Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  ‘Hello,’ I say to the three of them, aiming myself more at the father than the other two, as he’s the one with the phone in his hand. ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I need somebody’s help with something very important, and you are the nearest people I thought might be able to help me.’

  The man gives me a quizzical look. ‘What’s up, chief?’

  I explain – in as much detail as I can, given the circumstances – what has happened.

  As I’m finishing up, Grace has joined me, now looking as confused as she is upset. ‘So, I just need to borrow a mobile phone, so I can put something out on social media about it,’ I finish telling the couple.

  The guy narrows his eyes for a moment. ‘Yeah. I recognise you. You’re that guy doing the detox, aren’t you? I saw you on the TV news.’

  ‘Yep, that’s me! Andy Bellows is the name.’

  Borrowing mobile phones for nefarious purposes is my game, my brain pipes up.

  The man shrugs his shoulders and hands the phone over to me. ‘Sure, no worries. Happy to help. You’ll have to log me out of everything so you can log yourself in, though. Do you know how to do that?’ He looks uncertain. ‘I’m not all that good with social media stuff. We’ve got a Twitter account somewhere, but we haven’t touched it in years.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ I reply, taking the phone and flicking through the apps with my thumb. ‘I can use the browser interface. I won’t have to touch any of your log-in details.’

  As I say this, Grace’s hand covers mine, obscuring the phone’s screen from me. ‘Andy? What are you doing?’

  I look at her in surprise. ‘I’m putting an appeal out on social media, Grace. To see if anyone has found your necklace. I’ll use that hashtag we saw on the sign. That should get enough eyes on the appeal, with any luck.’

  Grace looks distraught. More distraught, I mean.

  ‘But what about your detox? What about Loggers Off ?’

  I stare at her for a moment, thinking silently, before answering in a resolute voice. ‘What does that matter, Grace? Right now? Two and a half months of my silly life against your link to the people you love? What does it matter?’

  ‘But you’ve been doing so well! I don’t want you to . . . to . . .’

  ‘To what? Watch you in any more pain, just so I can look good in the eyes of a bunch of complete strangers?’

  ‘They’ll be really angry with you!’ Grace insists. ‘Fergus will be mad, too.’

  I shrug my shoulders again. ‘Let them, if they want. This is more important.’ I feel my lip tremble. ‘You’re more important.’

  And now I have to look back down at this man’s phone – lest I get overemotional and lose track of what I’m doing.

  I start to thumb at the iPhone’s screen, and something very fundamental happens in my brain. Some connection – one that has been floundering around loose in my subconscious – reattaches itself deep down somewhere, and I feel a sudden rush of pleasure. Of excitement.

  Look at it, would you?

  Just look at it.

  A tiny screen, no more than a few inches across.

  And all the world beneath my fingertips, just waiting to be explored . . .

  I pull up Google and navigate to the Twitter log-in page.

  It all feels so natural. So normal.

  So right.

  When I log in to my Twitter account I let out an audible gasp.

  The amount of people following @Andy_Bellows has leapt up. In fact, my follower count has nearly tripled.

  That’s comprehensively insane.

  Fergus must have included my username in the tweets on the Loggers Off account. I don’t feel brave enough to go and take a look at how many followers that has. Not right now.

  While Grace chats with the couple and their small daughter, I compose a straightforward but heartfelt appeal about the lost necklace – including the #ThornManorIsOpen hashtag, along with any other hashtags I think that could be relevant.

  I also include Thorn Manor’s account in the tweet, because it can’t hurt at this point.

  A bolt of inspiration hits me, and I navigate over to the webpage of the Daily Local News and spend a few seconds searching for my name. Sure enough, I find all the online versions of the stories Fergus has written – which include photos. One of them is of me and Grace. I remember it being taken. We were both extremely awkward.

  But yes! There it is!

  Grace’s locket is just about visible, hanging outside her blue work shirt. The photographer wanted it on display in the picture – to tie in with the name of the coffee shop.

  I save the picture to the phone, zoom in on it and crop it so only the locket can be seen. Then I attach this picture to my appeal and hit the tweet button.

  And I’m not done yet!

  My thumb flies over the phone screen as my brain fizzes with energy.

  Next I surf over to Facebook, copy and pasting the same appeal and picture on to my profile. I also post it on the Thorn Manor Facebook page.

  And then I do the same on Instagram.

  It’s all so easy. It’s all so quick.

  It’s all so damn wonderful.

  My heart is going ten to the dozen when I’m done.

  ‘That should do it,’ I tell Grace and the couple. ‘With any luck, we might get somewhere with it. Almost everyone here has a phone, and they’ll all be using them to take pictures. With any luck, somebody will have either seen the locket or might have even picked it up.’

  I’m not going to mention my fears about it being stolen. If that’s the case, we’re dead in the water, but I’m hoping and praying that isn’t what happened.

  I’m hoping and praying that today . . . people are better than that.

  People have to be better than that.

  The phone goes ding with a notification, and my pulse rises another notch.

  It’s Thorn Manor retweeting me.

  Good.

  That should help.

