Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  I shake my head. ‘We’ve just been hanging out together. As friends. It’s nothing more than that.’

  ‘Isn’t it? That’s too bad for you.’

  ‘No . . . I don’t mean . . . We’re not . . .’ I give an exasperated gasp. ‘We’re trying to help each other through this detox right now, Ferg. Getting romantically involved probably wouldn’t help matters.’

  ‘Yeah. You just keep telling yourself that, pal.’ He gives Grace a quick look again. ‘But you might want to tell her as well. The way she keeps flicking glances at you suggests she thinks differently.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, voice a little too eager.

  While the rational part of my brain insists that I should probably keep things platonic between Grace and me while this strange period of my life plays itself out, the rest of me just wants to throw caution to the wind and kiss her.

  But, despite Fergus’s opinions, I’m not sure Grace is ready for anything like that. Or willing, for that matter.

  Let’s face it, we’re both going through a rather traumatic change to our personal circumstances. Do we really need the anxiety of trying to start a relationship at the same time? Surely it’s better for each of us to sort our own mental health out before doing anything like that?

  Grace and I have not discussed this with each other at all on the several occasions we’ve met up since the day in Bath, but I feel like there’s a tacit agreement there that doesn’t really need to be openly talked about.

  One day at a time.

  And if there’s anything romantic between us, it’ll happen in due course.

  Of course, this eminently sensible way of thinking does not stop me sounding like an excited schoolboy when Fergus points out the way Grace is looking at me.

  ‘Yes, Andy. She definitely likes you,’ he says, still in that irritating, amused tone of voice. He sips his coffee again. ‘She also makes the best flat white I’ve had in ages. You should probably marry her at your first opportunity.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I remark. ‘To change the subject – which I feel would be best for us all right now – what was it you wanted to chat to me about?’

  Fergus’s eyes light up and he puts the coffee cup down, spilling some of its contents into the saucer. ‘Ah! Well, Mr Bellows, I have a proposition for you!’

  I groan internally. ‘What?’

  Fergus looks annoyed. ‘Don’t be like that. This is a good thing.’

  ‘What is?’

  He sits up straight. ‘A follow-up!’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A follow-up, Andrew! Another story about your digital detox!’

  My jaw goes slack for a second. ‘Why?’

  Fergus looks incredulous. ‘Because you’ve done so well!’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Well, of course you have! You’ve got . . . what? Another couple of weeks left?’

  ‘Just over that, actually. Sixteen days.’

  Not that I’ve really been counting . . . not at all.

  One day at a time, remember?

  ‘And look how far you’ve come!’

  I scratch my nose. ‘I don’t think I’ve really come all that far, Ferg.’

  ‘No? How are you sleeping?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And the IBS?’

  ‘It’s . . . also fine.’

  ‘Work going OK?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Actually, I’ve been on a massive creative kick recently. The artwork has been flowing out of me faster than ever before. And it’s all really good stuff.

  ‘And you feel happier, right? Better up here?’ He taps his head.

  I think about this for a moment.

  I don’t know if ‘happier’ is the right word to use. I’d probably steer more towards ‘calmer’. My brain doesn’t feel like it’s permanently set on maximum overdrive any more. There are times now when I can just sit there and empty my mind of thought. That sounds like it should be an easy thing to do – but trust me, it isn’t for a tech-head.

  But I can do it now, and it’s very relaxing.

  To just ‘be’ for a few minutes a day.

  ‘I certainly feel better in my head, yes,’ I tell Fergus truthfully.

  ‘And . . . you know . . .’ He jerks a thumb over at Grace, who is now talking to the other barista who works for her as they both deal with customer orders at the enormous coffee machine.

  ‘Yes, yes. I get your point,’ I say, hoping that Grace doesn’t notice his rather overt thumb-jerking.

  ‘Well . . . I’d say all of that warrants a follow-up article, wouldn’t you?’

  I open my mouth to protest, but then close it again just as quickly.

  It probably does, doesn’t it?

