People in Season (2 page)

‘Dreadful,’ Francis shakes his head, lets the story brew in him, and feeling something bubble to the surface he bursts into an embarrassed laugh. ‘That poor fecker Badger sent to a marriage counsellor.’

‘She was a divorced marriage counsellor.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Divorced and kept living with her ex-husband. They’d built an extension onto the house and he’d moved into it. Always trying to win her back too. Some mad eegit.’

‘And the loony giving people relationship advice.’

‘Never-mind that, imagine what kind of loony you’d have to be to actually go to her.’

Francis tries to set the deck of cards onto the table but in his fit of laughter finds himself so deeply set into the couch that he has to clutch them to his chest instead. Cackling, his landlord falls forward, sides gripped before going into a throaty cough. When they both quiet down, they notice how sad the mood in the sparse room actually is.

‘You stopped shuffling,’ the landlord says, and they just now realise that he’s hit his mark.

Francis takes note of his stalled hands, ‘I guess I’m just not a magician.’

‘I wouldn’t have let you in here if you were,’ the old man replies. ‘I hope you’re careful out there, Francis. You’re good at your job but they’re better at what they do. It’s their existence. Don’t let them dazzle you. Suspect everything, but never let them see it. If they do,’ he draws a dotted line across his throat. ‘Practice your shuffling. Don’t stop for anything, and always keep up a front.’

Used to being patronised by the old man like this, Francis smiles, nodding, ‘I know,’ while thinking to himself – If only it were that easy. But this is why he comes here. The landlord’s certainty, and the zeal that comes with it, is something he doesn’t have in himself. He borrows it in cupfuls like sugar for his tea. Picturing his cold bed in the flat underneath their feet, he struggles to climb out of the cushions.

‘We need to upgrade from this cheap Tesco wine. What time is it? I’m up early tomorrow. There’s a whole media organisation of potential UPD to process.’

‘A perilous trek to where the obelisk stands.’ The landlord rises and claps his hand into his tenant’s to pull him up.

‘Do you think there’s a lot of them working for ChatterFive?’

‘I could pick five just browsing their website,’ he brags.

‘I’ve got a few suspects myself, but I’m going to have to put that aside. It should be easy enough. This isn’t a government office where their jobs depend on them acting untouched, right?’

‘Huh.’

‘Then again, maybe your creepy Danny friend will be working there. Something tells me he’d make a fine columnist. Whatever happened to him?’

Francis holds the wine to his lips while he awaits an answer.

‘I couldn’t say. Once people leave that town they disappear for good. God knows I did. And don’t be so hard on him. Maybe he did meet the Devil. His wish came true didn’t it?’

Francis, looking at the dark pool in the bottom of his glass, inhales the scent as he considers the words and swallows what’s left of his drink along with any superstitious misgivings he might have. ‘I suppose,’ he says, and dips to the low end of a seesaw.

‘Well,’ the landlord opens the three locks on his door, a chub, a key and a chain, in that order. ‘Go on.’

Francis wobbles over, tipping left and right as he returns the deck of cards.

‘You have to try harder,’ the old man places his hands over the tenant’s, pushing the deck away. ‘Don’t forget what I said, watch out for yourself.’

‘I’ve got a pack downstairs,’ Francis says, ignoring the warning.

‘You need a fresh one. They’re useless once the edges are frayed. Keep them. Practice always. Get another deck in a week.’

‘Thank you,’ Francis accepts, knowing the landlord won’t let go until he does.

‘Don’t thank me, I’ll add it to your rent.’

As he steps through the door, another idea lights up in Francis, that he should check his landlord’s eyes to see if there’s a hint of any scar tissue in the brow, but by the time he decides to turn the door is already closed and three locks are sounding from the other side. Untouched? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had such a thought. It’s a fairly regular one at that. There are occasions when he can read more from the back of the man’s head than he can from his face, a sure sign if ever there was one. But he’s a lonely man, Francis, and chats with the old man help hone him – he has done good work and tomorrow in ChatterFive, scalpel sharp, he will do some more.

