Connected (32 page)

Unless he could establish how Dream-Zone was
having the effect it had, he could hardly put it forward as an explanation for
his insight - and quite frankly, he would much rather take the full credit
himself anyway. His first assumption had been that it was enhancing the neural
circuitry responsible for perception. In the same way that the separate audio
and visual stimuli had somehow strengthened the pathways forged by past memory
and experience, perhaps the combination video was working on higher cognitive
functions within the brain. He had initially discounted the incident of the
plasterer’s bill as a lucky guess – perhaps aided by snippets of conversation
overheard and registered in his subconscious, while the men had been working.
However, the subsequent and astonishing experience of receiving thoughts and
feelings apparently directly from the mind of a woman he had never even met,
defied such an explanation. Instead, he had begun to examine ways of linking
this new phenomenon to his discovery of the ultimate theory. If every point in
the universe was effectively connected to every other through the higher
dimensions of space-time, then could it be that human consciousness could also
make use of these connections? Maybe human consciousness even relied on these
higher dimensions. But if so, why did we not observe such things all the time?
Of course, over the years, there had been many claims of so-called telepathy or
extrasensory perception, especially during the drug-fuelled sixties and
seventies, but none had ever been satisfactorily verified under laboratory conditions,
and for this reason all but a handful of crackpots at the fringes of modern
science had rightfully disregarded them. But on hearing from Doug how every one
of the previous week’s intuitions had been born out, leading directly to
Nadia’s recovery, here was surely incontrovertible evidence of the transmission
of thought at a distance - in a word - telepathy. He had even tried to
communicate ideas back to her, but for some reason this had proven more
difficult. On “seeing” the cable ties around her feet and hands, he had tried
to transmit to her, how such things could be unfastened using a sharp object
pushed into the ratchet. Experience of electronic wiring systems over the years
had made Peter quite familiar with this simple yet effective restraint, and he
had been desperate to share this particular trick with the unfortunate young
lady who, at the time, had been trussed up with them. Eventually, she had
claimed to receive some such murky images in a dream, but with none of the
clarity with which Peter had somehow tuned into her own thoughts.

The other thing that was puzzling him was why, out
of all the billions of people in the world had it been Nadia’s mind to which he
had connected. Following the incident, he had tried reading others - Abigail’s
and then Isabelle’s - but for some reason, these had remained curiously
off-limits. In fact, since the kidnapping, he could no longer even make contact
with Nadia’s thoughts. If indeed our brains did connect through these higher
dimensions, there were clearly barriers preventing crosstalk except under
specific, and as yet unknown, circumstances, which appeared beyond his control.
He had hoped that by sharing the Dream-Zone video with Doug, they would be able
to experiment with these effects and determine more of the underlying rules and
parameters under which they operated, but Doug was now claiming not to be
affected. It was all very frustrating, and the only relief from all this
confusion and uncertainty came during his increasingly frequent trips to the Zone.
Whilst there, everything made sense. It was familiar, comforting and profoundly
satisfying. In fact, such was the richness and intensity of experience that
regular life had started to pale in comparison. He began to wish he could leave
behind his drab, mundane earthly existence and retire permanently to this other
place.

He gazed dejectedly through the study window at
his neighbour’s compost bins. The lid of one had been left off and flies were
circling around the rotting scrapings of a recent meal. He turned to his
computer and logged onto Twitter. In spite of earlier misgivings, he had become
drawn to the service for reasons he still didn’t entirely understand. In
particular, he had become fascinated by some of the associated aggregation
tools available on the web. Taking as input, the millions of random tweets from
across the globe, these tools provided snapshots of distributed human
consciousness, giving a certain level of insight into some of the shifting
trends and attitudes of the times. Individually, the contributions were mostly
banal and unstructured, but collectively, they hinted of something more
recondite. In a way, the dissociated postings seemed analogous to the spurious
thoughts and memories from which consciousness might emerge within the human
brain. With this in mind, he had started working on his own aggregation tool
based on the assumption that if the brains of all sentient beings (including –
perhaps debatably - users of Twitter) were connected, then possibly one could
tap into some kind of collective consciousness.

