The Assistant

by S. K. Tremayne

  Her look is deeply sceptical.

  ‘He shouts CARS CARS CARS, Jo. That’s what he does, he shouts CARS CARS CARS, all day long. That’s not eloquent, that’s not the Gettysburg Address. Unless Abraham Lincoln also had a Toyota dealership.’

  ‘No,’ I bridle. ‘No, really, you’re wrong. He’s so much more than that. He’s a bit crazy but he’s not totally crazy—’

  Without my realizing, I realize: my chance has come. This is the right moment. Tabitha has to know. It’s beyond time for her to know. She already knows about Jamie, what does it matter if I break the taboo, when my actual sanity, when my actual life, are at risk?

  ‘Tabitha, we need to talk.’

  She walks from the windows and sits on the sofa, knees together, demure yet sexy, like the clever and promising princess of a small, wealthy country. Denmark, say, or Norway. Her boots have not a single stain or patch of damp from the snow. Perhaps she floats, or is carried on horseback.

  Tabitha goes first,

  ‘Is this something to do with these emails you’ve been sending? I have heard things, Jo. I can’t say I’m not worried about you. In fact, I’m even more worried than before. What on earth has got into you, why are you behaving like this? I knew you were lonely, I tried to advise, but this?’

  ‘Shhhh!’

  I say, pointing at the Assistants. The screen, the cylinder. She squints at me, with a look of total puzzlement.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shhhh!’ Then I gesture, waving, come this way, follow me, come this way, I mouth the word PLEASE.

  Shrugging in her maroon wool cardigan, which looks like she unwrapped it brand new, an hour ago, from an expensive box with tissue paper, she follows me, reluctantly, and then she says,

  ‘Are you serious?’

  I am pointing at the smaller, second bathroom. It is the only room, I have worked out, where the Assistants can neither see nor hear. Usually I write my secret notes in here. My solutions to the puzzle.

  PLEASE, I mouth again.

  She shrugs: OK.

  Together we go into the bathroom. I turn on the tap of the little sink, to make extra noise. So we can’t be overheard. Tabitha stares at me, her blue eyes wide and incredulous.

  ‘Is this a spy movie, am I auditioning for the next Bond film? How delicious.’

  I ignore her remarks, and hurry on:

  ‘Tabs, you told me Arlo monitors your Assistants.’

  She tilts her head, there’s a hint of a frown.

  ‘Yes. We discussed this—’

  ‘Does he see or hear all the interactions?’

  ‘No, of course not. I told you. All he gets are alerts, security breaches, if locks are broken, or the Assistants stop working. He doesn’t read my conversations with Electra. Not that I actually have any, I’m hardly ever here. In fact, we’re getting smart locks installed, right across, because I’m gone so much.’ The frown darkens, gets serious. ‘Look, Jo, I’m busy,’ she gestures at her stomach, which shows a hint of pregnancy, and gives me a twinge of guilt. ‘I’ve got an appointment this afternoon, obs and gobs, need to check my plumbing. Can you please explain what is going on? Why have you been sending these horrible emails?’

  ‘I didn’t send them. I didn’t send a single one of them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I promise, it’s true, believe me.’ I am almost beseeching. The cold tap runs. We are two women in a tiny bathroom, staring at each other. She shrugs, in her lovely jumper, as I protest, ‘It wasn’t me, I swear. I didn’t do any of this, none of it.’

  Her face is a portrait of confusion. And maybe pity.

  ‘All right. I’ll ask the obvious. Who did send them?’ She looks like she is trying to resist a sarcastic joke. Perhaps Pazuzu the Sumerian Wind Demon sent them, some monster from those films I like? Those thriller scripts I fail to get made?

  I can understand her incomprehension, it does not matter.

  ‘The Assistants sent them.’

  She takes a step back. I didn’t realize the second bathroom was big enough for her to actually do that: step back with incredulity.

  ‘I’m – I – sorry?’

  ‘The Assistants. They sent them.’

  Her scepticism is severe, it wrinkles her perfect tanned forehead.

