Hashtag

by David Wake

  Why had the… do–dad, yes that would do, do–dad been left in the car, he thought.

  A single thought: he imagined it drifting away, caught by the breeze to waft hither and thither, ephemeral and wasted as no–one was following him… yet.

  It wouldn’t last. At some point someone would send a thought at him and slowly the great social networking web would envelope him again. He would regret it at the same time that he embraced it. Best enjoy this faintly disturbing euphoria that came with being… alone, that was it.

  I’m alone, he thought, and almost heard the echoes.

  Why?

  Oh why?

  His wandering took him around to the other entrance, the one that cars would have used. It was unconscious, instinctive, as if he was developing Jellicoe’s gut instinct.

  Yes, why?

  There were the remains of police crime scene tape, flapping. Oliver climbed the fence and dropped down onto the ramp beyond the metal shutters. The car park seemed huge, tomblike, cold and utterly quiet.

  Of course, this time it was different as there weren’t ‘voices’ chattering away in his head.

  Why had the car been left there?

  Maybe, with so many distractions, they’d simply forgotten it, distracted like so many people by the need to check what everyone else was doing: the urgent trivial swamping the important. Like everyone, so desperately checking that everyone else was checking everyone else: spies with no–one to spy on but other spies.

  These murderers were unable to think about the act, otherwise they’d give themselves away, so it was something that wouldn’t be available on Noodle. They might have written it down, as Oliver had, but pieces of paper were notoriously easy to lose. He’d given his to Jellicoe.

  He walked over to where he suspected the car had been parked. There were fresh scuff marks on the concrete floor, but these could have been made by the forensic team. He went in a big, lazy circle all around, just looking.

  His foot clattered against something. He was standing on a blank plastic sign. The other side was ‘Danger – Construction Work: Keep Out!’

  There was no construction work here, but there would have been if there hadn’t been that collapse in the economy. This would all have become flats eventually, new and full of promise, but only some of the foundations had been laid so far. He remembered the large open excavation next to the building due to be filled with concrete.

  Car, foundations, concrete!

  He pointed his finger at where the car had been as the idea opened up like a flower in his mind.

  It was obvious: Hide a body in the car, wait for the night after the concrete had been poured and then dump the body in the foundations. She’d never have been found for a million years… or perhaps fifty years when the new flats fell down from old age and neglect. You’d still have to hide the victim’s missing status somehow, but if you could do that – and clearly, they had done that – then it would be the perfect crime. No–one would look for a body and no–one would find it.

  He almost did a little dance.

  The aircon was set to cold to refrigerate the corpse and keep it fresh, so that the smell… no, it smelt disgusting here already. To prevent rodents? To make it more pleasant dumping the body? Probably. Most likely the plan hadn’t involved it being there for so long.

  It was all clear to him.

  So, he thought, what was the next step?

  Identify the body, surely; but every attempt to noodle it this way, or that way, had drawn a blank.

  Mem… something.

  He could noodle it… no.

  Mem… “Memetic engineering,” he said aloud.

  Advertising in other words.

  You could change people’s thoughts by sending them thoughts. He could almost taste the coffee, Hasqueth’s Finest, on his tongue. If you were given a thought that a particular car, washing powder, insurance company or whatever, was the best, then that’s what you’d think. If enough people thought you were a killer, then you’d believe it.

  Oliver shivered.

  Perhaps the weight of thought made it true. If you thought you were a policeman, were you?

  I think therefore I am.

  I am thought about, therefore I am.

  The sheer mass of it would affect your mind, but the victim, Unknown 271, didn’t change thoughts or have her thoughts changed, she… no, it was gone. She wasn’t missing, which was to say she was thinking, so…

  One idea gave rise to another in a logical chain, but this was a weak link. One move led to another move, so–

  At Ollie, hello Oliver.

  Oliver felt his chest tighten, adrenalin pumped into his system. If one person had found him, then anyone could find him. He clenched his fists, wanting to fight or run, but there was no physical method to fight off another attack. Could he make it back to the hospital on foot? If another denial of service attack overwhelmed him, he would keel over in the car park and remain there until another happenstance, like the riot, discovered his body. Had he left enough footprints across the Thinkersphere to even be found? There certainly weren’t enough across the concrete dust in the abandoned multi–storey to track him to here.

  Hello Mithering, he thought. It had come unbidden, an automatic reaction to the input. He followed her, instinctive, despite his earlier euphoria about being free. All the old mental reflexes just kicked in.

  Lovely to know you again, Ollie. How are you?

  Fine and you?

  Can’t complain.

  Small talk, Oliver thought.

  I know, but it helps connect us, particularly as you’ve had a shock.

  Yes, I understand.

  Oliver had taken a few steps toward the exit. It was just Mithering, loud and clear in the empty stream, and the deluge of trolling hadn’t occurred.

  Don’t be frightened, Mithering thought.

  God, I’m leaking.

  Yes, but it’s all right, I’m a friend.

  Perhaps we should talk?

  Yes, let’s think at each other.

