Dreambox Junkies 8 страница

And then Paulie thought, But one would be right to presuppose deity, were this a boxworld. And this woman before me, this poor put-upon PsyTri employee, might well be our Maya, the secret weaver of our world. As such, she would be above petty vanities like presenting herself as the planet's foremost beauty; her subtlety of feeling would find more flavour in the humble quotidian, in ordinary personhood. She would be unaware, almost certainly unconscious of her status, much as I myself often come to forget when ensconced within my boxworld.

“You're still thinking... ” She was staring at him, reading his eyes. “I don't believe it. ” She came forward and grasped the doorhandle and stood there waiting. “Please just go. "

He said, “Maybe it's the dethan tabs, the Crowning Glory. And the Vitamin C. Maybe it's a deadly combination. "

Sesha Roffey said nothing. She just remained there, tight-lipped, holding the door, ready to close it on sick Paulie Rayle and his ramblings.

“Okay. Enough is enough. I know. I'm sorry. Forget it. ” He did what she wanted, and heard the door shutting firmly behind him.

* * * *

Back in his own room, Paulie took out, from the folds of the two spare shirts in his rucksack, the Shintube Dreambox, the trodes wrapped tightly around it. Here, he reminded himself, is a source of the most profound bliss. All I need do is hook, speakstart and enter into the bliss belly. And yet, I have no desire, none at all, to avail myself of this wonderful release. So can I be a genuine addict, a true Dreambox junkie?

I need sleep, he thought, lying down and attaching the trodes. My precious siesta. What was the time? Five minutes to three. Although he didn't really like having to use it, you always woke up with such a splitting headache, he activated the Chill function. The Dreambox set about coercing his reticular system into instigating a shutdown.

He was fetched out when the box heard a knock at his door.

As he had expected, his skull had turned to lead whilst shrinking two sizes too small for his brain. With any luck, though, the sleep would have curbed his paranoia.

He tore off the trodes, fumbled the box out of sight under the pillow and opened the door. It was Senor Sleek again, and Paulie wondered mock-indignantly, If this is my own boxworld we're in, why am I letting you trump me in the handsome stakes?

“Frances invites you for a drink, ” the man said solemnly. “Providing it is convenient, yes? "

Paulie nodded. “Okay, yeah. Thanks. ” He yawned. “That's fine. That'd be nice. "

“If you would care to come this way... "

As he followed the man out along the passageway Paulie noticed that he sported a small round shaven patch of scalp around a tiny red zitlike scar, not quite concealed by the lustrous blue-black hair. A Mindseye? His own head felt like it had been fitted with one of the things by a cowboy clinician with a blunt-bitted hand-drill.

Senor Sleek did not stop off at Sesha Roffey's room; the invitation was evidently exclusive. Paulie wondered if Sesha had yet managed to clear her mind of all the crap he'd laid on her? Sleep might have helped with that.

The man led him up another flight of steps, and then another, up and up around the great cool shady central patio with its opulent tiling and its jungle of lush terracotta-potted ferns. Frances had always been fern-crazy. The whole place might have stood unchanged for a thousand years, one felt. Ruth would have been in her element.

They emerged onto a roof garden protected by a photochromic heliodome that tamed the blazing orb overhead. A riot of flowers, to very few of which Paulie could put names. A swimming pool, with wet footprints leading from it to a heavy dark antique wooden table. Drinks. And Frances sitting there, smiling, in a sheeny black swimsuit under an open turquoise towelling robe, her sodden hair backswept, her facial lines and creases more apparent, here, yet at no cost to the sensuality of her countenance; time's tendency toward caricature was, thus far, at any rate, working in her favour. She would still turn heads at seventy, he thought. A woman never less than handsome.

“Did I wake you? ” she inquired with concern. “Do you need more time to rest? "

Paulie shook his head, paying dearly for it. “How are you feeling? ” he asked her.

“A little better than you, at the moment, I should say. Is that a headache? Can I get you something? "

“I'll be okay. "

“Nonsense, why suffer? Xabier? "

Her man nodded and disappeared.

Paulie sat down.

“Sangria? Or would you prefer horchata? "

“What's that? "

“Milk, tiger nuts. Nice. No? "

“Yeah, why not? "

She poured him a glass.

