Hashtag

by David Wake

Once he’d had a coffee, so good, Oliver noodled Jürgens’ thoughts, skimming down and seeing what jumped out.

  He collected the Chinese Box from behind the café and took it across town and left it under a seat in a pub. It was confusing, full of euphemism and distraction, but that seemed the gist of it. After that Jürgens always thought about a summer’s day in Oxford. He wasn’t in Oxford, so this was a coded message. As Jellicoe had guessed, it was a dead letter box. Spies used them in the olden days. Jürgens had been tempted to look inside, but he hadn’t; if he had, his thoughts would have betrayed him, and he was very frightened of the Chinese Room. Those in the Chinese Room would know about it. They could noodle his thoughts as much as anyone and probably knew his movements.

  Oliver noodled various hashtags: the café, the Duke, Chinese Rooms; but without any joy.

  Dead letter boxes meant that messages could be passed and if they were intercepted, as this communication route had been, then the rest of the spy cell wouldn’t be compromised. This was nonsense, because to plan all this, you had to think and that would be in the Thinkersphere.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Someone Unbrow could do it, but it was too interlinked with thought. You’d need to pick up Jürgens’ opinion of the weather in Oxford, after all. The thoughtless were involved in muggings, but nothing complicated. You couldn’t do anything complicated in the modern world without thought.

  And this was complicated.

  Planned.

  Thought through.

  Oliver noodled a summer’s day in Oxford and remembered some bed and breakfast places and hotel deals along with a t–book novel. He refined his search and cross–referenced it with Jürgens’ followers. He had a lot of followers, probably full of those who wanted the vicarious thrill of stalking without actually doing it themselves. Second–hand stalking – was that better or worse? None of them thought about a summer’s day in Oxford, no–one rethought it, no–one paid it any attention. And yet, clearly, it was a signal: ‘box moved’.

  And it was empty.

  Maybe, maybe, he had to move it at set times – Oliver noodled and remembered that Jürgens didn’t have a schedule as such. He followed a hashtag: York_spring.

  Maybe, just maybe, they – whoever they were – occasionally tested him by getting him to move an empty box. Jellicoe and himself had simply been unlucky and found the box during one of these dummy runs.

  Maybe the message had been delivered, Mithering thought, and the… envelope needs to be returned.

  Yes, Oliver thought, it had been dealt with before they arrived?

  Jürgens’ house had been broken into.

  Or the message stolen?

  Yes, but that could have been last week, Oliver thought, or by Jürgens himself if he’d forgotten his key.

  A co–incidence, Mithering thought.

  Oliver ignored that, he felt a chain developing: Those in the Chinese Room would know about it. Now that was an interesting thought: plural, more than one, a conspiratorial gathering in Chinatown maybe.

  Maybe.

  This could be some Tong?

  Perhaps some ninja had sneaked into the police station and murdered Jürgens in his locked cell.

  Oliver considered Mithering’s thought, detecting some humour there. It was slightly ludicrous.

  Perhaps a snake: two puncture marks and a death like a Taser shock, venom rather than electricity.

  Now you are just being silly, Oliver thought back.

  It matches the facts.

  Facts! Oliver thought. He noodled the pathologist’s report. Doctor Hassan had finished, an extraordinarily quick turnaround, but unsurprising considering. The summary was death by brain haemorrhage caused by electrocution of the synaptic filament connections.

  Locked door mystery, illegal weapon, suspects all pah “–pah, pa–pah… police.”

  What was that?

  Nothing, mustn’t think about it, Oliver thought.

  Think about what?

  Just worried about the Sergeant’s Exam tomorrow.

  It’s a doddle, Sergeant Draith thought back, except for the loneliness.

  I need a drink, Oliver thought.

  As Oliver expected, Jellicoe was in the Lamp sitting in the third booth along.

  “This Chinese Box business,” Oliver said. “Could it be, er… the Tongs?”

  Jellicoe practically spat out his whiskey.