  I don’t have any of my accounts set up in apps, of course, so for the most part I have to constantly flick through each social media service in separate open tabs, searching for responses.

  And it’s not too long until they start flooding in.

  Most offer commiserations about the loss of the locket and hope that we find it again.

  Some are promises to keep a look out for it, and a few are the rather inevitable trolling criticisms about how we should have kept it more secure, so this disaster never arose in the first place.

  All par for the course.

  No one has seen the locket, though. Not yet.

  A good twenty minutes goes by while I shuttle back and forth, primarily between Twitter and Facebook, replying with thanks to those promising to help with the search, and providing more details about the locket to those who ask.

  And I’m enjoying every single fucking second of it.

  I shouldn’t be.

  Grace is still very upset. We haven’t found the locket yet.

  But I’m connected again.

  I’m plugged in again.

  I’m logged on again.

  ‘Andy?’

  I ping off a reply to a woman who says she’s in the queue for Mount Terror and will keep an eye out.

  ‘Andy?’

  I respond to a guy who suggested we contact the lost property office, letting him know we’ve tried that.

  ‘Andy?’

  I take a very quick look at what’s trending on Twitter in the United Kingdom right now. Because I want to know. I have to know.

  ‘Andy?!’

  I cry out in surprise as Grace finally gets through to me – bringing me back out to the real world around me. I look up at her, blinking away the after-image of the phone’s screen on the back of my retinas.

  ‘Has anyone seen it?’ she says, in desperate hope.

  I shake my head. ‘No. Not yet. But we’ll see. Hopefully, it’ll—’

  And then it happens.

  A notification pings on Twi
tter, and I look back to read it.

  Hi! I think I’ve got your locket! My little bruv picked it up!

  It’s from Sasha.

  @SashTheMash to be exact. A fourteen-year-old girl, with bright eyes and a smile that you could probably launch ships with.

  Sasha has taken a picture of the locket in her hand, and has attached it to her response. Tears of relief fill my eyes. It’s the one.

  My hand trembling more than ever, I hold the phone up to Grace to show her the picture. ‘We’ve found it,’ I tell her, voice a bit wobbly.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she cries with sheer joy, and it’s the best sound I think I’ve ever heard.

  ‘Great stuff!’ the woman whose husband’s phone I’ve been using says.

  ‘Well done!’ he adds excitedly.

  ‘Thanks!’ I reply. ‘I’ll just find out where this Sasha is, and I can give you your phone back.’

  I send a reply back to Sasha, asking her where she is in Thorn Manor. When she tells me that her family are currently in the queue for Mega Rapids, I thank her profusely and let her know we’re on our way over. She promises to hang around outside the ride waiting for us, as it’s not one she’s all that fussed about going on, because she doesn’t want to get wet. Her mother will be waiting for us with her, because she’s not keen on the idea either, as the skirt she’s wearing is brand new and she only got it from Fat Face yesterday.

  @SashTheMash likes to write long messages.

  I tell Grace the plan and turn to the couple, whose day we have so rudely interrupted.

  ‘Thank you so much for this,’ I tell them, handing the man back his phone. ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your names?’

  ‘I’m Jamie,’ the man says.

  ‘Laura,’ the woman replies. ‘And this is our daughter, Poppy. Say hello, Pops.’

  The little girl gives me a wave.

  ‘Well, it was very nice to meet you . . . and thanks again,’ I say, looking at them properly for the first time.

  There’s something . . . familiar about them. I can’t quite put my finger on why, but I definitely think I’ve seen them somewhere before.

  ‘Thank you so much!’ Grace remarks, breaking my train of thought. I feel her tugging at my hand. ‘Come on, Andy, let’s go and get my locket!’

  I nod, give little Poppy a wave back and then follow Grace in the direction of the Mega Rapids, and a very important reunion.

  Grace hugs the life out of Sasha as I offer my undying gratitude to her mother.

  ‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ she tells me. ‘You’re lucky my girl here is never off her phone! I’m just sorry my son picked it up and took it away like that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t apologise!’ I respond. ‘Who knows what might have happened to it if he hadn’t?’

  She smiles and looks down at where Grace is still squeezing the life out of Sasha, who is giggling away to herself. ‘Well, all’s well that ends well, eh?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  ‘And thank heavens Sasha is such a Twitter addict!’ she adds. ‘I don’t go on it much myself. Don’t like any of that social media stuff, if I’m honest. How about you? Do you use it much?’

  It takes me a second to sort out what I think is a suitable response. ‘I’ve been known to,’ I reply, suddenly feeling very, very tired.

  Much later that day, Grace and I are sitting on a riverbank.

  We have left Thorn Manor far behind.

  A walk in the peace and quiet of the countryside has calmed us both down magnificently. We’ve only seen two people in the entire time we’ve been here, and I can’t express how happy I’ve been about that.

  We bought Sasha a Thorn Manor season pass as a reward. It only seemed appropriate.

  Grace clutched her locket tightly in one hand all the way back to the car. And has been checking it’s still hung around her neck every minute since.

  Until we reached the tranquillity of this riverbank, that is. Since we got here, I’ve only seen her hand stray to it once.