“Thanks. "

It was irritating, the way she felt so free to sit there studying him, looking him over like an artifact.

“Bruises, ” she observed. “Scratches. I noticed them before. "

He shrugged. “Don't ask. "

“You know you really ought to wear your hair down, the way you used to. ” And only then, after commenting on his appearance, his sad lack of Psychotrichological Congruence, did she inquire,

“How are Ruth and Kali? "

It was an order of priorities that abruptly brought home to him the simple fact that Frances was not some neutral mentor. She was a woman he had married and left, was someone not necessarily beyond ex-wifely behaviour, for all his sentimental sanctification of her.

“We're all fine, ” he said.

“That's good. ” Frances sipped at her drink. “Why don't we have them join us? ” She was ahead of him, ready to prove him wrong. “It can't be much fun, stuck out in... where is it? ... Cambridgeshire? ” He found it disingenuous, the haste with which she sought to correct any mistaken impression. “And I'd love to see the baby. How old is she now? "

“Three months. "

“See if Ruth wants to come over. "

The ‘See? -You-shouldn't-misjudge-me’ subtext could scarcely have been more blatant.

“This is Ruth's kind of place, ” Paulie admitted.

“And your kind? "

She knew he liked this part of the world; they had come here together, years ago, spent more than one long lazy weekend escaping cold, grey, wet northern climes. Weekends of wine and sunshine and lovemaking.

How they had made love.

He said, “You've done very well for yourself. "

“I've been lucky. ” Diplomatically, she did not touch upon his own, somewhat less exalted position. “Although I suspect you don't entirely approve of psychotrichology? "

“If it helps people it helps people. "

“Believe me, Paulie, it does help. "

“If you say so. "

Frances looked away. “I might have known you would carry a chip on your shoulder. "

She shifted in her seat, the robe fell from her thigh and Paulie saw that the crotch of her swimsuit had gone askew, cutting in between the labia, leaving her half-exposed to his gaze. To his embarrassment, Frances caught him before he could avert his eyes. She seemed amused, and did not close her thighs immediately.

Yeah, Paulie thought. Yeah, I know. How crass. His physical response had been instantaneous, taking precedence over everyt

hing else. And all because of that one little glimpse. He was hard, his stomach churning with the hot, sickly syrup of desire, and Frances knew it. How crass and pathetic and male.

He turned his head away, gave her the time and privacy to adjust herself.

“Find out if Ruth would like to join us, ” Frances repeated, and then asked, “Would you care for a swim? "

“I never learnt. Water scares me. Don't you remember? ” Already, he was slipping into old patterns, assuming the same old stance with her. “Never did overcome it. ” You're dead right about that chip on my shoulder, he thought. I wouldn't blame you if you felt like sending me straight back. For I can't help you. I'm no good to you.

Senor Sleek reappeared with two headache tablets. Paulie thanked him and took them.

“They're very good, ” Frances assured him. “Gracias, Xabier. "

Her man went off again, and Paulie wondered whether that billowing white shirt featured in Xabier's terms and conditions of employment.

“I thought... ” Frances began, weighing her words, “You see, Paul, I thought you might be the one to understand. "

Paulie couldn't deny that he was flattered. This would be catnip to anyone's ego. As to what he was being called upon to comprehend, he had little idea, and even less confidence in his powers of ratiocination. He was, after all, no great shakes as an architect of utopias.

“Something, ” said Frances slowly, “is about to happen to me. I believe it will be something in the nature of a... of a rebirth. "

His innards knotted as he thought, Oh God no, no, please, not Religion. Bitterly, he asked himself, Why didn't I anticipate this? Why else would they call it Angel Syndrome? He couldn't for the life of him see why she should choose him, of all people, to bear witness to a declaration for Jesus.

“I seem to have offended you, ” she observed.

“It's just the taste of those tablets. "

“Do I sound as though I'm raving? "

“I'm just not sure what you're telling me. "

“You've studied philosophy. All of this is your mé tier. As I recall, one of the reasons we... parted company was your desire to devote yourself to the life of the mind. "

She was giving him undue credit. His motives had been twisted, sick, selfish. He recalled them now, recalled them clearly. He had treated their parting as a test of his integrity—could he turn his back on all that wealth? —and had justified it by deciding that there had never been a true meeting of minds, that they were mismatched as a couple in terms of temperament as well as age. He was warped. If what Frances now required were the services of a thinker, there were countless better bets. With her money, she could hire pretty much any Professor Emeritus, amass a team of top-notch emulacra. What was this, keeping it in the family?