  “Chinese Room, Chinese Whispers, Chinese Box,” Oliver insisted. “There are immigrants here, a lot of poor people from the East don’t have brows.”

  “They stay in Chinatown,” said Jellicoe.

  “But Jürgens moved the box from a café… someone had to have brought it to café, and regularly.”

  “So the tentacles of this conspiracy of yours–”

  “Not my conspiracy.”

  “Granted, so these tentacles spread out.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “To do what?”

  “I thought you were the conspiracy…” Oliver searched for a word other than ‘nutcase’. “Expert.”

  “Nutcase is it?”

  “I meant–”

  “You might be right,” said Jellicoe. He wiped his chin with a handkerchief. “There are shops on the East Side that sell imports. Lacquered boxes might well be bought there and not via brows.”

  “How do they pay for it?”

  “Something old and untraceable like cash, gold or bitcoins,” said Jellicoe. “While you are there, you could pop into the Duck.”

  The Duck?

  “The Peking Duck in Chinatown,” Jellicoe explained. “And ask for Zhaodi. If there’s anything in this Chinese Room business, then that’s where you’ll find the answer. Nothing goes on in Chinatown without Zhaodi knowing.”

  Oliver looked Jellicoe in the eye: “You’re kidding.”

  “Say Jellicoe sends his regards.”

  “The Tongs? This is the Triad, the Chinese Mafia? There’s no such thing.”

  Jellicoe tapped the side of his nose.

  “I can’t,” Oliver realised. “It’s my exam tomorrow.”

  “Afterwards.”

  “I’ve enough to worry about with the exam and being investigated over the Jürgens death.”

  “As I said, afterwards,” said Jellicoe. “And good luck with your exam.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good night.”

  Oliver left: he hadn’t had a drink.

  THURSDAY

  Oliver had tried to sleep, but his thoughts, and those of many others, just went round and round in his head. He’d noodled his revision notes, but they no longer made any sense. He kept thinking of Jürgens lying dead, impossibly murdered in his locked cell. He and Jasmine had decided that as his Sergeant’s Exam was so important, he should stay over at his apartment to get some rest.

  Like that worked, he thought.

  At least his iBrow was fully charged. On the only day I can’t use it!

  Her thought wishing him luck arrived as he was having coffee in the morning.

  Thanks, he thought back.

  Don’t forget to turn me on, Jasmine thought: Following, I mean.

  I promise, Oliver thought back, lolling to all at her Freudian slip.

  See you on the other side, Freya thought at him, you’ll be fine.

  Aye, thanks, Oliver thought back.

  Break a leg, Mithering thought.

  The examination centre was in the suburbs, a college specialising in those few non–Noodle exams that certain professions insisted upon. It was a converted Edwardian house on three floors although most of it had been modernised back at the turn of the twenty first century, so there was an open lobby with comfortable chairs. Oliver had noodled their hashtag, so he was able to check–in as he waited to be buzzed through the front door.

  The receptionist thought back to him a welcome as soon as he was within recognition range and reminded him to sever all his social networking. There were very few exams like this now, and Oliver was
grateful because it was such an extraordinary faff. Freya herself had briefed him on it months ago.

  So, gradually, as the other constables gathered to sit uncomfortably with a cup of tea, Oliver began to unfollow everyone he knew. He’d arrived early, warned that this took longer than expected, and he did need plenty of time to pick his way through it all. No–one was really consciously aware of all the thoughts that passed through their iBrow, only those that piqued their interest, so it was always a surprise to come across any real statistics: thousands a second. As he unfollowed, the steady stream of thoughts wavered and slowed. Their increasing rarity giving them importance and odd juxtapositions of ideas jumped to his attention. Instead of being, for all intents and purposes, a mostly anonymous stream, every thought now had an individual thinker. People he’d not met in years, friends from his University days that he’d become too used to skipping, became so loud and clear.

