"I'm not talking to her, Simon. You know that!"
"Then ring your aunt for goodness' sake! Or Miranda. Ring Miranda. Bella, I'm going to have to go now."
"I can't do that! Suppose she's not at home? I mean, suppose Mummy's not at home? She could be lying dead somewhere and they wouldn't even know yet. Suppose she isn't dead?"
Another sigh, this time totally undisguised. "Then, my blossom, I'm afraid you're going to have to face the unpleasant possibility that you're downloading a complete stranger's soul. Like the jargon, by the way. You'll be wanting a job here next."
"Simon, this is not funny! And don't be patronising. I'm suffering, Simon! I'm getting these peculiar . . . urges. I don't feel as if I'm me any more. I'm not even sure I look like me any more."
"Bella, I'm sure you're the same exquisite and fascinating creature I saw at breakfast, and if you're not, I promise to love you anyway. Now I really have to go."
Bella begins to cry. "But you don't understand! I don't want this. I don't want her bloody soul! I'm too young for all that. I just want to be me!"
"Bella, listen. Just sit tight, okay? Have a coffee. Relax. Do some yoga. Listen to your whale music or something. I'll ring you back just as soon as I've done my thing, okay? It'll only be a couple of hours at most, then I'll try to get home, if I can."
Bella, sobbing: "I can't do that; I've got to go to work. I should be there now. Terry'll kill me if I'm late."
"But you just asked me to come home!"
"Did I? Oh, I don't know. I don't know what I want. I feel so odd."
"Well, I don't know either. Look, they're coming; Donna says they're in the building. Hang on a minute, I can't hear both of you. What? . . . In the lift? Bella, they're in the lift. I'm really going to have to go. I'll try and ring you later, okay?"
"Simon, I need you! . . . Simon? Are you there?"
*
A rainswept London street. Scuttling girls sharing umbrellas, shop lights reflected in wet buses. Bella marching, a full head above the milling afternoon shoppers, click-clack of four inch heels, the long legs scissoring. Terry struggling behind in his orange rubber feet. "Hang on there Bel! Have pity on a knock-kneed fowl. What's the hurry anyway?"
"Didn't you get my note?"
"What? No. Been at it all morning. Tumbling Ted's Playgroup, some brat's birthday. Chicken feed of course, but there it is, gotta scratch a living somehow. Hang on, I think there's an egg coming. Cluck, cluck, cockadoodledoo! Phew! That's better. Bloody uncomfortable these things, rattlin' around in yer pants. How was it for you?"
"Terry, I'm not in the mood for levity. They were animals in there if you must know. I was spared nothing."
"Well that's bakers for you, randy buggers. I blame the heat. Good money though, eh? Hey, wait a minute! Where's your coat? You've forgotten your coat."
"Yes I know. It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters! You'll catch your death. Look, wait in this doorway and I'll go back for it."
"Forget the coat, we have to catch the bank. Then I have to check the trains. I need to be back in Dorset tonight. Sooner if possible."
"Dorset! Are you mad? It's the fancy-dress party tonight. The big one, remember? And you've got that bloke in the stockroom at Corby's in half an hour. Look, come and get in the van; you're gettin' soaked."
"Terry, I'm leaving. I'm leaving now. That's what the note was about. I'm sorry I can't give you any notice but I have to go home urgently and I need my money. I make it two hundred and twenty-four pounds you owe me."
"Two hundred . . . For Chrissake Bella! Look, just stop a minute will you?"
"The bank, Terry. There isn't much time."
"Bella," grabbing her arm. "Bella, listen to me. Item one: you cannot go marching down Lewisham High Street in just a basque and fishnets, you'll get pinched. Also, you'll get pneumonia. Come and get in the van."
"So let them look," shaking him off. "Or are you upset they're getting an eyeful for nothing? Quick, cross now, after this car."
"Just wait! Item two: I haven't got two hundred quid, in the bank or out of it, and even if I had, I don't carry a chequebook in me chicken suit on account of how it ain't got no pockets. A design fault maybe, but there it is. Now how about we go and sit in the van, in the dry, and talk about this, eh? Me fevvers are goin' all soggy."
"Terry," patiently, "this is for real, okay? I am really and truly leaving, okay? I am not going into the back of the van with you. I am not going to have sex with you."