‘In the untouched personality, we are dealing with a disparate collection of individuals who stand among us, but remain separate. This sounds vague. You think it’s a description that could be applied to yourself. I’m sure you don’t feel especially attached to your colleagues when you chat over rushed espressos each morning. But you are. There’s a sense we share, a network which
they
are not connected to, that exists to help us grow organically as one group. Empathy, the ability to understand and share the feelings of another, is completely lacking in the UPD. Impaired in this regard the signals they send and receive are mere facsimiles. A mouth drawn downward becomes a tool to demonstrate sadness, while pinched eyes are only an approximation of what you and I would call being happy. You might wonder what it’s like to exist in such a way. To that I will suggest, in the same manner a computer can scan the expression on your face and alter the lighting and music in your home to suit your mood, so the untouched understand us. There is simply no value attached to their read of our features other than how they should react. It is this critical fault that defines them. Ethics, morality, law, love... they’re only known to the UPD as abstract ideas that make about as much sense as the fear of a black cat crossing their path...’ On the fifth floor of an office block overlooking the edge of Dublin city, a grey sky is pressed firmly against the glass. Suffering his way through a hangover, Francis Mullen takes a deep breath to salvage these lines he’s rehearsed in front of the mirror so many times. Before him are the forms from which he will have to decipher distinct personalities. Set to social agent mode, he peels his tongue from the roof of his mouth and goes on. ‘The truth is, a dying man on the bus seat next to the UPD is as moving to him as a minus number in a math problem. At most, you and I are something for the untouched to pity. Since they’re unable to form strong emotional bonds with others and lack any guilt and anxiety, what else could we be but pawns to them?’

A crop of listless heads sprout above their cubicle walls to note the tabloid sentiment. Francis has been talking for the past twenty minutes, but only now piqued the newsroom’s curiosity. Painfully aware that he had been tuned out long ago, the mechanical typing of journalists at work and the ringtones of incoming calls have been interrupting him since he began. At first he politely halted his lecture, allowing whoever it was to quickly end their conversation, but soon he realised with a deferential laugh that he was just going to have to talk into the thrum. The lesson he has learned is this: The news slows for no man. Right now, as he’s getting to the point of his introductory speech, a particularly frightful woman is firing a string of profanity at her screen. Frustrated with the argument, she hangs up and looks about in search of another target. When she connects with the social agent, Francis gives her an aching expression that begs for an apology, but the woman only offers a spiteful look of contempt until he leaves her, opens a button on his jacket and closes it again, then looks to the editor of ChatterFive for support – Joanne Victoria, she’s hardly been a help so far. Stationed outside her office, the editor taps her e-smoke as though there were actual ash to be flicked off, and surveys the room to note whose heads are poking out of their cubicles, like soldiers from trenches, and whose are buried safely in their work. Her gaze stops on the Englishman, Barry Danger. Ankles and socks stretched out of pant legs, his lanky arms are folded while he ignores an alert from his screen. On catching the intense warning his editor directs, Barry nods his gaunt face in friendly greeting before giving his attention back to the presentation, only, Francis is frozen, watching as Joanne’s eyes abandon the daft man and continue around the maze of cubicles, past the cautionary posters that each advise, ‘Remember The Children,’ and land on his own once more.

Francis is framed by a slide of the human brain, an organic mass bunched up like a load of laundry in need of ironing that hangs over everything he has to say.

‘Coupled with the illusion they present of being fully connected to our collective reality, the intelligent UPD are masters of mimicry. In part, their manipulative processes come so naturally because they’ve had to develop them from childhood just to fit in. As such, their use of lies and deceit is not a choice, more a compulsive state of behaviour that was crystallised in a severe detachment from consequences. The unintelligent are just as ruthless, but the threat both embody is their drive to get what they want removed from any deep emotions. Opportunistic, this is their most dangerous feature. If the brief moment we let our guard down happens to correspond with the realisation that they can get something desirable, they will take full advantage with no doubt, no qualms, and no mercy. You may think I’m being unduly malicious,’ Francis pauses and coughs to hide a nervous smirk. ‘You may even enjoy an occasional glass of wine with one of them. After all, the qualities you admire and want to cultivate in yourself are often those they choose to dress themselves in. It’s fair to say some untouched you’ve known may actually have been the most charming individuals you’ve met. Well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell a room full of journalists what the dark subtext to the word charm is in this instance.’

