The Thing on the Shore (29 page)

Yasmin still gripped her mug tightly, despite it now being empty. “Bony, that's really interesting,” she said.

“Well, of course,” Bony said. “Would you expect anything less?”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“I read a lot,” Bony said, again.

Yasmin didn't quite believe him, but she didn't press it. “So … what about this Nu?” she asked, instead.

“It sounds almost like the place you're talking about,” Bony said. “A kind of nowhere place. Like a shared void that connects everything. I mean, I'm not an expert or anything, so maybe I've got their mythology totally wrong, but that sounds right.”

“Arthur said it was like being under water, as well,” Yasmin said. “He did say that.”

“Here.” Bony pointed at the screen. “The emails.”

“Scroll down,” Yasmin said. “Go to the first one.”

From:      [email protected]
To:          [email protected]
Sent:       13.09.10 at 14:56
Subject:  Subject

Artemis,

Since I had my call answered by somebody else last time I rang, I will ring no more. Ring me if necessary—you know that only I can possibly answer if you ring me—but I will only email you from now on.

I want you to know that I am disappointed in your negligence. We trust you to show us that you can do the job required of you. If not, we will have to remove you. I know that you understand.

In short, we have had a response from the Interstice. As discussed, we used the AI to elicit the response. She probed ceaselessly and Eleanor would have been proud.

We know now that there is an intelligence there. An intelligence with the power to interact with and disrupt telecommunications. You may have experienced some disruptions at that center of yours. If not, you undoubtedly will.

Now that we have established the presence of an entity, you need to establish a channel of communication. You already know of the subject. He is key. Use him.

Central.

Bony and Yasmin looked at each other.

“There,” she said. “The Interstice, it's real.”

“Who's Eleanor?” Bony asked.

Yasmin shook her head. “I don't know.”

“There are loads of these emails,” Bony said, scrolling upward. “Most of them are about call volumes and customer-service levels. Normal stuff, I'm guessing.”

“Yeah,” Yasmin said, “that's all the shit we get smacked around the head with every day. Reduce your handling time, increase the number of calls you take, increase your
call-quality scores, increase customer satisfaction, increase the amount of cash you collect, all that bollocks. And … who do you think the
subject
is? Arthur?”

“Must be,” Bony said.

“What's this, though?” Bony pointed to another email.

From:           [email protected]
To:               [email protected]
Sent:            24.09.10 at 11:32
Subject:       Diane

Artemis,

If you must have your way with the bodies, then please be more discreet. Even we, from our remote location, could surmise your intentions and the subsequent course of events. Remember, you are in a small town now.

Central.

Yasmin felt like her core temperature was plummeting. She'd known how Artemis had summoned Diane to the pods, but … but she hadn't actually seen Diane since that same day, now she thought about it. And
bodies
?

“They keep mentioning the AI too,” Bony said. “I mean, I know what AI is, but I don't know what they're talking about here, in this other e-mail. ‘Re-routing to the AI.'”

“They're talking about re-routing calls,” Yasmin said. “Re-routing calls away from the call center and to the AI.
So it must be an automated system. You know how sometimes you can ring a company and you go through lots of pre-recorded options? And sometimes you press buttons to choose different options, or sometimes you actually speak and it manages to pick up on what you're saying?”

“But customers would notice that,” Bony said.

“They would,” Yasmin said, “unless it was a genuinely powerful system. And I'm sure it's possible to have a system like that. You hear about things called call analytics, where the system can identify the mood of the customer through their tone of voice, never mind what words they're actually using. And they can compare the words used by the customer against records of hundreds of thousands of sentences, and thus match them up and then give the appropriate response. It's not genuine AI, but … Those are only the commercially available systems used by normal companies. A company the size of Interext, if it has its own research and development people, and enough money … I don't see why they couldn't build something powerful enough, and with enough pre-recordings to sound sufficiently varied.”

“Then why would Interext employ so many people?” Bony asked.

“Maybe the systems are new. Maybe they haven't been used before. In fact …” Yasmin nodded, scrolling back down through the emails until she found the one she wanted. She nodded toward the laptop screen. “Yeah, here. It says something about only re-routing a few calls at a time to test it.”

“Then they're going to sack you all? Close the site down?”

Yasmin looked at Bony. “I imagine they will, if they don't really need us. Unless they need us for something else.”

“I'm wondering what they need Arthur for,” Bony said.

“Bony,” Yasmin said, “there's something I should probably tell you. Artemis's laptop—the one I forwarded these emails from—had a webcam fitted in the casing.”

“For video-conferencing?”

“Well, yeah, but … what if somebody was watching me?”

“Were you able to see if there were any webcam programs open?”

“I didn't look.”

“It's probably nothing to worry about.”

“Bony,” Yasmin gestured toward the screen, “these people sound really, really scary.”

“It does all sound pretty heavy,” Bony said, “but I still wouldn't worry about that.”

Yasmin nodded and fiddled with her hair. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

“There's more to read,” Bony said.

“I know.”

“Artemis asking what they're doing it for. Why they're trying to contact this entity. Central Office doesn't really seem to answer him, though.”

“‘We need to ensure that we remain leader of the pack in terms of service-level delivery and shareholder return,'” Yasmin read out loud. “‘This project is the cornerstone of a long-term strategy.'”

“Doesn't tell you much, does it?” Bony said.

“Not really,” Yasmin said. “Bony, for fuck's sake, do you have anything to drink?”

“I've got wine,” Bony said, “and I've got weed.”

“Can I stay here tonight?” Yasmin said. “Please? I'm not going to work tomorrow. I'm going to ring in sick.”