  Over a drink, just you and I. He’d nearly reached the shaft of direct sunlight: How far is the Lamp? “No,” he said aloud, “the hospital.”

  I can’t go to the Lamp, I’m sorry. Busy. You know.

  That’s a shame.

  He stepped out of the shadows, and felt safe from the Trolls, which was ludicrous because they weren’t creatures that lived in the dark under bridges, but human beings who let hatred rule their thoughts.

  Do you want to think with me about the case?

  There’s not much to think about, Oliver thought back.

  What about the Chedding Conspiracy?

  Oh, give me strength.

  But so many people believe it, Mithering responded. Perhaps the evidence has been tampered with?

  By evidence, she meant thoughts. Have they been changed? He wouldn’t have believed it, but now, re–booted and reborn, he was one step removed from the man he had been. Maybe…

  Oliver noodled whether any of his thoughts were different and he remembered them all the same as before.

  Of course, they’d be the same if they had been edited, Mithering thought back, that’s the point.

  The Chedding Car Park Conspiracy theorists believed that the police had murdered the woman and that those involved had had their memories tampered with. Had he killed someone and had his memories altered? There were different types of memory: muscle memory, for example. There were your own personal thoughts, those of other people and those of computers; these could be sorted by tags and datetimes for retrieval. Oh, and those memories laid down in your biological brain’s actual synapses. Short term and long term… he noodled: yes, chemical and electrical.

  Could thoughts be edited?

  If so, then his remembrances would be different from his memories, but, because he was so reliant on Noodle, he had no way of double checking. Why keep a memory, when you could remember all your previous thoughts?

  He had a migraine shadow just
from the idea.

  Oliver noodled and, yes, he remembered that thoughts could be edited before transmission, but as everything was transmitted immediately this was an academic idea only. Jellicoe had said something about multiple copies being kept in different jurisdictions.

  Except, he had buffered his thoughts when he’d been talking to Doctor Ridge in the morgue. He’d deleted thoughts. He could have easily edited them.

  But he’d have known in brain memory and that would have leaked out in other thoughts once he was out in the open. People could think one thing and do another, act the part in a Souza play, but not continuously. These contradictions showed up, and psycho–technicians like Maxine could easily extract the truth. For goodness sake, Oliver himself had been able to do this intuitively even before he’d taken the memetic engineering foundation course at the Police College.

  No–one could maintain the pretence, particularly not under questioning. With the right question, even the wrong question, they’d naturally think about the fact that they’d edited their thoughts and, thereby, they’d give themselves away. Forget questioning, just worrying about it would transmit the information to the world.

  He noodled it all, but it was too much to take in.

  What he needed to do was draw a diagram and he looked round for some paper.

  Oliver felt a chill: Was he turning into Jellicoe?

  Of course not, Mithering thought, you’re much more attractive.

  How do you know, we’ve not met?

  How do you know we’ve not met?

  I’d have recognised you.

  Not if I’d seen you from afar.

  Are you stalking me?

  We’re all stalking those we follow.

  Oliver thought: Where do you live?

  Do you want a date?

  Where do you live… I bet it’s local.

  I’m not sure I want to admit that.

  Oliver noodled and remembered that Mithering was really Jane Deacon. He could have done that ages ago and wondered why he hadn’t.

  Hadn’t what?

  Another noodle and he knew she lived at No. 403, Delaware Towers. A third and he remembered that she was there now in the kitchen. She’d been making coffee, Hasqueth’s Finest, and liking the smell of the deep roast blend.

  Would you mind if I came round?

  You are forward.

  I’m coming round, Oliver thought as he climbed out and made his way along the pavement away from the hospital and the Lamp.

  Can I trust you?

  I’m a policeman.

  Yes, but can I trust you?

  Of course.

  Not today, she thought, I’ve things to do and I’m feeling a little under the weather to be honest. Next month, I promise.

  Oliver noodled a taxi firm and then thought about a cab. He remembered that it would be another five minutes, so he began to walk back along Old Tollgate.

  How to… pa–pah, pa–pah. Think without thinking.

  Have you got secrets?

  Oliver searched his pockets for a piece of paper, but he didn’t have anything. Of course not, who carried paper? He upturned his left hand and scribbled with his right finger tracing the letter shapes across the lines there.

  Victim is dead, but victim isn’t missing, therefore victim is still thinking, therefore… still thinking. He underlined it with a swipe that went down the length of his little finger.

  A taxi pulled up.

  Without looking round, the driver cocked his head to one side to recognize him: Where to, mate?

  Delaware Towers, Oliver thought back as he clambered in.

  That’s where I live, Mithering thought back.

  The car journey took them around the city along the ring road until they reached the canals. Delaware Towers guarded one end of the fashionable quarter.

  That’ll be seventeen fifty, the driver thought.

  Oliver waited for the buzz and then reckoned with his bank account only to be refused. Of course, effectively this was a new iBrow, or at least the setting was different enough for the bank to complain.

  The driver looked at him. “Oi.”

  “Sorry,” said Oliver. Look, I’m having trouble, but I’m a Police Officer.

  Likely story.

  Oliver fished out his warrant card flipping it open.