That’s a joke.

Francis was chuffed when he pencilled it in and imagined a round of friendly chuckles from his audience. He would even have settled for a sympathetic smile. Instead, the quip goes unappreciated and he wipes his forehead while searching for an absent bottle of water.

‘This personality that you might have met is a fictional construction written by two people. The UPD and its interaction with you. If you see one, if you’re friends with one – remember – in the case of the untouched, the person you think you know is only a fantasy, and whatever benefits you gain from allowing them their disguise is a detriment to somebody else. For years those who held power were encouraged to act untouched, with UPD employees not only surviving within the folds, but thriving in the mix. Any attempts to regulate behaviour were simply cases of plugging a finger in the hole of a leaky dam. Today I’m here to say the dam has burst, folks. Acknowledging the problem isn’t pessimistic. It’s an opportunity to make things better. We should not consider present social organisation natural just because it’s what we’ve arrived at thus far. The UPD reforms are a declaration that we want to live in a world where people consider each other’s interests, not just their own.’

‘Pish-posh,’ the editor takes a drag on her e-smoke.

So far as Francis can tell, the woman hasn’t let her lips go without the plastic tube since he arrived. Something about the situation must be bothering her, but then, in the way she’s glancing around the room it’s more like she’s searching for a missing piece of furniture. Whatever it is that has her nervous, the nicotine seems to offer her little relief. Francis can sympathise. Stood quietly at the top of the office, he’s dismally aware that the busy journalists are still ignoring him as he’s telling them that they care. In an effort to regroup, he makes a show of going through his ragged notes and manages to convince himself that he’s flopping on stage because of the wine he had last night, a choice he momentarily blames his landlord for, but after a beat he’s back to chiding himself for letting the time go by.

‘Listen!’ Discarding his script, he elicits the rise of a few more heads. ‘We’ve all had to take car keys off a drunk friend. They’re not inhuman. Even within the untouched scale it’s a narrow margin of people that are of concern. Remember, it isn’t a crime to be who they are. We can’t and shouldn’t punish them because they’re able to pass as functional members of society. In a phrase, just because with their disability they might do us harm, it does not mean that we should do intentional harm onto them. And it is a disability. Not just a pattern of behaviour we’ve imagined and labelled for bureaucratic purposes. It is a physical problem within the brain. The image you see behind me highlights at least seven regions that can lead to problems when damaged. If you got a bonk on the head with a mallet and suffered long term consequences, god forbid, you’d want your disability recognised. The standard UPD is no different, except that the development of their problem stems from birth, the conditions of which are made better or worse by the life they’re thrust. This term we categorise them with, UPD, it’s an unfortunate necessity to guard sections of the community where they could do wrong. The government has been cleared and, shocked as we all were, the majority were safe...’ Another joke that dies. ‘Now it’s the media’s turn. If there are any untouched in this office they can be identified with a simple neural examination. There are those that think this to be invasive. I have no desire to trample over your rights. That means not all of you will be put through the procedure. Over the course of the next two weeks I will be overseeing self-report tests and interviewing everyone in the office, from the interns to the editor. Only those I deem to be potential risks will go on to be scanned. Any information you have that might help in selecting people for further processing could be invaluable. If you make sure that you’re completely honest when we get a chance to talk, I’ll make sure that you aren’t put under any more pressure than necessary. ’

‘Utter pish-posh,’ Joanne hisses down the length plastic cigarette and somebody huffs at the idea that this sheepish man could apply any pressure at all.

‘I understand how examining your colleagues could make you uncomfortable, that being put under scrutiny yourself may feel a little claustrophobic, but I’d like each of you to take it as an indication of how important the work you do is, and how critical it is for your environment and the stories produced from it to be free of untouched contamination. Over the next two weeks, I’ve got the car keys. It’s my job to assure the environment you speak from is clean.’ Francis takes a deep breath. He’s at the end of his spiel and ready to go out with a bang. Charging himself for one last jab at his audience’s funny bone, he puffs up his chest and nurses a twinkle in his eye – this one’s a killer. ‘And if that isn’t enough motivation, just think about the headlines you could make if you found a UPD at the top of your own media organisation.’