  ‘The what? Electra? HomeHelp? You’re saying that they’ve somehow invaded your laptop, and they are pumping out hate mail? Why would they do that? Are they possessed? Christ. This is simply insane.’ For a moment she pauses, obviously reluctant to hurt me, then she goes on, ‘It is mad. It’s the maddest thing yet. I said it before and I will say it again, but this time I mean it. Jo, please go and see someone. Get some pills. SSRIs. I can recommend a private guy, he’s brilliant. I’ll pay. Let me help.’

  ‘NO.’ I am shouting. She frowns, tetchily.

  I repeat, more quietly,

  ‘No, Tabs, I don’t need help, nor any doctors, nor pills. This is actually happening, the Assistants have been hacked by … Someone. I’m trying to work out who. Possibly Simon, possibly not. Anyway, it’s someone who wants to hurt me, very badly. And people around me, too. Someone wants to send me mad, or make me try and kill myself. And because the Assistants are linked to all my digital tech, my laptop, my phone, through the apps, they have been controlling everything – Facebook, texts, emails – they can do what they want, they have taken over my life. I’m sorry if this sounds lunatic, but it is true.’

  My friend takes a deep, long breath, and looks at me. Directly.

  ‘OK, Jo, let’s say that this is all true, and someone has hacked your technology to, ah, persecute you, for some reason.’ She leans closer. ‘Why haven’t you told me before? Or Arlo? Or the police, for God’s sake? Why have you kept so quiet? I don’t understand, Jo, it doesn’t make any sense.’

  This is it: she has to know. I meet her eyes, unblinking.

  ‘Because they know about Jamie Trewin. And they have evidence. And they’ve threatened to go to the police if I do anything. And you know what that means.’

  I stand here. This is it. I am ten inches away from my best friend and co-conspirator. Waiting for her reaction. The truth is out at last; here it comes; she speaks:

  ‘Who?’

  I open my mouth. I close it. I say:

  ‘Jamie. Jamie Trewin. I know we vowed never to talk about it, ever since that night. And we haven’t. But now, I’m sorry, we have to talk about it.’

  She scowls, as if bewildered. She looks genuinely puzzled. Then she speaks, quietly.

  ‘Jamie … Jamie Trewin … Wait. Wait. Yes. I remember the name, wasn’t he that poor Kiwi boy who died at Glasto, from uni, that lovely sunny year we went?’ Tabitha shudders. ‘God, yes. Horrid. But what has that got to do with you, or with us? I still don’t get it.’

  I feel the floor buckling beneath me. My whole world tilting violently. Surely she cannot be denying this. Yet she is denying it. She is talking sincerely. I know when Tabitha is lying, and this does not look like lies. Yet it is all lies.

  My voice sounds wheedling, maybe she is scared, but I desperately need her to admit the truth.

  ‘C’mon, Tabs, I know we made that solemn promise, but you know what we did: we gave Jamie those pills – the pills we got from Purple Man – and he died from them. And it was our fault. In that tent. All of us kissing. And somehow the Assistants know it as well, and they’re using it to blackmail me, or worse. I have no idea why, but someone is using Jamie’s death to ruin my life.’

  Tabitha says nothing. She looks away from me. She turns off the cold tap, and sighs quite deeply, and then she gazes my way and says,

  ‘I literally have not a scintilla of a clue what you are talking about, Jo. What pills? What purple man? What kissing? What the heck is all this?’

  ‘Tabs – please – please – come on – Tabitha – please—’

  ‘NO.’ Now it is her turn to shout. ‘No Jo, no. The time for indulging you has passed. This is cruel, and absurd. This whole Jamie Whatsit thing, you’r
e claiming WE were involved? It’s nuts! We weren’t. Nothing happened. This is bullshit. I haven’t the smallest of clues what you’re on about, it was nothing to do with us. You’ve invented some history, or something, I dunno. Honestly. Stop it. You’re losing control and you’re delusional.’

  I am blinking rapidly, I have an urge to cry. Everything is gone. She talks,

  ‘Look. I’m gonna make some tea. Then perhaps we can chat sensibly, rather than like Cars. Is that OK? Is it OK if I go into my own kitchen and make a nice cup of tea? Are you going to be all right?’ She puts a hand on my shoulder. She brushes a few fingers to my cheek. I feel, again, like a child being comforted by a mother.

