Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  ‘Oh God!’ I cry in horror.

  ‘I can’t pull her out!’ the barista exclaims in distress. ‘I yanked her leg, but she isn’t budging!’

  ‘Get me out of here!’ I hear Henrietta cry in a muffled voice . . . from wherever her top half may be. ‘Get me out of here this instant!’

  ‘You think we should get the coppers to help?’ I suggest. ‘Once I’ve left the toilet, I mean?’

  ‘No! No police!’ Henrietta screams.

  ‘I thought of that,’ the barista says. ‘She wouldn’t have any of it.’

  ‘That’s right!’ Henrietta exclaims. ‘You two can pull me out yourselves! No police needed! Come on! Chop chop!’

  Henrietta is now thrashing around to such an extent that she’s likely to do herself an injury if she doesn’t stop.

  ‘OK! We won’t get the police!’ I shout towards her top end, wherever it may be.

  This calms Henrietta down a bit, enough at least to stop her knocking the plaster off the toilet wall with her wildly thrashing feet.

  ‘Well, we’ve got to get her out,’ the barista says. ‘I’ve got a coffee shop to run!’

  ‘Maybe . . . maybe if we take an end each, we can . . . pull her out together?’ I propose.

  She nods. ‘Good idea. You go outside then. There’s a fire exit door at the end of the corridor. Turn right once you get out.’

  ‘OK, will do,’ I reply.

  It’s nice to have somebody else telling me what to do at this stage. I feel so much more comfortable in stressful situations when I’m not in charge.

  Following the barista’s instructions, I clatter out through the fire exit door to find myself in a small courtyard. Turning right, I see the rest of Henrietta – red-faced and dishevelled – poking out of the tiny toilet window.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I say to her, going over.

  ‘Get me out!’ she demands. ‘Get me out before they see me!’

  ‘OK, OK! We’ll get you out. Don’t worry!’

  ‘Are you there?’ I hear the barista call from inside.

  ‘Yes!’ I respond, taking Henrietta by the arms.

  ‘OK then! After three!’ the barista shouts.

  ‘Yes! After three it is!’

  ‘One! Two! Three!’

  I pull at Henrietta’s arms as hard as I dare.

  ‘Aaaarggh!’ Henrietta wails. Sadly, she doesn’t budge an inch.

  ‘No good?’ the barista exclaims.

  ‘No!’ I reply.

  ‘Try again?!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘OK! One! Two! Three!’

  ‘Aaaaarrggghhh!’ Henrietta screams. This really isn’t doing us any good whatsoever.

  ‘This isn’t working!’ I shout. ‘She’s not coming out! I daren’t pull any harder!’

  ‘Wait?! What?!’ the barista yells.

  ‘I said I daren’t pull any harder! ’

  ‘Oh, fuck it! I’m pulling too!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I exclaim. ‘No wonder it’s not working!’

  ‘No! Given the fact she’s not a Christmas cracker, I’m not surprised!’

  ‘Come on! Come on! Get me out of this window!’ Henrietta howls. ‘I’m starting to chafe badly! And they’ll be out here with us at any moment! You’ll see! They’ll be wanting to probe us! That’s what they do!’

  ‘Oh, give it a bloody rest, will you,’ I snap at her.

  All I wanted to do was have a fun blind date with a nice lady I met without using the bloody Internet, and I’ve ended up in an impromptu human tug-of-war with a barista, outside a toilet, with what is clearly a raving conspiracy theorist.

  ‘Don’t you tell me to give it a rest!’ Henrietta snaps. ‘They’re real! They’re coming for us all!’

  ‘Oh, leave it out. You’ll be telling me the moon landings didn’t happen next.’

  Henrietta instantly goes rigid and stares right into my eyes. ‘They didn’t!’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud.’

  ‘It was clearly staged!’

  ‘Was it.’

  ‘Of course it was! The technology just wasn’t there for them to do it at that time! They set the whole thing up on a sound stage in Area 51!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . and I bet the earth is flat too.’