“Of course you can,” Bony said. “Um, yeah.” He nodded, and then smiled and left the room. After a moment he reappeared. “You do want some wine, right?” he said.

“Yes,” Yasmin said. “Yeah, if that's OK.”

Harry was pacing around in the kitchen when Arthur returned home. He was muttering to himself and it was evidently one of his not-so-good days. Arthur removed his sopping shoes by the front door.

“Dad?” Arthur said as he came through, puddling water behind him. “You OK?”

“Hi, son,” Harry said. “Yeah, yeah I'm OK, thank you. How are you?”

“I've had a pretty bad day, Dad,” Arthur said carefully. “I'm going to make a cup of tea. Do you want one?”

“Oh, yes please, Arthur,” Harry said, still pacing.

“Dad,” Arthur said, as he moved forward and put his hands on Harry's shoulders. The man stank of alcohol. “Go and sit down. I'll bring it through.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Harry said. “I'll go and sit down. Wait, wh-what's happened to your eye?”

“It's nothing,” Arthur said. “I was … I sneezed too hard
and it, uh, it burst a blood vessel. It sometimes happens to people. It's OK.”

“Are you sure? It l-looks terrible.”

“I'm sure,” Arthur said. “You go and sit down.”

Harry nodded warily and headed off to the living room. He shuffled there, really, in his ancient slippers. Sometimes it was like living with a geriatric. He was aging prematurely, what with the alcohol and the stress and the … well, the mental problems, Arthur reflected. That was what they were, though—
mental conditions
, maybe, was a better way of putting it.

Arthur put the kettle on and looked around the kitchen. It was pretty repulsive. Everything was grease-flecked, dirty dishes were stacked up on every surface, the sink was full of filthy water, the linoleum was covered in crumbs. And … no. Arthur peered more closely at the sink.

One of those worms—here, in the kitchen. Not
today
. I mean not ever, ideally, but
please
not today. It wriggled its way vigorously along the back of the sink, as if it were having a really good time.

Arthur waited for the kettle to boil and then poured a little of the steaming water over the worm. The water ran all along the side of the sink and spilled over the edge of the worktop, cascading to the floor and scalding his feet through his worn old socks.

“Oh fuck!” he yelled at the ceiling. “You fucking
prick
!”

“Arthur?”

“It's all right, Dad!” Arthur shouted. “I'm all right!”

*

Eventually they were both seated in the living room. Harry had already closed the curtains, but Arthur didn't reopen them. It was, after all, pretty dark outside for the time of day.

“Dad, I need to talk to you,” Arthur said.

“OK,” Harry said.

“I think I've been seeing things.”

“Really, son?” Harry sat forward. “What kind of things? Do … do you mean the worms?”

“No, Dad, not the worms. Those are real. I mean at work. I've been … a couple of times now, I've …” Arthur realized that he was almost tying his fingers into knots. This was hard, harder than he'd expected, and he didn't really know why.

Or maybe it was because he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually needed his father. Arthur just sat there in silence for a moment once he realized that. He hadn't needed his father in any meaningful sense for years. He'd only really needed his contribution of money for the rent, since it tended to be Arthur who looked after that kind of thing now. He hadn't really needed Harry's advice, or his company, or his opinion, or his reassurance, or his approval. Certainly not his approval. And didn't everybody want the approval of their parents? Harry needed Arthur, maybe, and Arthur was more than happy to help Harry get by, but really, Harry was a burden. In a sense, he just took and took. He didn't mean to do so, but he did.

“Son?” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, wiping his eyes. “I, uh … at work, a couple of times now, I've kind of passed out, and, um, seen things … Seen another place.”

“R-really?”

Arthur glanced up, saw Harry looked surprised, but not too worried.

“Yeah, and I wanted to tell you. And I just want … I don't know, I just …”

Arthur really broke down then. He slapped his hands on to his face and sobbed. Harry merely looked on, sitting slightly forward with his hands on his knees, trembling.

“Son?” he said, finally.

Arthur just shook his head. He couldn't speak. How hard could it be, really, to say that too many things were happening and you didn't understand enough? But it was hard. It was really difficult.

“There
is
a place, Arthur,” Harry said. “That's where your mum is.”

It took a while for the words to get through to Arthur but, once they did, he uncovered his face and looked up at his dad.

“What?” he said. “Do you mean like, um, the afterlife? Or do you mean something else?”

“I mean s-something else,” Harry said. “Some
where
else. I talk to her on the phone, see, and I know she's gone from us, I know that, but she does still exist and that place … that place where she is, that's the place I mean.”

Arthur thought about his mother existing in the place he'd seen. That didn't seem quite right, but who was he
now to doubt it? And it couldn't just be due to some hereditary illness, not if Artemis believed in this place, too. Artemis had acted like he was even expecting something like this. That aside, though, the thought of his mother being in such a place was not a pleasant one.

“I never believed you,” Arthur said.

“I know,” Harry said.

“I don't know what's happening, Dad,” Arthur said. “Artemis seems to know about this other place too.”

“S-strange,” Harry said.

“And, Dad,” Arthur said, “I don't think I want Mum to be in that place, if that's where she is. It's not a good place—the place I've seen.”

“Sh-she always says that she's happy,” Harry said. “She always sounds happy.”

“Maybe we're talking about different places,” Arthur said. “We could be talking about different places.”

“I suppose so,” Harry said, looking thoughtful.

“There's something else,” Arthur said.

“What?” Harry laughed and reached over, put his hand on Arthur's knee. “Some… something even more weird?”

“Ha,” Arthur said. He actually said the word “ha” while attempting a smile, and he realized that that was something his mum used to do. “Something
as
weird maybe, yeah. I was on the pier before.”