Connected (33 page)

“So what’s happened to this Dream-Zone file now?”
asked Susan, as they pulled out of the hospital car park.
“Well,” said Doug, “I think we can assume that Wong’s copy would have been
deleted by the same virus that wiped Markov’s disk at the cottage, which means
the only working version is with Peter in Bracknell.”
“So you don’t have a copy yourself?” she asked, sounding surprised.
“Peter sent me something, but it doesn’t seem to work - although he assures me
it’s the same file he’s been using all along.”
“What about that other girl – the one who cracked the encryption code?”
“Becky!” said Doug. “Luckily, she ran it on a virtual machine within her
computer, so it didn’t wipe her whole disk, but it deleted the Dream-Zone file
from hers too.”
“How did she manage to crack the code?” asked Nadia, wondering who this Becky
character was, and suddenly feeling unjustifiably jealous of all these other women
in Doug’s life.
“Well, I’d told her that Dmitri had named his car after some video game hottie,
but when we first ran a search, the name Kaileena didn’t come up. It was only
after I’d jumped into a taxi to go and find you, that she thought of looking on
the guy’s Facebook pages again. Apparently there was a link to the website of a
game called ‘Prince of Persia’ in which this eye-poppingly curvaceous character
of Kaileena features – how should I say - prominently.”
“Wait a minute!” said Susan suddenly. “You told me the other day that
Dream-Zone had triggered a seizure during your EEG with Singh.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Doug.
“And since then, you’ve been on Gabapentin.”
“Yes. What of it?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your copy of Dream-Zone!” Susan exclaimed
excitedly. “The anti-epilepsy medication was just preventing it from working.”
“Are you saying the way Dream-Zone works is by inducing epileptic seizures?”
asked Nadia doubtfully.
“It fits perfectly!” said Susan. “All those strange hypnotic effects you
described would be consistent with some of the partial seizures experienced by
sufferers of temporal lobe epilepsy.”
“What about Peter’s claim to have discovered the theory of everything?” asked
Doug.
“That’s classic TLE. Usually the epiphanies are religious, but the perception
of profound meaning in everything around them is a common side-effect. His
theory is probably just a load of crap.”
“Wait a moment though,” said Nadia, struggling to keep up. “Susan, you’re
talking about people with a history of epilepsy. Assuming for now that Doug
here really has developed the condition after various knocks to that thick
skull of his…”
“Oy!” he said from the back, tousling her hair. “Actually, based on that
scarring in my hippocampus, Singh said I probably had an existing condition.”
“Exactly, “ she continued, “you had a propensity to epilepsy and Dream-Zone
triggered the seizures. It doesn’t explain how it would affect non-sufferers
like Martin, Kal and Peter.”
“Unless I didn’t have any underlying condition at all - and the whole thing was
actually caused by Dream-Zone,” said Doug. “Singh said that the seizures might
actually cause the sclerosis in some cases.”
“Do you think that’s possible,” asked Nadia, turning to Susan, “that Dream-Zone
can trigger seizures in non-sufferers?”
“It’s not inconceivable,” she replied. “There’s a technique called Transcranial
Magnetic Stimulation which has been shown to do something similar, and there’s
this one guy in Canada who claimed that when he focused it on certain parts of the
right temporal lobe, otherwise healthy subjects would report having deep
religious experiences. If that’s true, then it would suggest that you don’t
necessarily need a pre-existing condition to experience seizures. I’ve never
heard of a video being able to do it, but I guess that if it stimulated the
right clusters of neurons…”
“Shit, if that’s true then we need to tell Peter he’s frying his brain every
time he runs Dream-Zone – which, judging by his latest contributions to
Twitter, is pretty much continually.”
The car stopped at a set of lights, while everyone pondered the implications.
“But it still doesn’t explain how Peter knew I was being held in a wooden shed
close to a sewage treatment plant,” said Nadia.
They were silent for a few moments.
“That is a bit freaky, I admit,” said Susan, “but there has to be a rational
explanation. Everything else fits so perfectly.”
“Here we are!” said Nadia, as the mini approached the apartment block. “The
last time I left this place, I was tied up in the back of a van, with a sack
over my head!“
“Are you going to be okay?” asked Susan.
“Don’t worry,” said Doug, getting out and running round to open Nadia’s door,
“I’ll be taking better care of her from now on.”

The hotel was a splendid
red brick, Queen Anne mansion of the original English Baroque style and nestled
in fifteen acres of parkland landscaped by none other than Capability Brown
himself. Although still some twenty miles from the Royal Horticultural Society
Gardens at Wisley, where the Orchid exhibition and lectures would be taking
place, it seemed to Isabelle the perfect base for her little jaunt down south.
It was also, conveniently, just ten minutes from Bracknell.