“I have great respect for your intelligence, Paul. ” She spoke earnestly. “But more than that, I know... I just feel, very strongly... that you are the right person to approach with this. "

Paulie told her, “My mind's not what it was. "

Acknowledging his warning with the faintest of smiles, she continued, “I believe that I am about to undergo some form of transcendence... does that make sense? "

Oh Christ, he thought bone-wearily. Oh God. Here we go.

He asked, “What makes you think that? "

“It's more a case of feeling. ” She reached out and, gently, placed a hand—warm, laden with rings and immaculately manicured—on his. A shiver, electric, intense, sent his whole arm tingling; he still hadn't become reaccustomed to physical contact with her. “Something very strange is happening to me, Paul. It's as if I'm preparing for something. ” Apologetically, she added, “I expect I'm starting to sound deranged? "

Paulie shook his head. “Weird things happen to people. ” He thought, If it's derangement we're dealing in, let me give you my thoughts on this world. This subreal boxworld.

“For some while now there have been intimations. ” Frances lifted her glass, and Paulie saw that her hand was trembling. She sipped. “I've looked into those other cases of so-called Angel Syndrome. Every single one of those people developed the conviction that he or she was in the process of becoming something more, something other than a mortal human being. "

“An angel? "

“Exactly. Perhaps because of their age... telotherapy was considered very risky, to begin with, potentially carcinogenic, and these elderly people must have felt they had very little to lose... their age might account for it, or perhaps it was simple coincidence, but they all appeared to share a rather narrowly religious turn of mind. And so they interpreted the experience accordingly. ” Frances's fingers gripped his hand. “Don't worry, Paul... I'm not professing to be about to sprout wings. "

“So what made you go in for it? ” Paulie wanted to know. “Telotherapy. Doesn't it cost the earth? "

Frances nodded gravely. “The expense is horrendous. I can only say I succumbed to fear and vanity. Does that surprise you? Perhaps these are my just deserts. "

He forced a wry smile. “So does it seem to be working? Is there any way of telling, yet? "

“You mean is the AS an additional effect or does it supplant the intended outcome? Am I going mad instead of staying young? ” Frances shrugged. “It's very hard to ascertain. One thing I do know is, it would be a mistake to force all of this into a comfortable category, such as Religious Experience. I've always thought of myself as an agnostic, and then when you came along, and presented me with an entirely new set of perspectives on life. You see, I did take you seriously, listening and learning. I loved our conversations. Why couldn't I get it through to you that I wasn't bored, that this head-in-the-clouds business wasn't spoiling things between us? You'd be amazed, Paul, at how much of your outlook rubbed off on me. You dismiss yourself far too readily. ” She squeezed his hand again. “As I was saying, those others who went in for the therapy all chose, or were led, to explain their feelings in terms of established religion, which is something I've managed to resist, touch wood. Although I don't see why I shouldn't define religion a little more loosely then they did... or do, depending on which side of the Styx one ought to consider people frozen at the point of death. Curious, isn't it, how every one of them went for cryostorage? ” Frances toyed with her glass, traced the rim with her fingertip. “And another curious thing: three of them... one man and two women, so I believe... during their final, vegetative phase, were more than once heard to murmur a word that sounded like, ” she leaned toward him and whispered it, “Undertake. "

Ever the actress, Paulie thought. The sense of theatre.

Frances frowned. “Undertake... now what do you suppose that might signify? "

Paulie thought, Scared old people dreaming bad dreams about men in black top hats come to take them away? But he said nothing, for Frances's own mind had doubtless conjured up a similarly morbid image.

“Undertake... a journey? ” He spoke softly, reaching for, if not a positive gloss, at least an interpretation less macabre.

But his ex-wife's face had taken on a strained, haunted look. Before he knew it, he had grasped her hand in his.

She looked hard at him. “I'm frightened, Paul. "

He wished he could have done more to help her.