  Henrietta laughs in a derisory fashion. ‘Of course the earth isn’t flat!’

  ‘Oh, good. At least you’re not that bad.’

  ‘It is hollow, though!’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I roll my eyes and look past Henrietta at the toilet window. ‘YOU PUSH, I’LL PULL!’ I scream at the barista. I need this to be over. And I need it to be over now.

  ‘OK!’ she replies. ‘One! Two! Three!’

  This time, we’re in sync with what to do – but it doesn’t result in Henrietta being freed from her predicament. She does move about three or so inches in my direction, but that’s about as far as it goes.

  ‘Aaaaargggh!’ Henrietta screeches, forcing me to stop pulling before I detach her arms from their sockets.

  ‘It’s no good!’ I shout. ‘She’s stuck fast!’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ I hear the cry come back at me. There’s a few moments of silence before the barista responds again. ‘That’s it! I’m getting the police!’

  ‘No! No!’ Henrietta wails. ‘Not the police!’

  ‘Good grief, it’s fine!’ I tell her. ‘There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re here to help us!’

  She shakes her head vociferously. ‘No! They’re part of the organisation! The deep state! They’re part of the machine!’

  ‘The same machine that faked the moon landings?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Bloody hell. Where do you get all this nonsense from?’

  ‘YouTube!’

  ‘Oh, of bloody course, YouTube.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! The truth is all there . . . all you have to do is go and look for it!’ Poor old Henrietta is raving now. But that might be because all the blood has gone to her head, since she’s stuck fast in a toilet window.

  ‘Look for it, eh?’ I respond, half-heartedly.

  ‘Yes! You don’t have to be a sheep, Andy! You just have to have your eyes opened to the way the world really is!’

  ‘By going on YouTube?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘The place with all the videos of cats flushing toilets?’

  ‘Yes! I mean . . . I mean no!’

  ‘And people unboxing their new Star Wars dollies?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And drunk people falling down holes?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘And “Baby Shark”. Do do do do doo do.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that you think I should look for the truth about the way the world is run somewhere I can also find videos of people jumping naked into piles of horse poo, and eating fifty hot dogs? Possibly at the same time? That’s where the truth is, is it?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, that’s right!’

  My brow furrows as another thought occurs. ‘Hang on a minute . . . if you think the Internet is evil, and that’s how this organisation is tracking you . . . why are you on bloody YouTube in the first place?’

  ‘I’m not! Not any more! I left it behind once I saw what I needed to see! They showed me all I needed to be shown! I saw the only videos I really needed to!’

  ‘Charlie Bit Me and “Gangnam Style”?’

  ‘What?’

  Sadly, I don’t have time to continue this line of thought, because one of the coppers has just appeared at the fire exit door, his mouth surrounded by crumbs of chocolate muffin.

  ‘What seems to be the trouble here?’ he asks me, still chewing.

  Henrietta immediately goes bug-eyed and starts to wag her finger at the copper like it’s a malfunctioning windscreen wiper.

  ‘No! Don’t let him near me!’ she cries in an imperious voice. ‘He wants to hand me over to his evil superiors, probably for some lengthy probing! I saw it! I saw it all on Y
ouTube!’

  I give the copper a look that speaks volumes.

  He returns the look with one of confusion. ‘What’s she on about? I’ve never been on YouTube.’

  I sigh and rub my eyes. ‘That, mate, is something you should be eternally grateful for.’

  Henrietta is freed from her predicament about an hour later, with the assistance of both coppers, two carloads of their colleagues and the local fire brigade.

  There’s barely enough room in the small courtyard at the back of Heirloom Coffee to fit everyone.

  And all through the rescue mission, Henrietta continues to insist that they are all part of some grand conspiracy against her . . . and the people of this country. The only conspiracy I can detect, though, is about getting one person to pay for all the coffees and muffins that are consumed during the rescue process – and I’ll give you three guesses who ends up being on the receiving end of it.