It had been a surprisingly smooth journey down
from the lakes with very little traffic and almost continuous sunshine - except
for the short passage through Birmingham, which for some reason, seemed always
to be shrouded in grey. Now, as she wandered the hotel grounds, the sun was
dipping towards the horizon and filtering through the trees, creating a dappled
vista reminiscent of some early impressionist landscape. She imagined herself
dressed in late Victorian chic, and twirling a fine lace parasol, while one of
her great countrymen – Claude Monet perhaps – immortalised her on canvas. As if
to complete the scene, as she circumvented the ornamental pond and started back
towards the main building, the distant chordal melodies of Debussy’s
‘Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune’ began to drift
through the still evening air.

She had intended to take a quick shower before
dinner, but the temptation to make use of the free-standing cast-iron bath tub
with complementary salts, had been irresistible. As she lay back, letting the
hot fragrant water caress her body, she ruminated on the night ahead.

On arrival at the hotel, she had telephoned Peter
and agreed to meet him for dinner. She had always been fond of her
brother-in-law, but since the funeral, their relationship had unexpectedly
deepened. While lacking the artistic genius so abundant in her husband, Peter
was possessed of a solidity and rationality she found immensely comforting.
Although at times a little forthright, she greatly admired the confidence and
level-headedness he maintained, even in the most difficult of circumstances.
Nowhere was this more apparent that in his patience with Abigail. Certainly no
Frenchman would ever have tolerated such abhorrent behaviour for so long. His
capacity for abuse seemed almost limitless. It wasn’t so much the highly
charged emotional outbursts, for which Isabelle had pitied him, but the gradual
and continual denigration. This slow and painful erosion of a man’s dignity and
resolve seemed to Isabelle one of the most heinous examples of emotional abuse
she had ever witnessed, and yet Peter had rarely had a harsh word to say about
it. Instead he would stoically endure the blatant injustice, and politely
excuse his wife on grounds of fatigue or ill health. For some time, she had
wondered whether this passive acceptance was also part of the problem, and had
once suggested to Martin that he confront his brother about it. Perhaps, she
had ventured, if Peter were to stand up to her once in a while, Abigail would
learn to treat him with more respect, but Martin had remained unconvinced,
assuring her that his brother would have already tried this.

There had never been any doubt in Isabelle’s mind
that the fondness had been mutual. She had noticed the furtive glances in her
direction when he had thought nobody was watching, but then she was used to men
looking at her in that way. For Isabelle, sexual attraction had always started
with the mind. That was not to say that looks were unimportant; a handsome face
and a reasonably trim body still pushed all the right buttons, but without the
mind, they seemed little more than window dressing.

Physically, Peter and Martin had been quite
similar in appearance although Peter was a little taller and thinner while
Martin had retained more hair, but gained a slight paunch. She had more than
once secretly mused that a combination of the two brothers would have produced
the perfect male: artistry balanced with practicality, spirituality tempered
with rationality, and a breadth and depth of intellect that would have ensured
a never-ending supply of diverting and witty conversation. Then again, perhaps
such a chimera would turn out to be eternally dull, and lacking in spontaneity.
Perhaps it was the want and surfeit of such traits which gave rise to the
individuality she so loved in both men. But of all Peter’s qualities, the thing
which had completely bowled her over these past few weeks was the restraint he
had shown. In spite of her embarrassing lack of fortitude up at The Fields, he
had acted with the utmost propriety and integrity, never once taking advantage
of the vulnerability and loneliness that had permeated her soul and sapped her
strength since Martin’s death. At first, she had felt foolish, wondering
whether she had misinterpreted his feelings towards her, but on the night of
the burglary, as they had lain together in bed, their bodies separated by thin
cotton, she had felt the desire surging through every inch of his being. Had he
wanted, she would have submitted to him on that night, and she was fairly sure
he had known this, but instead, he had held her in the most delicious embrace,
sharing his strength and love without yielding to the sexual tension that had
raged between them. It had been perfect. Although she had felt a certain frustration
at the time, it had been exactly what she had needed – an assurance of safety,
security and love. Since then however, she had been desperate to repeat the
exercise, but this time yearned to express her feelings in the most complete
way. No longer did she feel any guilt. Her beloved Martin was gone - whether
taken by selfish obsession or mental illness was of little consequence now; she
still had a life ahead of her and was determined to live it to the full. As for
Abigail, she had had her chance to hold on to a good man, but had squandered
it. Peter had explained how the woman had walked out on him the previous
evening, taking the children with her. Now, Isabelle was quite certain that
nothing could stand in their way.