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* * *

Chapter 16

Ruth was giving Kali a change when Robin Richly turned up at the door again. She knew it was Robin Richly because he always did a certain kind of knock, like he wanted to amuse you by rapping out his own jaunty little signature tune. He was one of those older people who irritated Ruth by trying too hard to appear young-minded, as if it was something offensive, being ninety-five or whatever he was.

She let him wait, only answering the door after she had finished with Kali and washed her hands.

“Ruth? Apologies for bothering you again. Hello again Kali, my lovely little darling. ” He chucked Kali's cheek. “Only Paul's back on the line. I'm sure he's really missing you both. I know I should, in his position. "

>
Ruth got the baby sling out again and walked with Robin across to his cottage. On the way, he burst into some annoying old folk song, catching Ruth's eye two or three times as he sang the silly diddly-daddly lyrics, as though trying to get her to join in. Fat chance. If nothing else, the song put Kali to sleep.

When it came down to it, though, Ruth reflected, it wasn't so bad, having Robin Richly for a neighbour. You could do a lot worse. She thought, I'm a cow when I'm stressed.

Down the path at high speed on her decrepit yellow foldaway bike came Miranda Portland, who organized weekend retreats and offered individual tutoring in poetry and macrame. She went around in a camouflage army coat, Wellingtons, and a light-blue headscarf with a red cycling helmet stuck over it, yet didn't quite qualify, to Ruth's mind, as a classic English Eccentric; she was a bit too knowing, too deliberate about it. Ruth wasn't pleased to see her now; she wouldn't have felt like chatting even if there had been time.

“Ruth! How've you been keeping? You're looking well. "

You liar, Ruth thought. I look like shit.

“How's the little one? ” Miranda braked shudderingly beside them. “Oh, she's asleep, the little love! Ruth, you really ought to drop in and see us. Although I know what it gets like with babies, they can become your whole world. So how's Paul? "

“He's all right, yeah. "

So far as Robin, Miranda, and all the others knew, Paul did most of the furniture-making while Ruth herself took it easy and looked after Kali. If any of them found out that he spent half his time lying hooked up to that box, they'd probably vote to kick him out of the village. Miranda didn't mention that flying car the PsyTri woman came down in, but Ruth could tell there had been a lot of talk. Well, they could keep their fucking noses out.

“Well, do stay in touch. ” With a nod to Robin, Miranda stood up from her saddle and pedalled off.

Five minutes later they were at Robin Richly's place. It was full of ancient electrical junk and had a musty smell about it, that usual man-living-alone smell.

“Cup of tea? ” Robin offered.

“Yeah, please. Thanks. "

The phone, a big, fixed, old-fashioned one with only a piddly little screen, was on the wall in the kitchen, which didn't give you much privacy with Robin in there with you making the tea. Paulie's face was on the screen.

“What's wrong? ” Ruth asked him, uncomfortably aware that she was acting like a bear with sore bits, but knowing from experience that she couldn't do that much about it, that it would pass, it wasn't her real self.

“Would you like to come over, you and Kali? "

“To Spain? ” If only she could have gone and left herself behind; she didn't want to have to inflict her mood on anybody else. Automatically, she answered, “No, that's all right, we're all right here. "

“I'd like you to come. "

“Would you now? "

Robin Richly, she noticed, was doing his best to pretend he was deaf. Why did he always have to make tea? She didn't want a cup of tea. He could keep his tea, he could stick it.

Paulie said, “You'd love it here. And I'm talking about the real Seville, not the virtual one. "

Ruth knew full well that, normally, it would cost the earth to be allowed into the genuine city. But she didn't want to have Frances to thank for it.

She pointed out, “I've got Kali to look after. "

“It wouldn't hurt Kali to fly... Frances said she'll pay. Her people'll make the arrangements, send a car to pick you up. "

I am not, Ruth thought, going to end up obliged to that woman. Frances Rayle can stuff her money.

“Ruth? Come on. Please. I'm missing you. "

What if, Ruth suddenly thought, it's all a load of shit, a big giant bluff? What if the very last thing Paulie wanted was for her and Kali to turn up and spoil his cosy tryst with Frances? What if they knew full fucking well she wouldn't go, and that was why they felt safe to invite her? Did they think she was born yesterday?