  Finally, he was down to the Duty Sergeant, which he kept bubbling away; both in case there was an emergency and also for the background hubbub that kept him feeling included. Even so, it was like he was at the end of a party and all the guests had left.

  As there were fewer thoughts in his head, Oliver became aware of his fellow examinees. He’d recognised them all as the room wasn’t that large. There were seven of them, in suits, all looking nervous. Four of them clutched small bags like talismans, and one, Adams, was a burly looking bloke, a rugby player of a man, who fiddled with his tie.

  They smiled at each other awkwardly.

  A secretary came in. “Everyone! Time to unfollow. Candidates, if you’d please unfriend everyone.”

  Cheerio, Oliver thought and then he unfollowed the Duty Sergeant.

  He felt strangely euphoric as he made his way to the exam hall with the others. They didn’t know each other and were, of course, strictly forbidden to think to each other, so none of them had followed the others. It reminded him of his experience in the morgue when he met Doctor Ridge. Without thoughts, they were like walking corpses or those actors in masks.

  Hello, Oliver thought as he saw the Invigilator. The woman nodded, and her eyes flickered as she discontinued whatever she’d been doing. He was allowed to transmit, impossible not to, but receiving was against the regulations. She was sticking to the rules by not replying brow–to–brow.

  There were rows of school desks and chairs, Oliver felt lost and wanted to noodle which desk was his, but he saw ‘Adams’ and then easily found ‘Braddon’ on the second desk on the first row. They were all spread far apart, beyond recognition range, so suddenly Oliver felt very alone, aware of the wind in the trees outside.

  “This is a non–brow exam,” said the man who’d showed them in, “so no use of Noodle allowed from now on! Please fill in your details on the cover, but don’t open your exam book until instructed.” He sat down by the Invigilator.

  Oliver, settled, saw that he had to fill in his name, police number and the centre number.

  What was the centre number, he thought.

  There was a distracting knocking sound.

  Centre number… can’t noodle.

  Knocking and a cough.

  Oliver looked up: the Invigilator was tapping the whiteboard. It had ‘Centre number: HF 923’ in writing on it.

  Thanks, Oliver thought.

  He returned his attention to the paper: no pen!

  He hadn’t brought a pen.

  I’ve no pen, he thought.

  The woman sighed: “Pens?”

  Oliver wasn’t the only one to raise his hand.

  The woman took her time going up and down almost as if she was trying to demonstrate her disapproval and contempt.

  Every time, she thought as she briefly stepped into recognition range.

  Thank you, Oliver thought as he took a black biro off her.

  She gave a pen to each of the men.

  Pencil cases! They had been holding pencil cases.

  He wrote his name out, added the centre number and then his police number. He breathed a sigh of relief that he’d known his police number, but his hand felt cramped. He flexed it a few times. It was completely psychosomatic, he knew, but that didn’t stop it hurting. He wasn’t used to handwriting, always considered it stupid and pointless at school, because when was he ever going to use such a skill. Now, obviously. This was the dark ages reborn.

  The Invigilator addressed them aloud, “You have forty–five minutes starting from… now!”

  Oliver opened the paper.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Invigilator blinking. She was probably checking down a list of their names, noodling their last noodle no doubt, and she’d probably passed ‘B’ by now. She’d check again at the end.

  Oliver was suddenly unsure if he could read anymore, but obviously he could, although the challenge made him feel dizzy.

  The first question was an ethics one. Follow your gut, but quote something official sounding had been the advice on that. Liberal values.

  He felt cold and giddy, which he knew was a side–effect of being alone.

  Another ethics question, this time about cerebrals. ‘What happens in a cerebral, stays in a cerebral’, he knew, but there was a more official and technical way of putting that. Oh, the quip would have to do. What people did in the privacy of their own private part of their head was their own concern. If people wanted to be a celebrity, rock star, rapper, gangster, fashionista, film star or whatever, that was their own concern, so long as it didn’t affect anyone else and wasn’t a Category 5.

  Ah ha, that would be on the mark scheme, definitely.