  Because I do feel quite proud of myself, you know.

  These last six weeks have been difficult, but I have soldiered on through them without breaking the detox once. I have done something that I once considered quite impossible, and I’ve done it without breaking any limbs or damaging any internal organs.

  OK, I’ve had a few run-ins with misfortune, but none of them have resulted in long-term psychological or physical damage, and I can certainly say they’ve been a mild price to pay for the sense of self-satisfaction I currently have.

  And I am immensely self-satisfied right now.

  I am sleeping very well.

  My neck pain has completely gone.

  I now shit once a day, and when I do it’s quite a pleasurable experience.

  Do you know how alien that feels for someone who suffers (or rather suffered) from irritable bowel syndrome? I now look forward to having a poo.

  Madness. Sheer, unbridled madness.

  And I’ve even reached the point where my disconnection from the online world has become an annoyance, rather than a tragedy.

  I’ve discovered that I’m not actually that bothered about what people I’ve never met are talking about on forums. I no longer give two hoots about what the local community is talking about on Facebook. The whereabouts of celebrities on Instagram is entirely inconsequential to my life, and whatever is trending on Twitter no longer matters one jot.

  About the only things I still miss about my previous lifestyle are the convenience of it all, and the ability to find out information that I actually need to know.

  Ordering goods and services is still a massive headache. Getting a takeaway is more trouble than it’s worth, and shopping in general is now a task I loathe on every single level.

  And boy do I miss the ability to just look something up quickly. Whether it be the spelling of a word, or the time a TV show is broadcast, it takes me twenty times longer to seek out the answers I need.

  But . . . I’m pretty sure all that is worth it, because I now look forward to having a poo.

  I have reached a state of equilibrium in my life that pleases me no end.

  As I think this, I unconsciously look over at Grace, who is now handing over a couple of lattes to the couple at the counter.

  ‘You really think people want to read another article about me?’ I ask Fergus.

  ‘Of course! Why wouldn’t they? You’re a success story!’

  ‘OK then,’ I say. ‘Why the hell not?’

  Fergus grins and whips out his mobile phone. He thumbs the screen, and then places it between us on the table. ‘Why don’t you tell me how it’s all gone, Andy? In as many words as you need. Don’t leave anything out. Tell me everything.’

  I take a deep breath, and begin to talk.

  The article – which Fergus entitles ‘Logged Off and Loving It’ – appears in the paper four days later.

  In it, Fergus does a pretty damn good job of summing up how my life has changed since the detox started. He certainly does a good job of detailing all the escapades I’ve been through since leaving the technology behind. Although, he spends a lot more time talking about the new relationship I’ve formed with Grace than I think is entirely necessary.

  When I point this out to him, he’s inc
redulous. ‘You’re kidding, right? People always want to read about relationships, Andy. Every good story ever written is about a relationship. It’s great that your mental and physical health has improved . . . and what better way to underline that than the fact it’s helped you meet someone new?’

  ‘But we’re not dating, Fergus. I told you that!’

  ‘Meh . . . doesn’t matter. Human interest is human interest, Andy. And Grace adds a whole new dimension to the story that gives it even more life!’

  Which is hard to argue with, I suppose.

  Grace has certainly given my life a whole new dimension – one where I spend a lot more time outside in the sun. After the trip to Bath, both Grace and I have developed a shared love of getting out and about that is keeping us away from both technology and the insides of our own heads.

  We’ve been on walks together in the country, taking advantage of the warm weather, and have been actively considering the purchase of walking sticks from Trespass – which you know means we must be serious about it. I never realised how much I adore hedgerows – when I’m on foot, anyway. Big, bushy green hedgerows, covered in bees and butterflies. Lovely.

  A small but perfectly formed peacock butterfly landed on Grace’s nose the other day as we lay down for a rest on the grass. It was quite the most exquisite thing I think I’ve ever seen.

  It’s a good job Grace was willing to be in the story. Fergus had to do a bit of convincing, but as we’ve readily established, he’s very good at that type of thing.