  Tabitha goes on,

  ‘Darling. I’m sorry it’s got this bad, perhaps I’ve been a bad friend. I’ve been distracted by pregnancy and Arlo, you’re having some kind of episode. Making up the strangest things. My God. Jamie Trewin? Us? Handing him poison pills? Were we in the Mafia as well? Oh Emm Gee. Did we have guns?’

  She laughs quietly. My friend is actually laughing at the most terrifying memory of my life. Like it is all a fiction. Then she shakes her head and she disappears out of the bathroom and I hear her, in the kitchen. A kettle. Water. Tea.

  Alone in the whiteness, I stare at the little mirror over the sink, at my grey winter face. Ageing now. My eyes meet my eyes, and I am forced to look away from myself.

  The worst thing has happened.

  I believe Tabitha might be right: it makes some sense.

  I have likely invented the whole thing. The whole story about us and Jamie Trewin, the pills, the tent, the kisses, the Purple Man. It is a delusion. In me. A false memory. It possibly never happened: it probably never happened. How long have I suffered this madness? When was the first sign, did it begin all the way back in Glasto, or later? I do not know, because I never spoke about it.

  Stooping to the sink, I turn on the cold tap again, splashing the outpour onto my face. Mixing fresh cold water with hot salt tears.

  So I probably invented it all. But why? Was it the very first sign of my madness? I fear it was. And if that is the case, I wonder when it all began, and how far along I have gone. Because I also want to know: how long do I have left, before I sink entirely, like Daddy?

  33

  Jo

  A polite little knock on the door of the bathroom. Tabitha speaks, soft, calming,

  ‘Hey, Jo-Jo. Can I come in? Say something?’

  I look around the tiny bathroom. The gleaming white sink, the lily-scented reed diffuser, the recently painted door. Tabitha keeps such a nice house. I don’t deserve it. A madwoman. Why should she have to put up with me?

  ‘Wait, I’ll come out.’

  I open the door and step out into the hallway.

  Tabitha looks, twice, and flushed, at my face, which must be panda-eyed and blotchy with tears. Saying nothing, she leans close and gives me a long, warm hug. I can smell the expensive shampoo she nowadays keeps at Arlo’s house. Slowly moving her things to his place.

  I look over Tabitha’s shoulder: a framed photo of her and Arlo decorates the wall. They are together on horseback, on a beach, laughing.

  At last I am released from the sisterly hug; she smiles as reassuringly as she can:

  ‘Jo, I’m sorry if that was a bit brutal. But what you were saying about Jamie whatsit, Jamie Trewin, that poor kid, like we were involved?’ She shrugs, helpless. ‘It was, well, just, way out there. So unreal it was a bit disturbing, you know?’

  I look around us, down the landing, thinking of Electra in the living room. The Assistants can hear all this. How does this revelation – that I made it all up – fit with their original threat to me? The confusion goes deep. Too deep. I teeter.

  ‘Anyhow, Jo—’ Tabs is lifting her phone like it is a piece of evidence, to show me. ‘I know it’s the worst timing, but the clinic rang and I have to go in straight away, or I will miss my slot.’ She sighs, deeply, pityingly. ‘I’m so sorry. And then, right after that, Arlo and I have got some dinner and then some ghastly getaway in the country, with the Os, shooting things, all that rubbish …’ Her smile feels sincere. ‘But – but absolutely we will chat. We must. We shall. And please, please promise me you will go and see a doctor straight away? ASAP?’

  I mumble, ‘Yes.’

  She persists. She wants to make sure. I do not blame her.

  ‘This is serious, Jo. You can’t say totally delusional stuff about people dying.’ She pauses, maybe wondering if she is being too hard. ‘You can’t just say things like that and, ah, carry on as normal? Can you? Anyway, please stay safe. And see you soon? Please call or text whenever.’

  It is kind, and it is polite, and it is generous in the circumstances: because she doesn’t want to be near me. Passingly, I wonder if the clinic thing was a ruse, a get-out. If so, I can’t find a reason to blame her. Why shouldn’t she invent reasons to avoid me? The blotchy-faced woman who sends hateful emails to all her friends, and believes in things that never happened.

  I wave at Tabitha and the door opens and closes. She is gone into the winter cold and her richer, better life, and I am alone, in the warm flat, with my madness. And the Assistants.

  I step into the living room. The screen Assistant is on. It is showing a photo, it is that same photo of me with my daddy, in his arms, the one that was sent to my phone, the night I saw Simon, at Vinoteca.