Terry, spreading his wings, looking around wide eyed, as if appealing for witnesses. "Who said anyfink about that? Did I say anyfink about that? Did I?"
Bella turns and looks fiercely down at him. "Are you seriously telling me you haven't any money? That's my money, Terry. What have you done with it?"
Terry, shaking his head. "Bella, treasure, you are paid monthly. At the end of the month it will be there waiting for you, as usual. Trust me."
"So where is it now?"
"It isn't anywhere! I've just had to pay the dry cleaners, the telephone bill and a quarter's rent on the shop; I'm skint. There's no more money until you and me have earned it."
For a long moment Bella stares at him incredulously. "Right, give me those keys," snatching them. "If I can't have my money, I'm taking the van."
"Bella, no! Just wait, will you? Damn and blast these bloody feet. Bella, we need to talk about this calmly . . . Bella! . . . Bella, move over; let Uncle Terry into the van."
"Goodbye Terry."
"Bella, you cannot take the van."
"And why not?"
"Because for one thing, sweetheart, you cannot drive!"
"Watch me."
Terry, climbing on the step. "Bella, Let me in, please."
"Take your hand off the wheel, Terry."
"Bella, you are being ridiculous. What's got into you? You can't take the van, the van is mine. The van is also full of stuff for the party. The party that you are contracted to help me with."
"Terry, please don't make me use force."
"The Kensington party Bella! The party that'll get us into the gossip columns. The party they'll still be talking about this time next year."
"Terry, I have no time, don't you understand?"
"Bella, have you gone mad? Don't be so bloody stupid!"
"Terry, I want to close the door. I'm closing the door now!" Elegant leg flashes out. Sharp jab of spike heel against avian sternum.
"Bella, no!"
*
Not more lights? Do there have to be so many? Brake then. Clutch pedal in. Gearstick forward. Clutch pedal out again. Clutch pedal in again. Gearstick back a bit, across the middle thingy and. . . Hell, I'm nearly on them! Brake hard!
Phew! That was close. Too fast, Bella! Why are you driving so fast? Oh dear, we seem to be sort of sideways on.
"Yes I had noticed thank you! Well I can't do anything about it now, can I? I'll straighten up when they change. Just be patient. Oh, charming! Yes, and you!"
Thank goodness, we're off. Into first then. Clutch pedal out. Gently now. Second . . . Third . . . Fourth. Hey, not bad!
With rapidly growing confidence Bella negotiates the home-going traffic, even overtaking a couple of mopeds (perhaps a little too close for comfort in one instance but he gets up so no harm done).
The rain is now bucketing down, adding a dull drumming on the van's plastic roof to the hiss of the tyres. Visibility is a problem as the windscreen keeps steaming up and she can't seem to get the heater to work. It's a bit chilly, too, in just the basque. Shivering, she reaches forward and makes a little circle to see through. She would quite like to stop and sort herself out but some unknown force is compelling her to keep going, no matter what.
So here we are then, Mummy dear — welcome to my head. Make yourself at home why don't you? Should I get my passport altered I wonder? Should I place an announcement in the Telegraph? 'Isabella Jane Hauteville is pleased to announce her spiritual incorporation of the late Hester Catheri
ne Hauteville. Daughter and mother doing well.'
I have to say, you haven't chosen the best of moments to die on me. I've got a full load here: food, booze, costumes. It was going to be our first really big job, our big break. Poor Terry must be doing his nut.
I said, Terry must be doing his nut. Are you there? Are you listening? Do you care? No, I don't suppose you do. You're just a soul.
Corner coming! Oops, clipped the kerb. I suppose I should have changed down really. Perhaps I'd better do it now; we seem to have gone all juddery. Clutch down, then. Gearstick forward. Clutch again. Gearstick again. Across the middle thingy. God, this is such a drag! I should have made him buy an automatic. I wonder if it's all right to go straight from fourth to second? Better not try; I might mess up the gearbox.