  The first copper I spoke to – he of the chocolate muffin – sidles over to me, as the barista and I stand there watching a burly fireman slowly lift Henrietta down from the toilet window, which has been widened by the removal of the wooden framework and several bricks.

  Funnily enough, Henrietta seems somewhat less perturbed at the intervention of the emergency services now, given that she’s being assisted to the ground by a handsome fireman.

  There’s a joke here somewhere about her possibly not being quite so bothered about a potential probing after all . . . but I’m not going to dwell on it, as I’m tired, hungry and ever so slightly fed up.

  ‘How do you know her?’ the copper asks us.

  ‘I met her . . . met her for a date,’ I reply.

  ‘A date?’

  ‘Yes. I answered her ad in the personals at the back of the paper.’

  The copper looks downright baffled by this. ‘They still do those?’

  ‘Apparently,’ I say with a sigh.

  The copper gives me a slightly awkward look. ‘Maybe stick to Tinder next time, eh?’

  My face goes flat. ‘Yes. Thank you, Officer. I’ll bear that in mind.’

  He nods his head. ‘Good stuff. Well . . . I think we’re pretty much done here.’ He looks at the barista. ‘Sorry about the hole in your wall.’

  She gives him a wan smile. ‘Don’t worry. The insurance will cover it, with any luck.’

  ‘Ah, yeah . . . I’m sure it will. If you need anything from us, though, don’t hesitate to give me a shout at the station.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Great. Thanks to the both of you. I hope you have a nice rest of the day.’

  We wish him well as he leaves us and goes to help Henrietta as she is escorted out of the courtyard by the hunky fireman.

  She seems to have calmed down considerably – no doubt thanks to the uniform and all of those muscles. Though it could also just be because she’s knackered.

  I know I am.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ the barista eventually remarks, slumping against the wall.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I reply.

  ‘That was bizarre.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were here with her on a date?’ she asks, slightly amazed.

  I nod my head. ‘I was.’ I cock my head to one side and think for a second. ‘I’m not sure there will be another one. What do you think?’

  This makes her chuckle. ‘So . . . you answered a personal ad in the paper?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not allowed to use Tinder any more.’

  ‘Because of your detox.’

  ‘Because of my detox, yes.’ I rub my hands over my face. ‘A detox that has led me into meeting way too many bizarre individuals, it has to be said.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  I wave a hand. ‘Never mind.’

  The barista stands up straight, giving the new hole in the wall a critical look. ‘Well, I guess I’d better clean up this mess as best I can. Get something over that hole before the weather changes.’

  I feel instantly guilty. ‘I’ll give you a hand, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies, with a rather tired smile.

  ‘What’s your name, by the way?’ I ask.

  ‘Grace,’ the barista replies. ‘And you’re Andy Bellows, aren’t you?’

  ‘I certainly am.’ I thrust out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘You make a very good flat white,’ I add.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘This is a very nice coffee shop.’ I glance at the hole in the wall. ‘Even with a toilet that’s probably going to be out of commission for a while.’

  ‘Thanks. Like I said to the policeman, hopefully the insurance will cover it OK.’ She smiles. ‘And I’m very proud of the rest of the place. All the bits that haven’t been smacked about by the emergency services all afternoon.’

  ‘Oh? You own it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s mine,’ Grace says with obvious pride.

  ‘Oh. That’s nice. Really . . . nice.’

  This is where the conversation dries up, unfortunately. Normally I can keep the small talk up for much longer, but – as stated – I’m feeling bloody knackered thanks to all of Henrietta’s shenanigans.

  In fact, when you add today’s events to what happened in the Mendips and with Herbert Bilch, it’s becoming painfully obvious that living without the Internet is something that’s throwing up more problems and difficulties than it’s worth. I’m not sure I can cope any more.