“Oh come on over... please, Ru... ” His face went all nasty. “What do young people think about old people? We think they're disgusting. Especially the ones who... "

Ruth muted him. It was one of those horrible puppet programs that seized control of people's screen images. She'd heard it before, the one that tried to get old people to kill themselves. It was sick. It made her ashamed to be young. This wasn't the kind of world she wanted Kali to grow up in.

“Come on, filters! ” Robin sighed. “Sorry about this. "

“It's not your fault. ” Ruth felt embarrassed, and she hoped that Robin Richly didn't think she was in sympathy, even the tiniest bit, with these sickos.

Robin said some word she didn't catch.

“You what? ” She tempered her gruffness. “I mean, I'm sorry? "

“Gerontocidalists. "

He pronounced it really slowly, like it was a really interesting word. To Ruth, the word was horrible, and she would have preferred him not to have dignified it with use.

“DO US A FAVOUR AND DIE. ” Paulie screamed that bit so loudly the mute failed to muffle it. He looked completely mental, like no Paulie Rayle she had ever known or wanted to know.

“Charming, ” Robin commented. “Would you believe there was a time when puppets were just things you stuck your hand up, and computers filled up rooms and cost a bomb, and you could count your TV channels on the fingers of one hand? "

Ruth smiled politely in response to his ramblings. She found it hard, putting on fronts; she wasn't good at humouring people.

“Oh, take no notice of me, Ruth. "

He opened a cupboard door of painted MDF. Ruth hated Medium Density Fibreboard. It had no texture, no soul, summed up so much of what was wrong with the world. But without it, would there have been enough real wood to go round?

“Where are you, bloody useless bloody filters? ” Robin took down a packet of teabags. “Come on, for heavensake! "

They had to wait ages for the phone to regain control of Paulie's image. When it did, and the real Paulie was finally back, Ruth told him yes, all right, she would fly over with Kali to Spain.

Paulie looked like he was really, honestly glad, like he wasn't secretly horrified, and Ruth told herself she was a stupid cow, getting all these mad ideas in her head, getting paranoid.

* * * *

The meal, served in the garden court, was scrumptious; though Sesha would have enjoyed it even more had she not been over-hungry, so prone to wolf down the food, skimp on savouring it. Frances's appetite, she observed, was encouragingly healthy. Paul Rayle, however, had scarcely eaten at all. He sat there nursing a glass of Rioja and looking abstracted.

“It's unfortunate that you didn't all fly over together. ” Frances picked up her napkin. “I never meant for Ruth to feel excluded. "

The situation, Sesha knew, was a delicate one. Ruth's arrival was bound to generate tension. Sesha couldn't make up her mind as to whether or not she actively disliked Ruth. It was so hard to separate out loyalty to Frances. And some mischievous part of her was relishing the prospect of the chalk-and-cheese encounter; so far as she knew, Ruth and Frances had never met. As for the baby, Kali, she was a sweet little thing, if genetically unfiltered and thus doomed to a low-tier life in tomorrow's world. Sesha had so often wished that prenatal filtering had been available at the time of her own gestation, and that steps had been taken to try and increase the size of her eyes relative to her face, and the width of her mouth, and decrease her foot size, among other adjustments, since genetic remoulding of adults remained out of reach of present-day medtech.

“Big Boy? "

The voice, emanating from nowhere, caused Sesha to start and drop her fork on the tiles.

“What is it? ” Paul Rayle asked his hand, and Sesha saw that he was wearing a wrist mobe. He nodded apologies to the table.

“Big Boy, you were inquiring about Sick Nick copycat violence? WelI I've just caught a newsburst that may be of interest. There are reports of a yacht being found in the Aegean Sea with all personnel aboard murdered and mutilated in a manner ominously reminiscent of the modus operandi of the notorious cyberspook. According to another, unconfirmed report, the yacht's owner, the entrepreneur Bertrand Laurel, is among the dead. A third report, likewise not yet confirmed, has it that a mayday message sent out actually mentioned the words Sick Nick. How about that, Big Boy... Is that of any use to you? Do you wish to hear further reports as I receive them? "

“No, ” said Paul Rayle, deep in thought. “Don't disturb me again. "

“Very well, but can I just remark once more upon the curious mismatch between your name and mobe demeanour choice? "

Over and above the horrified amazement she was feeling at this news about the famous billionaire, Sesha found it worse than distasteful that Paul Rayle should let his mobe intrude upon their meal in so cavalier a fashion, that he should subject other people, herself and, particularly, Frances, to his insalubrious interest in Sick Nick.