What is a soul anyway? I've never really thought about it. I suppose I should have but I haven't. It all seemed so far ahead: thirty, forty years. I never dreamed it would be so soon. I mean, is it the complete, unabridged you I'm getting, like memories and everything? Because, to be honest, I don't actually seem to have any yet. Perhaps it's just your personality, then, your you-ness, your essence. But if so, where are all those endearing little traits and mannerisms we've come to know and love? I mean, shouldn't I be gasping for a ciggy by now? Shouldn't I be developing a predilection for Frank Sinatra and Edith Piaf and gin for breakfast and calling everyone dahling? All I've got so far are these, well, feelings; especially this desperate urge to head south, like a homing pigeon.
Actually, I'm not sure I'd really want your memories, thinking about it. Not all of them anyway. I wouldn't want to know about your sex life for a start. I mean, I might be able to remember my own conception! That would be just too gross!
Oh my God — it was fire! I've just realised, it must have been fire. Fire is the worst! I'm sorry, Mummy, I shouldn't have been rude about you. I expect that's why I can't remember. I expect you've blotted it out. Oh dear, I hope you didn't suffer too much. I don't want you to have suffered. That would be just awful. I suppose it was a motor accident. Or did the house burn down? Surely not? Not the manor house? I just hope it was quick, however it happened.
Mirror. Pull to centre of road. No, indicate! You're supposed to indicate! Never mind, it's too late now. Just turn. Turn!
Look, you mustn't think I don't care, just because we weren't speaking and everything. I do care. Truly I do. I'm really sorry you're dead, Mummy. It's just that it's been such a shock. And you said I wasn't to be upset when it happened because then you'd be part of me and we'd be together always, so I'm trying very hard not to be upset, even though I am just a little. In fact, quite a lot upset actually. I wish I had a tissue. I haven't even got a . . . "You stupid old bat! Don't bother bloody looking, will you? Why me? Why not chuck yourself in front of a twelve-wheeler and make a job of it?" Look at her, she walks like her drawers are round her ankles. At least I'm never going to be like that; I'm never going to be a nasty little shrivelled up, tottering thing. Come on, come on, I haven't got all day.
Bella, for goodness' sake! She can't help being old. Just cool it. Now look, you've gone and stalled. You've stalled and it serves you right. Please start. Please start. Why won't it start? Phew! Right. Clutch down again, move gearstick and gently up . . . Yes, well I'm bound to be a bit rattled, aren't I? It's hardly surprising is it? Under the circumstances.
Anyway, I think I'm entitled to be upset because whatever I end up with, it's not going to be the real you, is it? I mean, a few traits and memories aren't you, are they? To be honest, I don't see that downloading your memories is all that different from inheriting your diaries or your holiday snaps. Basically they're just a record of you, they're just data, like on one of Simon's computers. A soul is more than that, surely? Perhaps I've got it wrong. Perhaps I'm not getting that sort of stuff at all. Perhaps what I'm getting is something altogether more abstract. Perhaps it's more like the chi — raw life-force, psychic energy, a little, darting ball of light. Perhaps you're already here. Perhaps I've already got you and don't even realise. Oh dear, I wish you'd taken the trouble to really explain, while you still could.
Hooray! The motorway at last. Take her to warp, Mr Sulu. Go! Go! Go!
Look, I'll tell you what, Best Beloved. The next hour or so is really rather boring so I'm going to skip it. I'd skip it all if I could, but I want you to understand exactly how it feels to download a soul – which is pretty scary, I can tell you – and also there's the end bit, which is seriously important. I think I'll fast forward to the bit where I go the wrong way, because if I hadn't gone the wrong way then maybe none of it would have happened.
Bella peering through the misted windscreen, through the rain, into the gathering dusk.
Oh God, where do I go now? Right or straight on? I wish I had a map. Mummy, you must know this road like the back of your hand. Which way is it? Come on, decision time. Okay, right it is then. Your fault if I'm wrong. Brake gently. Indicate. Change down. Turn. Change up. How about that, eh? As to the manner born. Hey! Maybe I've downloaded a skill. I was useless before; I know I was. And now I'm really quite good, aren't I? Nice, fluid gear changes, lightning fast reactions. Yes, I'm sure of it; I've downloaded a skill! I wonder if I'm the first person to learn to drive psychically? I bet I am. Grandma couldn't drive, she had Bunting to take her about, so that makes me the first. Which is ironic, really, considering you were always being done for speeding and driving without due care. In fact, I'm pretty sure you died banned.
