I work, it snows, I work, it’s cold. I work, and the statue of St Pancras, attacked and eaten by wolves, at the gate of Regent’s Park, boasts icicles ten inches long, hanging from the black cast iron. A Siberian desolation has overtaken London. Trains have stopped running to Putney and Ealing, buses break down on the Archway Road, defeated by the skids of the slope, sooty white drifts pile up: blocking shops and dry cleaners and half the cafes on Parkway.
And I work. Finishing my Camden piece. I file it. The editor likes it. She asks me to do another, pitch some more ideas, make some money. I eagerly promise to do that. I need the cash – and the diversion.
I’m not sure if it means anything, but the Assistants have been silent and smug for a while. Occasionally I hear a snatch of discordant music, or a line from a poem, or my TV plays that video of me and Simon talking, even as I am working or eating or watching The Exorcist or Blair Witch.
What the Assistants might not know is that I am thinking of a plan, writing it longhand in hidden corners of the flat, or in the pubs and cafes of Camden, and on notebooks so they won’t see, like I am that guy in Orwell’s 1984, hiding from the telescreens.
I write big long flow charts, doodles of links, Venn diagrams of possible suspects, people I have insulted, those I have not insulted, how maybe Simon links them all together. I am smart, after all, I got a first-class degree, I can outsmart Simon, or Simon and his accomplices; I can outsmart whichever geek tech bastard has created that code, who has smuggled it into every digital corner of my diminishing life. There is a way I can outwit him or her or them. There must be.
This time, this afternoon, this particular day is like all the other days of this infamous winter: I go out and give my last friend some soup. Cars finishes his soup with a smack of his lips. He hands me back the mug and says goodbye. I take the mug and cross the icy road, dodging the CARS, and I go back inside the flat.
Perfume.
There is a definite perfume in the flat. A perfume which says: Tabitha has returned.
And there are suitcases in the hall. I am perplexed. I am so exiled from normality I am barely aware where my best friend has been, what she has been doing, I think it was some skiing holiday with Arlo, or maybe the Far East.
When I walk into the living room she is standing in a sleek jumper and sleek jeans and sleek boots and sipping tea, gazing out of the window. She is so slender, thinner than me. Always that bit thinner.
She turns and looks at me, curiously. I notice she has a tan. And I remember where they were going. Vietnam. Yes. A week in the sun of Vietnam. I hesitate, sensing a new big distance between us, she must know about the emails I have sent, how strangely I have been apparently behaving, though she has not mentioned it. But I have to speak.
‘Hello, Tabs, nice to see you. How was your holiday?’
‘Excellent,’ she says, shrugging. ‘Apart from the snake’s blood. Arlo insisted we drink it. Good for virility, apparently. But otherwise excellent. That said, I was rather hoping the Ice Age would have concluded on my return, not actually worsened.’ She gestures the hand, clutching the empty teacup, at the frost-laced window. ‘Ah well. Just have to buy snowshoes. Jimmy Choo does a nice range.’
‘He does?’
She gives me a pitying look.
‘Jo. Did I just see you talking to Cars?’
I flush in embarrassment.
‘Yes. Uh. Yes. Yes, you did. You see, he’s become a kind of friend. Sometimes I give him soup, or a sandwich. He’s totally harmless, and he’s quite interesting, he can be quite eloquent.’
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’re 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?