  She asked Fergus not to go into any detail about her own detox – which is more than fair enough. I may be willing to let the whole world in on my travails, but it doesn’t mean she has to.

  It’s a bit of a shame she didn’t want it mentioned, though, as she’s been doing remarkably well with it. Far better than I did in the first few weeks. She hasn’t written off her car even once.

  If she’s had any wobbles, she’s managed to keep them hidden from me. All I see is someone who’s discovering the outside world again for the first time in ages, and dragging me along with her.

  I find myself unquestionably happy to be dragged.

  Five days after Fergus’s story went in the paper, when I officially have a week left of the detox, Fergus sits down opposite me in Heirloom Coffee again and looks at me with wide eyes.

  ‘I think you’ve started something here, Mr Bellows,’ he tells me breathlessly.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, the morning after the paper went out, I started to get phone calls and emails about you. About your story. I’ve also had quite a lot of people contact me on social media . . . though you wouldn’t have seen that, of course.’

  I suddenly feel deeply worried.

  Why would people be contacting Fergus about me?

  What did I say?

  Did I offend someone?

  Maybe I said too much. Maybe I went into too much detail about what I’d been going through.

  I knew I shouldn’t have talked about the duck pond incident or what happened with Herbert Bilch and Henrietta. No actual, real names were used, but maybe those involved still recognised themselves, and are angry at me because of it?

  I thought I was quite nice about Bath. I didn’t say anything controversial.

  Have I angered the fudge people?

  I don’t want to anger the fudge people. They have access to a lot of hot fudge that I’m sure could be turned into a deadly ballistic weapon if the need arose.

  Have I pissed folks off, without meaning to?

  ‘No! Nothing like that, Andy!’ Fergus assures me when I confess my concerns to him. ‘They love you!’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘Yes! Every person who’s been in touch has done so to say how much they admire what you’re doing.’

  ‘What, even driving the car into the duck pond?’

  Fergus laughs. ‘Not the specifics, mate. Your entire journey. I knew it would make a great second story as soon as you were done talking, and I was bloody right!’

  ‘What . . . what have they been saying?’

  ‘Oh, that they can see themselves in you. That you’ve shown them how reliant they are on their phones, and how it’s been bad for them. That they want to do the detox as well. That you’re a bloody inspiration . . . you know, that kind of thing.’

  ‘An inspiration?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  Dear Christ in heaven. Me? Andy Bellows? An inspiration to people?

  I’ve often been flabbergasted by humanity, to the point of panicked incredulity. This revelation is not helping matters.

  ‘Like I say, I think you might have started something here, pal,’ Fergus says in an excited voice.

  ‘Started something?’

  ‘Absolutely! A movement.’

  ‘A movement,’ I repeat in a slightly nauseous tone.

  ‘Yes. There’s not a lot else you can call it when dozens of people get in touch in such a short space of time.’ Fergus shows me his phone screen. It’s covered in Twitter, Facebook and email notifications. ‘Just look at that little lot, would you?’

  ‘A movement,’ I say again, staring down into my empty coffee cup.

  I don’t want to start a movement.

  I don’t want to be a part of a movement.

  The only kind of movement I want in my life is a smooth easy one, while I’m sitting on the toilet.

  In my limited experience of history, I know that no one who starts a movement ever comes out of the other end in good shape. They usually get killed by the authorities, their own followers or a cyanide capsule.

  Hitler created a movement. It didn’t turn out well for anyone. They wrote books about it and everything.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ I gasp and sit back in my chair, looking at the ceiling.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Fergus asks me.

  ‘What’s the matter? You’ve just told me I’m like Hitler and you ask what’s the matter?’

  ‘Hitler?’

  ‘Yes! He started a movement!’

  This is a strange and irrational train of thought, but please forgive me, I’ve just been told that dozens of people want to know more about me. That they are interested in my story.

  Dozens of brains with the name ‘Andy Bellows’ currently at the forefront of their thoughts.

