Keel

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Created on Saturday, 13 August 2011 00:00

We had stayed inside for the previous two days, hoping it would clear up, to no avail. Now I had to go out. The fridge and cupboards were empty and my younger siblings were hungry. I was the oldest male and we didn’t really have a dad. I was reluctant, but the beleaguered look on my mother’s face persuaded me. She handed me a ten pound note and turned to my three-year old brother who was insistently tugging on her clothing. As I made for my front door, I glanced to the left to see my sister of ten, staring blearily at the television, with barely enough energy to keep her head up. On the flickering screen, BBC news displayed the same loop of riot footage I had watched hours earlier. I took my jacket down from the hook in the passage, put it on, and stooped to slide my feet into a pair of trainers. I stood up hesitantly, listening to the sound of a siren growing fainter. I waited there, until I could no longer hear it.

As I stepped through the threshold, my brain was jolted out of its sedentary slumber by the bright white lines on the scabrous macadam. I was hungry, and everything was mediated through my undernourished brain. It was mid afternoon and my eyes were not yet inured to the reflected sun. I had to clench my jaw to keep myself upright as I locked gazes with the regiments of windows and garage doors. Even the familiar worn concrete was like a grindstone under my scalp.

Tense and dizzy, I turned the corner, to have my nasal passage coated with the acrid smell of burned upholstery. This emanated from the charred chassis of a car. I had witnessed the brightness of the conflagration from my bedroom window last night, but only now did I see its source. I slid my hands into my pockets and paced quickly down the street. The pavement was littered with more than the usual cigarette butts, aluminium cans and crisp packets. There were oddments of packaging and discarded clothing, some price-tags were still visible. Quite a few of my neighbours were at it, I guessed.

I turned the corner and something crunched under my foot, it was broken glass. To my left, through a splintered shop-front and a web of police cordoning tape, was the gutted interior of a corner shop. This was where I would usually buy staples like bread, milk and breakfast cereal. I scanned it more closely; there appeared to be no one inside. I looked over my shoulder, the street around me was deserted, most of the shops were boarded up, ransacked or securely closed. I wormed around the plastic tape and sidled into the premises. The neon strip-lights inside were not on, but at the far end I could still make out dimly lit fridges. I wondered if they were still on. Manoeuvring through the debris, I noted that most of the items behind the counter were gone, most likely purloined, but the general foodstuffs had merely fallen from their shelves. Around me lay packets of rice, flour, beans, pulses and loaves of bread. Some packets had split open and their small, hard contents rendered parts of the smooth, beige-speckled floor hazardous.

I stood there for some time, considering the bread on the floor, the bottled preserves and canned food on the other side of the aisle. Most of it would go to waste anyway, and what were the chances of finding anywhere open? “Oi!”, cried a voice from behind me. I tried to turn rapidly, sliding in a pool of spilled mayonnaise. I stumbled towards the door, spotting two men in police uniform, standing in the doorway, I couldn’t make out much, as they were lit from behind. They just stared at me as I walked forward, unsure of myself. I displayed my open hands at my sides, hoping that this would convince them that I wasn’t carrying a weapon or any stolen goods.

“What are you doing in here?” The smaller of the two inquired. I stammered something about just looking around and added that I normally buy food from here. The officer’s expression softened a little. “You understand that you can’t just go nosing around a crime scene?”. I nodded. He turned to his companion, “Should we let him off with a warning?”. The larger officer nodded. I felt the knot in my chest loosen. The larger officer spoke, “On your way son! And you won’t find any shops open on this street. You’d best just go home”. My body slackened with defeat, the idea of coming home empty-handed made me want to collapse. I regarded them briefly and began to make my downcast way away from there. I heard the voice of the first officer, shouting from behind me, “You might have more luck with the petrol station on the main road” I turned around. “You just take that street” he said, pointing at the beginning of a side street on the other side of the road. “then turn left and it’s about half mile on your right.” I shouted my thanks and made my way across the road, catching sight of someone looking down at me out of a window above a closed hairdresser’s. Their arms were folded and they wore a sour expression. Maybe they thought I was a looter.

The residential side-street was mostly unmarred by the violence. Today could almost have been an ordinary day. My surroundings were quiet as I traversed the pavement, I saw no one leave or enter the tightly packed terraced houses. No doubt they were all attached to their computer monitors and TV screens, feeling vicarious outrage. I neared end of the street and began to make out the forms of moving traffic on the motorway ahead of me. The noise of their tires and engines grew louder. The officer had instructed me to turn left, so I did, although there wasn’t much by way of a pedestrian walkway. As I hugged the metal rail, I felt distinctly vulnerable as each vehicle tore past me. I decided to find a way to get across the road at the first possible juncture.