The phone was ringing. It was Isabelle. “Hi Peter,
how are you?” she said, sounding cheerful, but a little apprehensive.
“Great!” he replied. “I’ve been taking a break from work to get back into some
theoretical physics, and I think I’ve made just made a huge discovery. Just
seem to be having difficulty convincing others at the moment.”
There was a pause and then, “Great – sounds – very interesting. How are Abigail
and the kids?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Peter glancing at his watch. “Well the kids are in school
of course and Abigail, I don’t know. You know what she’s like. We don’t talk so
much these days.”
“Peter, I’ve been missing you!” she said with a sudden sense of urgency.
“Well, yes, I’ve been missing you too my dear, I’m sorry I haven’t been in
touch more over the last couple of weeks – just been a bit busy.”
There was another short silence. “Listen, I’m going to be down in your
neighbourhood for a couple of days for some lectures by the Royal Horticultural
Society.”
“That sounds great! Will you have time to pop round for lunch or dinner?”
“Well – err – I’ve booked myself into a hotel in Ascot.”
“Ascot? But that’s just down the road.”
“I know!”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay here with us. I’m sure Abi wouldn’t
mind.”
“I just thought it might be … easier … if I got a hotel room!”
“Well of course, whatever works for you.”
“I booked the room over the Internet – you’d have been proud of me.”
“Congratulations!”
“It’s a lovely big room with an enormous four-poster bed…” she said, letting
the words linger peculiarly in the air.
“Must have been expensive in Ascot,” said Peter, wondering why she was sharing
such details.
“Maybe you’d like to come over and see it!” she said, her voice once again
carrying an oddly unfamiliar tone.
“I’m sure it’s lovely - I can imagine the sort of place. I still think it would
make more sense for you to stay here though.”
There was a long silence. “Are you still there?” he finally asked.
“Peter, are you doing this on purpose? Have I offended you in some way?”
“What? No, of course not! Why would you think such a thing?”
“If you have a problem with us seeing each other, then just say so!”
“Isabelle, of course I don’t have a problem with seeing you. Why would you
think that?”
“Look never mind. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Bother? You haven’t bothered me in the slightest, I always love hearing from
you. You know on second thoughts, I’d love to see your hotel. Maybe I could pop
over for dinner or a quick drink if you’re not too busy.”
“Really?”
 “Of course, when do you arrive?”
“Tomorrow evening. Should I call you when I get there or should I just send a
text?”
“Either, whichever you prefer.”
“I was thinking more of your circumstances.”
“Mine? It makes no difference either way.”
“Peter, are you okay?”
“Me, yes I’m fine – a little frustrated with the hoops these scientific
journals are making me jump through right now, but otherwise, yes I’m great
thanks.”
“O…kay – well – see you tomorrow evening then.”
“Looking forward to it.” What a strange conversation, thought Peter, as he
replaced the handset. He was usually so well in tune with Isabelle, but this
time they had obviously been on different wavelengths.

The front door opened and closed downstairs. Peter
waited for the usual clamour of the children rushing into the kitchen to get
snacks and then arguing over what to watch on TV, but the house remained
silent. He left the study and went downstairs.
“Hello!” he called. “Anybody there?”
Abigail stood silently in the kitchen sorting through some papers and turned to
face him as he entered.
“Where are Sam and Kate?” he asked.
“They’re round at my mum’s,” she replied curtly.
“Oh – I didn’t realise they were…”
“We need to talk!” she said, placing her hands on her hips and giving a long
sigh.
“What about?”
“Do you seriously not know what this is about?”
“How would I? I’m not a mind reader,” he said, “at least not usually,” he added
with a wry smile.
“This may be some big joke to you, but to me and the kids, it’s hell on earth.”
“How is that? What have I done now?”
“Ever since Martin’s funeral you’ve been like a different person – rude –
neglectful…”
“Welcome to my world!”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she shouted, turning red.
“What do you think it means? I’ve managed to put up with your manic depression
all these years. Your mood has always swung between these two extremes and the
end result is that for at least half the time, you’re a bitch to live with!”
“Is that what this is – some childish payback for an illness which I’ve
acknowledged and sought help with?”
“Sought help, my arse! The doctor once gave you a prescription for Prozac, but
you never took them long enough to have any effect.”
“I didn’t like the way they made me feel,” she said, starting to cry.
“And what about the way you make everyone else feel – including the kids?”
“Stop deflecting your own issues onto me,” she said in defiance.
“You don’t even know what that means,” he replied.
“Just stop it!” she shrieked. “Why are you doing this?”
“You’re the one who started it.”
“Yes that’s right,” she sniffed, “I was. And now I’m going to end it!”
“Good! So how long are the kids staying at their Grandma’s?”
“You still don’t get it do you? I’m leaving you, Peter. You obviously have no
time for me or the kids anymore anyway, so we’re going away for awhile. You can
play on your damned laptop all fucking day long if you like – from now on,
you’ll have no one to distract you. That’s what you want isn’t it?”
Peter stared at her for a moment in disbelief. For years he had made allowances
for her histrionics - walking on eggshells in often vain attempts to keep her
on the right side of reasonable – excusing her behaviour to family and friends
- and now, after just a few weeks of selfish devotion to his own life for once,
she was walking out on him?
“Well - aren’t you going to say something?” she demanded, plumping up her feathers
in anticipation of another rebuttal.
“No, I think we’ve both said enough - now I’m just waiting for you to leave.”
She stood there a moment longer, fuming at having been cheated out of a good
fight. “That’s just so typical!” she said finally and stormed out.