  I feel sick.

  ‘Everything OK, guys?’ Grace asks, having no doubt come over to say hello to Fergus.

  I look up at her, ashen-faced. ‘I’m Hitler, Grace,’ I tell her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m Hitler. Fergus has turned me into Hitler.’ I grab her arm. ‘I don’t want to take a cyanide capsule!’

  ‘Andy? Are you all right?’

  ‘I think he might be having some kind of nervous breakdown,’ Fergus opines. ‘Maybe I should have broken the news to him a bit more gently.’

  ‘What news?’ Grace asks, pulling up an empty chair from one of the other tables.

  Fergus then explains what’s been happening, while I sit there trying not to think about the word ‘Nuremberg’.

  ‘Ahh . . .’ she remarks when Fergus finishes. ‘That is quite a thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is!’

  I do wish Fergus would stop looking quite so happy about all of this. It’s not him parked at the front of dozens of brains, is it?

  Grace plays with her locket while she shoots me a couple of concerned looks. ‘I mean, I understand it, obviously. I did exactly the same thing, when you get right down to it. The original story you wrote is what led me to Andy’s door after all.’ She unconsciously puts a hand out and squeezes my arm. ‘But that many people? That’s a lot for him to deal with.’

  ‘They liked you too, you know,’ Fergus points out.

  Now Grace joins me in the realms of panic. I can’t say I’m upset about this. A trouble shared is a trouble halved, after all.

  ‘Me?!’ she cries, eyes wide with horror.

  ‘Oh yeah. I think it’s the fac
t you got in touch with him that gave them the inspiration to do it themselves.’

  Now Grace contrives to look guilty.

  ‘You know that makes you Eva Braun, don’t you?’ I tell her in a quivering voice, still reeling from how bizarre all of this is.

  Grace stares at me. ‘Didn’t he shoot her?’

  I nod slowly. ‘I think so. You don’t have to worry, though . . . about the only gun I can get hold of is a plastic wheel lock.’

  That doesn’t seem to make her feel any better, to be honest. ‘I’m sorry, Andy,’ she says.

  I look horrified. ‘No! You don’t have anything to apologise for!’ I turn an evil stare on Fergus. ‘This is all his fault!’

  ‘My fault?’ Fergus exclaims, pointing a finger at his own chest.

  ‘Yes! You wrote the stories, Fergus!’ I denounce. ‘You’re the man who put it out there!’ I gasp as a revelation strikes me. ‘You’re fucking Goebbels!’

  ‘Goebbels?!’

  ‘Yes! Fucking Goebbels!’

  ‘Can we quit with the Nazi comparisons now, please?’ Grace implores. ‘It’s making my head hurt.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell her, but I continue to give Fergus a look that speaks Nazi volumes.

  ‘The question is,’ she continues, ‘what do we do about this?’

  ‘Do about this? What do you mean?’ I ask, now turning the look on Grace. Did Goebbels have an assistant?

  She holds up her hands. ‘You have to reply to them, don’t you?’ she asks, and then looks back at Fergus/Goebbels. ‘Doesn’t he?’

  Fergus shrugs. ‘Yeah. It’d be nice if he talked to them. Probably a very good idea.’

  I’m staggered. ‘Reply to them? Talk to them?’

  Both Grace and Fergus nod.

  I stare at them both. ‘Have you gone completely bloody mad, the pair of you?’

  They give me blank looks.

  ‘I can’t talk to those people!’

  ‘Why not?’ Fergus asks.

  ‘Because . . . because . . .’ I stab two fingers towards my own head. ‘Because I’m me!’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Grace asks, confused.

  ‘You’ve both met me, haven’t you?’ I say to them. ‘OK, one of you has known me a lot longer than the other, but it doesn’t take long to discover that I am not . . . not a people person. The concept of communicating with dozens of strangers is not something my brain can contemplate.’ I think for a moment. ‘Or my digestive system, for that matter.’