Sesha turned to Frances in the expectation that her boss would be sharing her displeasure.

Yet Frances's reaction was undiluted shock. “Bertrand... Laurel....? ” she murmured disbelievingly.

“You knew him? ” Paul Rayle asked her.

“Bertrand Laurel? ” Frances repeated, still stunned.

Sesha exchanged a glance with Paul Rayle. Not a friendly one on her own part; she felt anger at his having upset Frances so needlessly. And that ‘Big Boy’ thing wasn't funny, either, merely puerile.

Frances said quietly, “I just can't believe it. "

“Piracy, ” Paul Rayle said. “There's a lot of piracy on the high seas, these days. "

Something in the glib way he came out with the comment, the Long John Silveriness of the phrase ‘high seas', convinced Sesha that this was really far too flippant an explanation for a mind so seriously frucked-up as Paul Rayle's.

“Bertrand Laurel isn't... wasn't... the nicest person in the world. ” Frances was shaking her head, still coming to terms with it. “Do you know, he had designs on the Institute? "

“Really? ” It was news to Sesha. “And you weren't interested? "

�

� � No, ” said Frances firmly.

“Look forgive me, I should never have... ” Paul Rayle's apologies were interrupted by Xabier, hurrying down the stairway.

“Senora? "

Frances looked up. “Yes, Xabier? What is it? "

With a sense of discretion that put Paul Rayle to shame, Xabier whispered something in Frances's ear.

“I see. Gracias, Xabier. Thankyou very much for letting me know. "

“You've a very efficient little news-gatherer there. ” Frances indicated the mobe on Paul Rayle's wrist. Xabier must, Sesha guessed, have been relaying the same inf.

“It's not mine, ” Paul Rayle told her. “Xabier very kindly lent it to me. "

Sesha bridled; did the man have to keep up this little undertone of sarcasm? Having started out, years ago, as Frances's domestic, was he jealous of her current factotum?

Well, all right, Sesha grudgingly allowed; Frances would have heard the news from Xabier and been upset anyway. Also, to be scrupulously fair, she herself had frequently succumbed to a morbid fascination with matters Sick Nickian. Still, she thought, Paul Rayle's table manners left a lot to be desired.

“Who, ” asked Frances suddenly, “is Sick Nick? "

Sesha was astonished; hadn't everyone heard of Sick Nick? Or maybe not, up here in life's rarefied heights.

Paul Rayle said, “It's an outlaw computer program that shows up on screens in the shape of a devil, attacking and murdering other screen images... not real people, just their images. He can find his way into films and mess them up by killing off the characters, or he might appear to murder someone on a vidphone screen. It's all just simulated. A lot of people find him entertaining. "

“Sounds absolutely dreadful. ” Frances ran a hand through her consummately Congruent hair. “But what has this to do with Bertrand Laurel? "

Paul Rayle considered a moment, then replied, “It looks as though someone out there has started imitating Sick Nick, but committing real murders. "

Frances's face showed revulsion. “Really, Paul, it doesn't seem at all like you to take an interest in such... "

“It's a long story. ” He shrugged. “It doesn't matter; it's not important. Sorry about the interruption. "

Frances looked at him as if to say she was willing to listen, she wanted to be of assistance to him in any way whatever. But Paul Rayle said nothing more.

And then it came together, all at once, in Sesha's mind: realization of what the stupid man must have been thinking. He saw, in this news report, further proof that this world was not the real world but a boxworld. Poor nutty Paul Rayle believed that Bertrand Laurel had been murdered, actually, physically murdered, not by some Sick Nick copycat member of a seagoing pirate gang, but by Sick Nick himself. According to Paul Rayle's twisted reasoning, if this was a boxworld, then Sick Nick was no less real than they themselves were, and liable to turn up anywhere and kill any of them at any time.

Well at least Paul Rayle was considerate enough not to burden Frances, to keep his crackpottery to himself. Sesha remembered that, back in her room, he had even put forward the ludicrous theory that she, Sesha Roffey, was the one in control of this world, the Big Box User. And all of this on the basis of Frances's job offer, made during a private conversation upon which he had seen fit to eavesdrop. Send out for a straitjacket, someone.

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