  It’s plainly clear that living a life without technology is not an easy thing to do. The world around me is so geared towards using it, that attempting not to leads down paths of disaster and weirdness – no matter how hard you try to avoid them.

  This is an unpleasant realisation.

  I knew I was addicted to the online world, but I had no idea to what extent the actual world was so reliant on it.

  And look at the damage the Internet can do!

  Good old Henrietta has obviously been affected by the lies and conspiracies that can be uncovered on the Internet with very little effort. Anything that ends with you suffering friction burns to your midriff and the exposure of your underwear to many members of the emergency services cannot be a good thing.

  And let’s not forget about Herbert Bilch and his desperation to be followed and loved by hordes of complete strangers on Instagram. That led him to maxing out his mother’s credit card and living a constant lie.

  There’s a growing part of me that truly wants nothing to do with being online any more. My digital detox is starting to expose me to facets of the Internet and social media that I do not like one little bit.

  Unfortunately, the part of me that feels like this is being comprehensively drowned out by the rest of me – which would rather not end up in another duck pond, or on a date with a mad conspiracy theorist.

  I hate to say it, but for all the problems the Internet throws up, there are more problems it solves. On balance, the good outweighs the bad – I think.

  Dating on the Internet is certainly a good thing. I’ve managed to prove that today.

  OK, you may not find the woman of your dreams, but you’re also less likely to end up standing in a courtyard, arguing about YouTube with someone who wears Hello Kitty knickers and thinks the moon landings didn’t happen.

  I would like to think that Henrietta is alone in her wild and crazy way of thinking . . . but all the evidence I’ve seen in the dark recesses of the Internet proves that this probably isn’t the case.

  Don’t believe me? Search for the Flat Earth Society on YouTube sometime.

  If you need to chew on something while you do it, I recommend a nice chocolate muffin.

  Chapter Seven

  STATE OF GRACE

  I wake the next morning – after a solid nine hours of uninterrupted sleep – and instantly feel highly annoyed.

  I had a very stressful day yesterday. Hanging out with the emergency services is never what I’d call a relaxing experience. How can I possibly have f
ollowed that up with a nice, deep sleep?

  It’s ridiculous.

  It should have taken me ages to get off to sleep – but nope, I was fast asleep almost the instant my head hit the pillow.

  I crunch through my morning cereal still feeling highly annoyed.

  You see, I came to a decision last night. Just before I drifted off into that deep sleep.

  I’m going to give up the detox.

  Again.

  But this time I at least feel like I’ve given it a good go.

  And I know some people might be disappointed – not least of whom will be Fergus. But I’ve reached a point where I just don’t think I can carry on with it. My life has become too bloody difficult.

  After I’ve finished my cereal, I am going to take a shower, have a nice cup of coffee and then log on to my laptop and have a look at the world again for the first time in weeks. Then I’ll go to Fergus’s house to get my box of goodies back. I will apologise to him for ending the detox, and explain the reasons behind it. I will be firm and unwavering.

  Then I can get back to living my life of convenience and ease – without having to worry what might happen to me the next time I step outside of my flat.

  Who knows what catastrophes I will be avoiding by giving up?

  A run-in with a horny Afghan hound, for instance. Or accidentally setting fire to my pubic hair. How about being arrested for molesting a traffic cone? Or being chased down the high street by an elderly woman dressed as Hitler?

  All of these things – and many, many more – are quite possible if I continue with my offline lifestyle any longer.

  And yes, I have to accept that if I’m going to avoid such potential future disasters, I may have to put up with a few health issues. But I don’t remember the IBS really being all that bad. And I’m sure the jaw problems were really more about the stress I was under at the time, trying to get that Fluidity contract.

  I’m pretty sure that if I go back to my proper lifestyle, things will be a bit better now.

  And besides . . . I’m not responsible for anyone else, am I?

  This is my life, and I can live it however I choose.

  I don’t owe anybody anything, and if I want to make the decision to give up the detox, then I am perfectly entitled to do so. There’s literally nothing stopping me from just—