of them kept thinking that they’d done it, done it, actually done it.

  Thirty–one people in the audience liked it.

  The lead was still in character despite bowing and walking off.

  The theatre’s stream had a prominent rethought of the reviewer’s opinion. Oliver, like others, glanced round to see if they could work out who the reviewer was, but he only recognised names.

  You can stop now, the director thought to the hashtag.

  Oliver thought: What would you like to drink?

  Gin and tonic, Jasmine thought.

  By the time they got to the bar, their drinks were ready on a tray, but Olivier still had to go to the bar to feel the buzz and then reckon with his bank.

  They drank in silence thinking about the first half to each other, and to the director, others in the room and with members of the cast still changing somewhere behind the stage. And indeed, to all their followers.

  Come on, come on, you were fine, thought Adamson.

  Oliver noodled: they could take their drinks in, so he liked this.

  Jasmine nudged him.

  Sorry, he thought.

  She looked at him as if he was–

  “Ah… sorry, my brow’s shut down,” she said.

  “Oh, right.”

  A couple of gulps later, Oliver’s did the same.

  The stage darkened, and shadowy figures emerged, their faces shining and bland. For something devoid of facial expression, they conjured up a disturbing impression, and Oliver didn’t recognise any of them!

  He was shocked.

  The audience shifted uncomfortably. Without being able to recognise them, no–one could follow their thoughts. It was as if they weren’t there.

  He heard an audible whisper behind him, “Copper wire in the masks.”

  Something masking… he noodled. A mesh of copper wire, he remembered, would interfere with the iBrow signal. It was called a Faraday Cage. However, the technical explanation didn’t alleviate any of the disturbing effect and it was sobering.