  Mind you, once we get back, I’m going to take a close look at the clasp on that bloody necklace, and make sure nothing like this ever happens again. The lovely, ornate jeweller’s pliers that Christos gave Grace will come in very handy with that little job.

  ‘What a bloody day,’ I remark, looking out at the pond skaters flitting about on the sunny surface of the water.

  ‘It certainly hasn’t been boring,’ Grace says, nodding slowly.

  I arch an eyebrow. ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  She gives me a face. ‘All right, it’s been a nightmare, but the sun and the water have calmed me down fantastically.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I’m OK. It was very stressful, but it all got sorted out in the end, didn’t it?’

  ‘What about . . . the detox?’

  I shrug my shoulders again. I’m finding that’s about the only thing I can do when thinking about the detox. I just don’t know how I feel about having broken it.

  I don’t think I’ve ever once felt truly ambivalent about something before in my life. It’s a very odd sensation.

  ‘What’s done is done,’ I say, matter-of-factly.

  ‘You don’t feel bad about it?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. We had to get your locket back . . . and it worked. It bloody well worked.’

  Grace looks a little stunned again for a moment. ‘Yeah. It did.’

  And that’s the thing.

  I can’t get away from the fact that without the Internet, without the ability to go online, to go on social media and put out an instant appeal, we wouldn’t have found the locket. Without that instant connection to all of those people, it would have been lost. We would have been lost.

  So, it’s clearly not all bad, is it? All that tech? All those ones and zeros. All those websites and apps.

  There are good reasons for having an online lifestyle. That much is very clear to me – despite all of the problems it can throw up as well.

  Lots of ups and downs.

  The good and the bad.

  Advantages and disadvantages.

  No wonder I feel so bloody ambivalent.

  ‘What about Loggers Off?’ Grace says, the hand straying again to the locket around her neck.

  I look out over the water, continuing to watch the pond skaters go about their summery business. ‘I don’t know. With any luck, none of them would have seen what I was up to.’

  ‘You mean you don’t want to tell them you’ve broken the detox?’

  ‘No. I can’t lie to them. Not any more.’

  ‘That’s probably for the best.’

  ‘But hopefully, I can let them down easily. I can break the news that I’ve broken the detox at the next meeting in a few days.’

  ‘Are you going to stop completely now? Go straight back online, like you used to?’ There’s a sadness in her voice that makes me feel a little sick. I know she doesn’t want me to stop. I think I’ve become as talismanic to her as I have to the rest of the Loggers Off.

  I shake my head. ‘No. I don’t think so. I owe them that much before I see them. I won’t go back until the next meeting.’ I grimace. ‘Besides, I think it’s probably best if I do steer clear for a few more days . . . just in case the ones that haven’t started their own detoxes yet did see what’s happened.’

  I’m used to the bloom of guilt that accompanies such thoughts these days.

  And that’s not the only reason for staying offline a little while longer, if I’m honest.

  There is part of me that doesn’t want to go back to that life again. Part of me that wants to stay here in the analogue world.

  Because it is much easier. Much simpler.

  . . . While at the same time being infinitely harder and more complex.

  What on earth is the right thing to do?

  Right now? Enjoy the sun, kiss Grace and maybe skim a few stones across the river, my subconscious orders me.

  I decide th
at I’m going to listen to it, as those three things do sound quite marvellous.

  There will be time to worry about the rest of the world later.

  There always is.

  Chapter Twelve

  TO THINE OWN SELFIE BE TRUE

  This, then, is going to be the final meeting of the Loggers Off.

  At least with Andrew Bellows as the star attraction.

  I can’t go on.

  It’s not fair on them, and it’s not fair on me.

  I’m going to say some of the things I should have said the first time I appeared as the star – no matter the consequences.

  And I’m terrified.

  Terrified of that confrontation.

  Terrified to tell the complete truth.

  Terrified of letting people see me for who I am, rather than who they expect me to be.

  But, let’s be honest about this, I’ve been scared ever since the Loggers Off became a thing. Scared of letting them down or letting them in, and look where that’s got me – a world where people are wearing Loggers Off T-shirts and drinking all of Grace’s coffee.

  Such is my fear and apprehension of this coming evening, I have pretty much hidden away in my flat for the past few days.

  And it has felt like being right back at the beginning of the detox.

  Much like those first few days, I have been desperate to go online.

  I want to see if there’s been any reaction to me falling off the wagon. I want to look at all those new people who have followed me on social media. I want to know what the web thinks of Andy Bellows.

  I also want to know what the latest levels of Candy Crush look like, and what Keanu Reeves has been up to this week – but both things are rather beside the point.

  I want all of these things – but am denying them to myself as a form of punishment. I could easily go online now, given that I’ve already broken my electronic fast, but am not doing so, because I don’t deserve it.

  That’s not because I did break the detox. Not at all. That was the best decision I’ve taken in weeks. Without it, the locket would have been lost.

  Rather, I feel like I need to punish myself because I have allowed everything to escalate the way it has. That I allowed myself to become the centre of attention. The Loggers Off deserved someone better. Someone stronger. Someone more honest.