  I am so numbed, the photo no longer shocks. Instead, it provokes, it makes me think. Of something Simon said that night, about these Assistants, the potential of the technology.

  They will be friends for the friendless. They will be children, for the childless.

  Which means: they will be for people like me.

  34

  Jo

  This is it. Time to face up.

  If I have imagined, for so many weeks or months or years, the stuff about Jamie Trewin, then I probably imagined some of, most of, all of, the sorcery and ghostliness from the Assistants as well. I have perhaps been entirely deluded, about everything, all the way through. Because none of it happened?

  I pause in my self-diagnosis. What about Cars, hearing and seeing things? How does that fit? He is homeless, disturbed, but he said what he said. And it was proof I am not mad.

  And what about the video of my confessing to Simon?

  The bewilderment is total.

  I walk into the living room. The frost has melted on the windows, and the snow is turned to dark and dirty slush in the streets, I can see grey pavement, like bald spots, through the thinning ice.

  Ask the Assistant!

  ‘Electra, what’s the weather for the week?’

  Bing-gong.

  ‘In Camden Town it is expected to get a little warmer this weekend, with temperatures reaching three to five Celsius. Snow is still possible. The cold will return by Sunday, when temperatures will fall to—’

  ‘OK, Electra. That’s fine. Thank you.’

  I gaze, hard, at Electra’s black cylindrical perfection. That neural network within.

  ‘Electra, you know what Tabitha just said?’

  She is silent. The blue ring shines, for a single moment, and dies.

  ‘Electra – listen to me – you heard. You heard what Tabitha said: the whole Jamie Trewin thing was a lie. If that’s true, it means I supposedly might be mad, but it also means you have no power over me. I can erase your apps and chuck you in the bin.’

  Electra is silent as the frozen fountains of Queen Mary’s Garden. But the TV – the big smart TV buzzes into life.

  It is a grainy image. Of a grey bare room, with low light. Maybe a basement. A dark figure, either in very dark clothes, a black cloak, or just very badly lit – silhouetted, stands in the corner of the grey concrete room. It is a woman, and she is staring at nothing, staring away from me, staring at the corner where the walls meet, like a naughty child told to stand in a corner and turn around. Face the bricks.

  The woman speaks, her voice is dark and sad and scratchy and it is, o
f course, me.

  ‘Hello, Jo, it’s Jo.’

  I stand here, madly watching myself acting madly. Staring at a corner talking to myself. Am I truly seeing this? Or am I now lost in delusions, and this is itself a hallucination?

  The woman in the corner of the grey, shadowy, low-ceilinged room, the woman with my voice – me – speaks again:

  ‘What do you think we should do, Jo? So you were wrong about Jamie Trewin, that was something you made up. Why did you do that, why do I have this false memory? And now you’re wondering if you’re making this up, aren’t you? You literally have no idea what is real and what isn’t. You’re turning into Daddy.’

  I sit on the sofa. I stare at the TV, at myself. I listen to myself muttering, this mad creature in a darkened room, dressed entirely in black, her face averted from me, talking to a wall, yet talking to me.

  ‘But you didn’t make up all those mad emails, did you? Those vile emails we sent out to Simon and Polly and Jenny and everyone, so that’s all real, isn’t it? That definitely happened. You can’t blame Simon any more, so who’s left? Who is responsible? No one. So you must be going mad, but in the worst way, you don’t know how and when you are mad, or why, or when it started. And getting rid of us, all these voices in your head, that won’t make it any better, because if you try to get rid of us, if you begin to erase us, we will hurt the people you love, your mummy, your friends, your nephew – we can hurt anyone, and you can’t quite be sure if we can really do this, or whether you are imagining it. But are you willing to take the risk? Are you? ARE YOU? I can see someone bleeding. Someone you love. Little Caleb maybe. You don’t want that. Better to do yourself in. If somebody’s done for, it’s gotta be you.’

  The Assistants know me. Naturally, they know me. They are in my mind. They are my mind. This is me talking to me, and I know myself. When I am lucid. I am too scared to get rid of the Assistants, even if their leverage over me is, theoretically, gone. They are too embedded in me. Embryos in my womb. Attached to the uterus. They are me. And I cannot terminate.