“I think I’ve just about
seen enough of this place,” said Doug, as Nadia pulled on her jeans for the
first time in two weeks.
“I’m just happy to be getting out of this bloody gown,” she replied. “I’m sick
of padding around these corridors with my arse hanging out.”
“In your case, that’s its one redeeming feature, but otherwise I agree, it’s
not the most flattering of garments.” He ran his fingers over the scars on her
back, kissing her lightly on the neck. It had taken three operations over as
many days for the surgeons to remove all the lead pellets. Most had lodged in
the flesh and muscles of her back, but three had penetrated her kidneys and one
had made it through to her right lung. Had the range been any closer, the
doctors had said gravely, she might not have been so lucky. As it was, within a
few days she had been deemed stable and moved to a non-critical ward, where she
had lain, alternating uncomfortably between her front and side, feeling not the
slightest bit lucky.

Since then, visits from police officers had almost
outnumbered those from doctors. The sorry tale of her six-year association with
Markov had been recounted again and again – though without actually owning up
to much more than bad judgement. Their stubborn insistence that the kidnapping
had related, not to a computer file, but to the home-grown cannabis factory
discovered behind the cottage, had in the end, proven partially correct. As it
turned out, Markov had already invested over two hundred thousand pounds in the
ambitious horticultural operation and sadly for him, it was money he didn’t
have. Wong’s payment for Dream-Zone was to have covered a good part of it, but
with Dmitri’s sudden attack of conscience, that source of income had been
thrown into jeopardy. There had been a time when raising a couple of hundred
grand wouldn’t have presented too much of a problem to Markov, but times were
hard – even for the sleaze industry. Recent losses from the clubs and other
ventures had taken their toll, and his whole shady empire had been tottering on
the brink of financial ruin.

As far as the police were concerned, the matter
was now closed, the troubling little issue of Dream-Zone having been
conveniently swept under the constabulary carpet and forgotten. They had a high
profile “drugs raid” to boast about to the press, as well as the removal of a
“dangerous and prominent figure from London’s criminal underworld.” The
reluctant oriental henchman, who had turned out to be one of Wong’s men, sent
over to keep an eye on Markov, had been picked up wandering aimlessly through
the woods, “as if in a dream,” according to the police.

Nadia was now looking forward to rebuilding her
life on the less exciting, though considerably safer career of legitimate
accountancy. Exactly what role the handsome young man currently fumbling with
the clasp on her bra strap would play in that life, was still unclear, but she
felt sure one existed.
“You know, it’s not much easier putting these things on than it is taking them
off,” he said, finally succeeding, and giving the elastic a painful little
twang.
“Ouch, careful there!” she said, pushing him away playfully and grabbing her
sweater. There was a knock on the door. “Is everyone decent in there?” came the
voice of a woman, followed by a head of auburn hair.
“Ah!” said Doug. “Nadia, this is Susan. Susan – Nadia.”
The girl looked familiar, though from where, Nadia couldn’t recall.
“So pleased to finally meet you properly,” said Susan with a friendly smile. “I
think we may have met briefly at Kal’s party last month, but I’ve heard so much
about you since then, I’ve been dying for us to meet.”
Nadia frowned at Doug. “Whatever you’ve heard, I can assure you it’s all lies.”
Susan laughed nervously. “You must have been terrified!” she continued.
“Yeah, pretty much!” said Nadia, wondering what the girl was doing here.
“Susan’s a radiographer here at the hospital,” said Doug, by way of explanation.
“She’s the one who MRI’d my head after our first encounter with Markov. Anyway,
she’s kindly offered to run us back to your place.”
“It’s my lunch break, and I needed to pop into town anyway,” she added
bashfully.
Nadia thanked her and gathered up her things.
“Oh and by the way,” whispered Doug, as Susan disappeared through the doorway,
“she and Brian are now an item, but she doesn’t know about that first night you
spent with him.” He winked at her. “Just so you know.”