With hair done and make-up applied, the only
decision remaining was the dress. Neither Martin nor Peter had ever been
especially attentive to her attire, so on the rare occasions when comments had
been made, she had taken particular note. For this trip she had packed two such
garments, one, a cheeky little black cocktail dress which hugged her waist and
accentuated her bust – always guaranteed to attract a good deal of attention
from the opposite sex – and the other, an elegant and timelessly alluring
scarlet evening gown. She was fairly certain that Peter would appreciate either,
but as she padded across the sumptuous dark blue and gold carpet of the hotel
room and held each up to her chin before the full length gilded mirror, the
scarlet seemed to call out to her. She slipped it on, savouring the soft
embrace of satin and admiring the effect in the mirror. The dress had a beaded
halter neckline showing off her slender shoulders to great effect, while a
diamond shaped keyhole below revealed just enough cleavage to be sexy without
becoming too much of a distraction. There was nothing worse than trying to make
conversation with a man whose gaze never ventured above one’s breasts. She
turned and looked over her shoulder at the shapely expanse of flesh, crossed
between her shoulder blades by the two bejewelled straps, and extending almost
to the crease of her buttocks. Even by her own self-critical standards, she
looked stunning.

Descending the grand staircase to the lobby, she
perceived a drop in ambient volume as attentions were diverted and
conversations momentarily paused to observe her entrance. She blushed and
looked around briefly with what she hoped was a modest smile. The effect was as
she had wished, men and women alike smiling back in hushed admiration. This was
infinitely preferable to the feeling of provoking lust from the men and
jealousy from the women - which might well have been the case had she worn the
cocktail dress. She spotted Peter sat at the bar and chatting enthusiastically
to a rather bored, but patient looking bartender. Her Scarlet O’Hara entrance
down the staircase had clearly been lost on the one man she had wanted to
impress. Undeterred, she strode confidently towards him, imagining their
imminent embrace, and what she hoped would be the first of many passionate kisses.
Eventually following the drop-jawed gaze of the barman, Peter turned towards
her and smiled. “Hello, my dear, you look lovely tonight, can I get you a
drink?” he said briskly, and with none of the passion she had hoped for. She
stood for a moment, arms widened in anticipation. He took the hint and gave her
a loose hug, pecking her lightly on each cheek, and immediately sitting back
down at the bar.
“So what can I get you madam?” asked the bartender.
She took her place beside Peter and ordered a white wine.
“How was your journey?” he asked, knocking back the remains of his coke and
waving the glass at the barman for a refill.
“Easy enough,” she said, hoping they would eventually progress beyond
small-talk. “What do you think of the hotel? The restaurant looked quite nice,
so I booked us a table for eight o’clock. Is that all right - or would you
prefer to go somewhere else?”
“Very plush!” he replied. “No, I’m sure this place will be fine.”
She looked at his coke. “Are you sure you don’t want something a little
stronger?”
“Better not. The police are quite vigilant around here – pulling people over
and breathalysing at random. I was planning to allow myself a couple of glasses
of wine with the meal, but probably shouldn’t have any more than that.”
“You know you could stay here with me,” she whispered, “there’s plenty of
room.”
The barman raised his eyebrows, then looked away, pretending not to have heard.
She blushed again, then looked at Peter expectantly.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said with a smile, turning to the barman. “On
second thoughts, forget the coke and pour me a double whiskey – I could do with
getting a skin-full tonight.”
“So how are you holding up? It must be a very trying time,” she said, placing
her hand on his forearm.
“Oh, you know, I should have known that publishing a paper wouldn’t be easy
after all these years out of the system.”
“Actually I was referring to Abigail walking out on you yesterday.”
“Oh that, well yeah, you know what she’s like. I suppose I should have seen it
coming. I dare say she’ll be back at some point.”
“Is that what you want?” she said, a desperate panic rising within her.
“I don’t know really, no I suppose not, but I’d miss the kids if she didn’t.”
“I’m sure you could still see them regularly. A friend of mine got divorced
recently, and while he doesn’t see them so often, he says the time he now
spends with his sons is much more rewarding, because it’s time he devotes
solely to them.”
Isabelle watched his face, as this sank in. The word divorce had seemed to
knock him sideways, as if he hadn’t even contemplated this eventuality.
“I suppose so,” he said at last, with sadness in his voice. “It would be
strange though, living by myself after all these years.”
“Maybe you’ll find someone else?” she said, looking into his eyes, and
wondering if this time he would finally take the hint.
“Yeah right! How does an old fart like me go about finding someone else?”
She sat, fixing him with an intense stare and smiling, until eventually
recognition dawned across his face.
“Oh Isabelle!” He looked at her finally with the love and understanding she had
been waiting for. “I’ve been such an idiot!”
She nodded kindly. “Peter, I love you. I know it’s all a bit sudden, and more
than a little confusing after all that’s happened, but don’t you see - we need
each other.”
He stood up from his barstool and held out his arms. She got up and hugged him
tightly. She felt his warm hand on the small of her back as he pulled her
closer and kissed her on the mouth.
“You really do look beautiful tonight!” he whispered adoringly.