And now I come to think about it, there's another change — the Tenstones. I can distinctly feel them calling. I'm getting this very strong urge to be with them, to nurture them, to protect them. It's almost . . . I was going to say maternal. Yes, maternal, that's it! I wouldn't have known what it felt like before, obviously, but now I know exactly. It's a little bit like I feel about Terry, funnily enough. Not Simon though. Perhaps I really have got it then, all your stuff. Perhaps I just hadn't noticed. After all, you don't think about the things you've got in your head do you? You don't suddenly think: Ooh, I can prove Pythagorus's theorem. You don't think about it until you need it. Not that I ever have needed it. I must say, it's pretty weird that the first time I feel maternal should be towards a bunch of rocks. But then the whole thing is pretty weird, frankly.
We'd be starting now, the party. Just about now we'd be starting to set things up; putting the food out, helping people select their costumes, getting to know the hostess, or host. I think it was a host, actually. I think it was that guy that came into the shop the other day. He was rather pretty. I was really looking forward to it. It would have been fun. Poor Terry, I hope he's not hurt. I pushed him awfully hard. I didn't mean to, I just sort of couldn't help myself.
Rubbish, you meant to. You enjoyed it. The look on his face!
No I didn't! That's awful. He could have been hurt!
So what? Serve him right, dirty little toe rag. He exploited you. The money was lousy and he expected sex as well.
That's not true! I mean, he didn't exploit me. Terry's all right; we had some good laughs together. We were just starting; he couldn't afford to pay me more. He was going to make me a partner, eventually.
Humph! Believe that, you'll believe anything. You never learn, do you? Do you want to know what he thought of you? I'll tell you — a soft touch and an easy lay, that's what he thought. You undervalue yourself. You sell yourself cheap. Without you, what would he be? Just another thick barrow boy with a not very original idea. East End trash. A good thing you're leaving if you ask me.
That's not . . .
Bella frowning, confused.
Wait a minute. I didn't think that. I'd never think that. Those aren't my thoughts. They don't even feel like my thoughts. It's not me thinking those things, it's you! It's you! It must be, because it's just what you would say. You've always hated my friends. Doing sixty in town. Shouting at old ladies on crossings. I wouldn't do that. I'd never do that. That's you! It was you! But look here, that must mean we're still se
parate, mustn't it? If you can think one thing and I can think another that must mean we're still separate. When do we join up? When do we become 'as one'? And how can you think, anyway? You're just a soul, you're not supposed to be able to think.
"Oh my God! Suppose she's actually conscious?"
Bella braking violently to a halt, causing brief vehicular mayhem, hugging herself and rocking in terror.
I never thought of that! I never thought she might be conscious. I never thought she might be alive. If you're conscious, you're alive! Suppose she knows what's going on? Suppose she's able to watch everything I do? I couldn't face that! I couldn't face a lifetime with her alive in my head! I'd go mad!
Or worse! Suppose she tries to take over, like she always does? Suppose I get shoved into a corner of my own brain, where I'm completely helpless? Suppose I can't say or do anything and have to watch her rampaging about, doing her thing, in my body, abusing my body! Boozing! Smoking! Giving me cancer. The horror! The horror of it. Oh God! God, help me! It's going to happen. I know it's going to happen. I know it! I know it! "Shut up! Shut up hooting! I hate you! It's not me, it's her! It's her that's driving; I can't drive!"
Bella, with an immense effort of will, pulling herself together. Bella remembering what she is now, what she represents. Dignity! Above all she must have dignity; her new calling demands it.
Look, for goodness' sake calm down. Calm down and pull off the road. And stop being so bloody stupid. You're not the first, you know. What about Mummy and Grandma? She didn't turn into Grandma when Grandma died did she? Of course not. She'd have been a very peculiar eleven-year-old if she had. She just stayed Mummy. On the surface anyway.
I expect we just haven't knitted together properly yet. I expect being back in a brain again has sort of reanimated her a bit. I expect the lump of brain she's downloaded into has become temporarily semi-autonomous. I expect eventually the new stuff will spread out and become mingled with the rest of me. I expect in the end I won't know which thoughts and feelings are hers and which are mine. They'll just sort of merge. It may take a little time, that's all. I should be positive. I should look upon it as an interesting experience. Not everyone gets to download a soul.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 3