The first major feature I encountered was an overpass bridge. I looked out at the stream of traffic below me for some time, yielding to the impression of standing at the crossing of two automotive arteries. A woman screamed something out of the window of a passing car; it sounded abusive. Above a scrap of concrete and scraggly grass and weeds was a billboard; its content consisted of a black and white photograph of a handsome man next to a mirror, smiling slightly and caressing his smooth cheek. To his right was an image of the five-bladed razor which purportedly helped him achieve this state of bliss. Ahead of me, I saw what I hoped was a pedestrian overpass. I was beginning to sweat as the structure loomed closer. It was certainly an overpass, and next it was another billboard. It appeared to display a gathering of people on the deck of seafaring vessel of some sort.

I mounted the structure, griping the iron handrail and ascending the grit-coated steps. My legs felt fatigued as I rounded the final bend in the metal construction. I was much relieved at the level surface that stretched out in front of me. I could make the billboard out more clearly now. It depicted a group of statuesque, scantily clad young people enjoying drinks aboard a yacht. The logo, “Keel Cruises” was printed in yellow against the pristine blue of the sky. “fortnight Pacific cruise for just £2399!” The holidaymakers depicted were all inexplicably young, attractive and presumably very wealthy. The image, due to its elevation, beauty and the dominance of the colour white, reminded me of a large religious painting. My sweat was cooling and I resolved to make haste, as I needed to get back home before my mother perished with worry. I had just descended several short flights of stairs when I took out my mobile phone and looked at the time. It had been over half an hour since I left my flat. I decided to text my mum to tell her I was all right.

I was halfway through writing it when I heard raucous laughter and voices from below. I peered over the railing to see that the source of this din was a group of boys, around my age, with a shopping trolley. This sight wasn’t unusual in itself, but the trolley was full of shopping bags and commodities. They appeared to be unloading them and preparing to take them somewhere by hand. By the time I had hurriedly written and sent my message, they were already headed up the stairs towards me. I considered trying to get away before they reached the top, but no, I had nothing to be afraid of. I might have even known them. I continued down the stairs and began to make out their conversation. “Did you clock the look on ‘dat fed’s face when I chucked a open bag of dog-food at ‘im?” - “Bruv, don’t lie. You was tryin’ to munch it. You jus’ threw it ‘caus you was shook!” They laughed and the first started to retort, “You dickhe…” At once, I was face to face with him. He quickly concealed his shock and held up a bulging shopping bag at me, grinning. Several others arrived, one of them spoke, “Oi rudeboy! Where do you live?” He was quite tall and I could make out Caucasian features beneath the shade of his hood. I replied evasively, “Near here”. “Do you know who I am?” he barked. I shook my head. One of the others howled “Oh shit”, with mock-incredulity. Seven of them had gathered around me. “Le’ me educa’e you” said the one whom I assumed was the leader “I’m a top badman in ‘dis area!” With the last two words he gestured aggressively and moved closer to me.

“Um, good for you mate” I reply after a tense silence. “I’m not your mate, wasteman!” – “Fine by me” I return, and try to make it so there is some distance between us. There is really nowhere to go, so I push forward, into the group of thugs. The leader is taken by surprise and staggers back a little, “What the fuck!” he roars. “Batter him fam!” another boy shouts, “Don’t let some next pussio move to you.” Spurred on my his friends, the leader lunges at me and takes a swing at my head. His knuckle hits my temple, a glancing blow but still dizzying. I try to push forward and gain a bit of ground, but am forced further down when I catch a brutal kick in my side. I am on the hard floor, and am dazed. I feel blow after blow after blow, but the intensity diminishes with each. My body is numb. My arm is wrapped around my face but I can’t feel it there. I brush my hand across my face and feel a wet and swollen mass. A distant stab of pain. I am vaguely aware of more blows. I gaze through interstices of the lashing limbs and vertical iron railings at the Keel Cruises billboard. The beautiful, bronzed people smile down at me. They are garbed in white, and not of this world. Saints of the 21st century.

Imiter

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Created on Tuesday, 19 October 2010 00:00

The ceiling is perfectly flat. Its surface a transition from the cold shadows behind me to the stripes of three repeated hues projected by the pale morning light through the curtain at the foot of my bed. I lie supine and gather my thoughts, waiting for my erection to dissipate and bracing myself against the imminent cold. I absently grasp at the wayward fragments of a dream... Dust, a clown, a suitcase. My alarm clock trills out its familiar atonal and urgent chime; it reads 7:00. I reach over to my bedside table and silence the machine, its polished metal frame of just sufficient dimensions to house a legible time display and to comfortably admit my groggily groping hand. Using the energy from my lunge at the clock to propel myself out of bed, my bare feet enjoying the plush caress of the carpet as I assume an upright posture. I am met with a chill that is not as searing as I had anticipated; in fact I find it motivating, if not invigorating.