  Just contact the department and I’ll claim it on expenses, Oliver thought.

  The driver looked doubtful, but there wasn’t much he could do now that they had arrived. He could hardly tussle with a policeman.

  Oliver got out, looked up at the high rise and then glanced around for the entrance. It was round the side, up a pleasant brick pathway between grass verges.

  Oliver thought ‘police’ at the door and it refused.

  He’d have to register there too – this was a nightmare! Nothing bloody worked.

  Or maybe it was because he’d been suspended, in which case he’d just impersonated a Police Officer.

  A woman came out and Oliver tried to slip past.

  “Excuse me!” she shouted: Rude sod.

  “Police,” said Oliver, showing his warrant card again.

  She hesitated.

  “Ma’am.”

  She was clearly torn, but left him to it.

  He found the lift and selected the fourth floor.

  The corridor had 400 to 420 one way and 421 to 425 the other. He found Mithering’s 403 quickly enough.

  There was a bell, he rang it.

  No answer.

  I’m here, he thought at Mithering.

  That was quick.

  Will you let me in?

  There was a long pause before the door clicked. It was thought operated: she was clearly not a drinker.

  Oliver pushed it open and went in.

  Hi, Mithering thought, would you like tea or coffee?

  Hasqueth Finest: Mithering likes this and so do 113 of her friends.

  Oliver ignored the spam: Tea, he thought perversely.

  Milk?

  Please.

  Sugar?

  Yes, why are you ‘Mithering’ and not ‘Jane Deacon’?

  I run a thlog.

  “What sort of thlog?” Oliver said aloud. He moved along a passage which opened up at the end into a wide room with a superb view over the canal with the swanky bars and restaurants arrayed below.

  There was silence.

  The windows were thick, triple glazed.

  Oliver thought: What sort of thlog?

  Exposés of local corruption.

  I see.

  Everything looked normal, lived in, with a red sofa and a coat thrown over a chair, but it smelt musty and stale.

  Where are you now?

  In the kitchen making tea, silly.

  There was no sound, no clatter of kettle, spoons and crockery.

  Come into the lounge.

  In a minute.

  Now, and let me know when you’re here.

  Oh, all right, Mithering thought, I’ll play along… OK, I’m here.

  Oliver had identified the door to the kitchen. Through it he could see chrome fittings and dark coloured wooden surfaces.

  He checked: Are you in the lounge?

  Yes.

  Describe it.

  This is foolish.

  Humour me.

  OK, it’s square, red sofa, rather untidy and it has a wonderful view over the city. You can see Bar Terrific and Tony’s.

  Where are you standing now?

  Why?

  Come on.

  At the window, looking out at the city. Why? Are you down there?

  Oliver went to the window too: it was an impressive view, full of glass towers glinting in the sunlight. Looking down, there was indeed a good view of the bar and the restaurant. He could even see the Menagerie Theatre in the distance.

  What else can you see?

  I can see the Omniscient Tower and the West District Spires.

  Oliver could too.

  There was one further question: What’s
the weather like?

  Sunny intervals, top temperature 15 degrees, feels like 13, chance of rain 20% – why do you ask?

  No reason.

  No one thought ‘sunny intervals’ and ‘top temperature’. It was sunny now, it was warm now, you hoped it didn’t rain later. She was rethinking… no, formulating and thinking again a noodle of the weather forecast. Like a machine. Perhaps she was a machine, a computer somewhere running on a program that analysed all the real Mithering’s thoughts and predicted her responses. Just like the Thought Store did. She was no more than a sophisticated stooge. Mithering, whoever she had been, obviously had never thought about the weather.

  “We are the sum of our thoughts,” he said.

  There was no answer, because there was no–one to answer.

  “I’m so sorry,” Oliver said.

  You should see it, Mithering thought. It’s a gorgeous view. I often stand here and think about it.

  I’ve seen it, Oliver thought. I’m sorry, I have some bad news.

  You can’t make it.

  I’m here.

  Where? By the canal? By Tony’s? I can’t see you.

  I’m afraid, Miss, I have to inform you that you’re dead.

  Oliver sat down on the arm of the sofa.

  What to do, he thought.

  That’s not very funny, Mithering thought.

  Do you have any paper and a pen?

  I thought ‘that’s not v–

  Paper and pen?

  Yes.

  Where?

  In my apartment.

  No, I mean where exactly? Describe it.

  It’s in the top drawer of the cupboard by the door.

  Oliver looked over, went across and opened the drawer. There was a pad of fancy writing paper; the sort that mothers used to get small children to write ‘Thank You’ letters to grandparents on.

  Oliver wrote quickly: Victim Jane Deacon dead, still thinking, like a fridge, like a… lights on but no–one’s home.

  His hand was cramping from the effort. He’d not used handwriting since… ever. Or at least since the Sergeant’s Exam. Or that bar in Chinatown. He’d have to relearn.

  Relearn what?

  “Damn,” he said aloud. How to think without thinking?

  How to think without thinking what?

  It was like some Chinese proverb: The sound of one hand clapping or something.