  He wondered if anyone following him would be keeping count of his score. Chen perhaps.

  He was getting distracted: must concentrate. He looked round.

  The room seemed empty with everyone so far apart, the gaze of the Invigilator fell upon him occasionally, but she seemed distant. Because he was no longer following anyone, a type of sensory deprivation closed in. It was a form of torture and indeed there were rules covering it in police custody. He vaguely recalled revising it. You could lock a suspect up in a single cell, but it took a court order to prevent him thinking. Applicable when the suspect might warn accomplices, although in practical terms it was impossible to stop. It was covered in… he could noodle, but he mustn’t, and it wasn’t a question anyway.

  “No use of Noodle,” warned the Invigilator. Oliver was sure he hadn’t thought about it as such. Perhaps one of the others? Adams next to him turned round to see who was looking guilty. Can you tell from a person’s expression? It was too easy to noodle by accident. Oliver wondered how many failed because of it and realised that he could easily remember – and that would mean he’d fail too.

  He moved through a multiple–choice section easily enough: either he knew, or he guessed.

  How long left? He… no!

  Oliver looked at the clock on the wall. Half past… when did he start? It was on the white board. Forty–five minus thirty was… the mental arithmetic was hard.

  “You have a quarter of an hour left,” the Invigilator announced.

  Thanks, Oliver thought. So, fifteen minutes! Jeez, I’m not going to make it.

  He turned over to the last page. Another multiple choice and – God – a half page to write. It was an essay, a bloody novel. His hand was already falling off.

  Concentrate.

  Oliver wrote, carefully forming each letter.

  “Time’s up!”

  That was quick. He hadn’t finished. He quickly shuffled his pen along the line to complete the sentence with a full stop.

  “No noodling!” shouted the Invigilator, and then, after a pause, “you are not finished until you have left the examination hall.”

  Oliver sat back, appreciated the relief. He no longer cared whether he’d passed or failed: it was over – nearly – and that was all that mattered.

  “Close your answer books.”

  Oliver realised he hadn’t, so he did so. The cover looked unreal, his
handwriting neater than the essay question at the end, but then that had been an age of forty–five minutes earlier when he’d been fresh.

  The Invigilator came down the rows, collecting the papers. Monks used to write out books by hand, she thought, using a patently practised jibe.

  “You may leave,” she said, finally.

  Oliver and the others picked themselves up and made their way out through the exit.

  “Thank God,” said the bloke in front.

  Once Oliver was through, he followed a few people straight away: Jasmine, the Duty Sergeant, Mithering and felt their thoughts skimming past, comforting and gentle, reminding him he wasn’t alone. The man behind bumped into him.

  “Come on, come on, keep going.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” said Oliver.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just on edge, you know,” said the other, his hands up placating.

  “I was er… following,” said Oliver.

  “Oh, yes, we can.”

  The man stepped to one side, his eyes blinking as he was engrossed in his own mental processes.

  Oliver realised that he was still holding the biro: he should have handed it back. It wasn’t of anymore use to him. The Inspector Exam didn’t require a non–Noodle session. Not that he was going to make Inspector for a long time. He made his way out of the building into the sunlight: ‘how did it go?’ summed up a lot of the thoughts pending as if everyone he’d followed had rethought the same thing.

  My exam went fine, he thought officially. He wasn’t following enough to know how many people liked this. Being honest with himself, he hadn’t a clue. It was all a blur and, because he hadn’t been able to think about it, there was nothing to noodle into his memory.

  Told you, thought Desk Sergeant Draith, doddle.

  Not really, forty–five minutes is too long.

  Hand hurt?

  Yes, Oliver thought rubbing his right with his left. The tendons crunched under his pressure.

  Wuss.

  I am not, Oliver thought back, but he felt weak.

  And you forgot your pen!

  That was Chen’s pearl of wisdom.

  Following those doing exams was recommended as a form of preparation, but Oliver guessed Chen had just scanned down his train of thought for something to mock.