As I make my way to the glass door separating my bedroom from the en suite bathroom, I catch my reflection in the wardrobe-panel mirror; I seem to look 18 but am unsure whether I feel it, the number strikes me as somewhat arbitrary. I climb into the shower and close my eyes, as my body is inundated with hot water, head to toe. The pump which augments the spray from the perforated chrome outlet ensures that I am drenched with a staggering force. I momentarily halt the torrential massage by uttering the word “soap,” whereupon, a silky substance falls on my right shoulder and lower neck. As I feel the bulk of it pool in the ridge formed by my clavicle, I ease some of it into the palm of my left hand and proceed to lather my entire body. I start with my neck and torso, working my way down to my calves and finally my ankles. I procure a small quantity of shampoo from the same nozzle with a similar command and run this through my bristly hair and slight fringe. This has to be one of the highlights of my daily routine. I activate the shower and am again pulverised by litre upon litre of cascading water. I manoeuvre around so as not to exclude one square inch of my skin from being rinsed. I reluctantly switch the shower off and exit through the perfumed steam and into now intolerably cold bathroom, hastily wrapping myself in a towel.

Wiping a portal of clarity through the condensation on the mirror I inspect my face, contrary to the stereotype pertaining to my age group, I am not overly insecure about my appearance. My features are not striking by any means, but in relatively balanced proportion, I look like what I am: Anglo-Japanese. My name reflects this heritage: Will Hisakawa. I am five feet eleven inches tall with dark hair, blue eyes and am of a medium build; my complexion is pale, as is to be expected, for someone living in such a climate. Habit dictates that I apply a lotion to my face and neck. Habit has a iron grip on me, not uncomfortable one, as I am entirely complicit. As my hand works its familiar concourse around my jaw, I notice the beginnings of stubble and an imminent addition to my morning grooming regimen. I commence the task of drying the few areas of my body that are still wet, as I do so I return to my bedroom and open the wardrobe revealing an extensive range of garments. They are black, white and varying shades of grey with intermittent blues, greens and turquoises. First donning fresh underwear I choose the white vest, teal-blue long-sleeved shirt and one of the many pairs of black trousers. I slip my feet into a comfortable pair of casual black shoes and make my way over to my personal computer which automatically switches on.

I perch on a minimalistic but curvaceous swivel-chair and resist the inclination to sink into its soft synthetic seat. This shall be a brief engagement. I rest my hands on the sensuous horizontal touch screen which now masquerades as a keyboard but can perform a variety of functions. The machine silently registers the sequence of keystrokes comprising my password. The large rectangular screen protruding slightly from the wall displays a range of icons, menus and information, including a regional weather report (I must remember to wear a jacket). My attention is drawn to a field indicating the number of new events relating to me on the nameless and globally ubiquitous social network. I tap the number and the list of recent events spring instantly forth, all of which are birthday wishes. Tracing a marquee around the list with my index finger, I send a laconic reply to all, thanking them for their attention. A brief scan of my timetable indicates that I have English literature, History and Economics today, which with the exception of economics, tend to be quite interesting.

After inserting my used towel into the chute marked “laundry”, I make my way downstairs, preparing myself for the customary show of joviality. The dining area is spacious and furnished with the understated elegance which pervades the building. I am met with three smiles and one look of open resentment, softened only by boredom. The smiles belong to my mother, father and older brother of 23, who is on leave from his employment for an investment firm. The sour look can be attributed to my younger sister of 15 who hasn't yet discovered the debatable merits of concealing one's more unpleasant feelings. I take my seat at the table, as part of an archaic formality which, quite ironically, is supposed to bring a family together. After we greet each other, we commence eating a vintage 20th century dish of mushrooms and toast as well as imitation bacon, eggs and sausages. My mother has judiciously insisted on a side-salad. My sister is the first to speak when she petulantly observes that people used to eat like “absolute swine”, this was met with general agreement. Of course, there are no swine any more, or any kind of livestock for that matter. It seemed largely unnecessary in any case as the imitations were healthier and for all I know, equally palatable.

Now that the meal is almost complete, and general chatter has died down I am informed of a surprise in store for me. My father produces a sleek oblong box from inside his jacket and hands it to me over the table. With such immaculate attention paid to the design of the packaging, I am almost certain that the contents will amount to an anticlimax. As the object emerges, I am proven unequivocally wrong, this personal communications device is the epitome of formal grace. It is a soft-cornered cuboid, is cool to the touch; almost seductive, compelling me to caress it again and again. It is roughly equivalent to my hand in width and height and is sliver-thin, its screen is a perfect matt-finished plane, its slick black frame is unmarred by any visual disturbances such as ports or seams. Owing to the wireless power hub, it is already charged and as per the instructions printed on the box, it powers up with the swipe of my hand across it's screen. As I browse the icons denoting its various functions my gaze rests on the clock display which alerts me that I must leave soon if I'm to catch my train into the city. I make known my gratitude for the gift, assure my mother that I have no intention to show it off to my peers and that I'm well aware that “not everyone has the same advantages that I do”. It occurs to me to mention that there is far more recent consumer technology in the way of virtual reality. I am so inured to my father's usual response, his reference to the veracity of the real and assertions that one should not wish to escape when one has nothing unpleasant to escape from, that I don't bother to do so. I say my goodbyes and everything proceeds in quite a pleasant manner, except for the conspiratorial wink my older brother gives me as we part company. A lot of his behaviour had been unsettling, ever since I opened my gift he kept throwing me these indecipherable looks... concern, glee, anticipation? An unrealisable desire to confide something in me perhaps?