Winking at Joanne, he chuckles loudly. Once again though, he has to retreat when he notices the e-smoke is so tightly clamped between her teeth that she could almost snap in two.

He’s supposed to end the talk by calling to mind the disaster which created the law. It’s standard protocol, but he can never bring himself to do it. The tragedy that drove the reforms into effect and all those ruined people, now just fodder for leaflets, they feel too important to use in such a cheap way. However, if it means he can avoid another floundering joke next time, it might be worth exchanging some of his principals for. With this in mind, he waves a hand of surrender, his face a red beacon that announces to the editor he’s finished his introduction, and taps a button on his pocket projector to switch it off. No flowers thrown on stage, only the meek performer left to tidy his equipment away. Barry Danger applauds methodically as the diagram of the wrinkled brain disappears from the air and Francis nods his gratitude, convinced that his efforts weren’t a total disaster. Besides, the slideshow is only procedure, any panache he puts into his attempt at showmanship is just a challenge he sets for himself. His real work in flushing out UPD will start later.

Joanne Victoria is still struggling to swallow his attempt at humour when she appears to discover what’s missing. A corner desk, notable among the unkempt neighbours for its economy of space, is lacking an occupant. A gap in her defensive lines. It’s the contributing assistant editor. She hasn’t shown up for work. Joanne squints through her glasses to confirm the time and looks oddly panicked when she can’t find the clock. The woman is about to snag a wandering girl to demand its whereabouts, but before she can ask a thing an alarm blasts and overwhelms the room with its metallic racket. The alarm, it’s a warning that they should all get out while they can.

***

Startled under the bell, Francis jumps to cover his ears.

‘Fire?!’ he shouts at the staff as they return to work. The editor is about to scream for the alarm to be silenced when the social agent shouts over it, ‘Is there a fire?!’

Feeling a headache come on, and aware that this is what it’s to be like operating as a cell under the microscope, Joanne reluctantly agrees.

‘Fire,’ standing from her doorway, she rubs a temple and calls upon her childhood speech and drama lessons to give the words a dramatic flair, ‘Fire drill everybody!’ With a clap of her hands, the dithering heads slowly rise and turn to her. This is when it dawns on them that the presence of a social agent is actually going to affect the day to day events of their workplace. The realisation rolls over them like a stench has drifted through the room. ‘Don’t just look at me like a bunch of roadside cattle, head for the emergency exit! Come on Barry, lead us out, you don’t seem too busy anyway!’

Taking in a view of the place emptying, Francis watches as they jostle about for the retreat. The newsroom so far has not been what he expected. The public image of ChatterFive is spirited and energetic, it’s veneer polished to represent a collection of young, bright people gathered together to change the world through the exchange of information. He had envisioned a room with brand name graffiti spread across the brickwork and a coffee bar-come-break room with fruit smoothie options attached. Instead, he has discovered this, an office like any other. It’s even a little old-fashioned compared to most. The cubicles, though their walls are low, are a far cry from the open plans he has found in so many other places. The employees too, wearied rather than frantic in the clamber to meet deadlines, aren’t up to the romantic standard. Though their job is the distribution of facts and opinion, they seem to be nothing more than labourers under the thumb of the short tempered boss who torments them with unrealistic quota demands. From countless wires, data streams and social networks, they dig for veins of untapped material, spurred on by the knowledge that an errant fact which has not been written up may yield weeks of material if spun correctly. Indeed, journalist seems an antiquated word, the slang newsminer more fitting. With the clangourous alarm, they’ve received some relief from their heavy work load. Barry Danger, demonstrating a taste for the ridiculous, shakes his head and snickers as they leave in a cluttered line, while Francis finds himself in a growing vacuum of space when he joins the bustle. The people in front of him can feel his stare, and he in turn can feel a hole being bored into the back of his skull.