As I exit the house, a heterogeneous suburban scene unfolds: The rows of houses a hodgepodge of different styles and ornamentations. In all of their differences, the one constant feature which lends them unity is their opulence, the sheer ostentatiousness of some of them. My parents pride themselves in an aversion to frivolous decoration, and this is mirrored by the demure minimalism of their home, what they consider sensible and understated. This conservative view is shared of course by some of our neighbours. Others delight in difference, seeking out the most outlandish and obscure of decoration, garden ornamentation and architecture - as if to lend a hand in the collective community effort of conducting as vicious an assault as possible on the senses of hapless passers by. The cars are equally striking, standing as testament to an industry where the usualyearly cycle of planned obsolescence could lead to fatalities. As such, there must literally exist a design for every conceivable mood of every conceivable consumer, at any imaginable time. My walk to the station is somewhat jarring, even for all of its routine, I liken it to conducting my way down a disordered time-line of architectural tradition and trends in design. Out of one rectilinear slab of a building sprouts and ornately decorated imitation-baroque façade. In another garden is a holographic display of tropical wildlife. Closer to the station sits a monstrosity of diversity, complete with pillars and palisades of varying origins, religious iconography torn from various cultures and a gargoyle. It looks like the British museum did when it was bombed by terrorists in 2034. The station is a breath of fresh air, it at least was designed with a clear function in mind.

I ascend the stairs, sit down and look around. The platform is almost deserted except for a few purposeful, be-suited figures, the display reads 3 minutes. I take my new toy out of my satchel and begin to play with it. Initially, a message prompts me to enter some personal data so it can synchronise with my social networking profile, the screen briefly imitating a keyboard. The bullet-like train arrives with tremendous speed and the hum of its magnetic propulsion system. I get on and take a seat. I have no one I need to contact and no desire for forced chit-chat so I'm left with the absurd abundance of distractions offered by this device. One of the games that comes pre-installed is simply called Despots. It allows the player to assume the role of an autocratic leader of a small, geographically and ethnically nondescript state, and compete with friends to be the most successful dictator. The first part involves the redistribution of wealth by directing units money at various targets by swiping my finger across the screen. It continues in this kinaesthetic manner through various facets of a despot's daily life. Quite disturbingly, this eventually involves the torture of a disenfranchised officer who has organized an attempted a coup d'etat. A little taken aback, I look up to see that all my fellow commuters are immersed in their own simulated worlds. One lewd man is evidently making use of Coitus 5.0 or some such virtual reality software; his bulging trouser-crotch is a arabesque of dried semen. His right leg occasionally twitches and pus visibly seeps from the exposed hardware and raw tissue of his left inner ear. I opt for operating thumbscrews in graphic detail by twirling my finger on a seductively tactile surface over being party to a stranger’s conspicuous depravity.

The train comes to a halt at my stop in the city centre and I disembark, taking the elevator to the surface and pacing out into the street. A more intense light plays across the sprawling edifice of glass and steel surrounding me, than did the bizarre architecture earlier, but it is still pallid and devoid of warmth. I pull my jacket tighter around me as I pass the constant stream of city-workers; students, gargantuan advertising-screens and glass shop-fronts. Everything inscribed with images and text, brands and prescribed aspirations. On screens lounge and pose fifteen-foot models, like the immortalized saints from another time, symbols of more worldly but equally unattainable ideals. Some critics said that virtual reality was already redundant in city centres, as every available space was already housed an abundance of media, and could be experienced in the flesh. Tacit memory guides me to the entrance of my college, I am early as usual and to my pleasant surprise see Coline at the gate. She is lanky, with red hair and an effervescent, slightly nervous demeanour. She smiles at me as I walk over and wishes me a happy birthday, I thank her and ask her how she is. She reveals that she's all right but a little worried about the result of a recent maths test, which was more difficult than she'd anticipated. I reassure her that she'll be fine and our conversation trundles on as conversations do. My birthday is alluded to and I have no choice but to produce my new toy from my satchel. She takes one look at it and calls me something obscene in mock envy. I like her candour. I hand it to her an she launches on a diatribe about all the things I could do with it, like this piece of software called Imiter. “It's basically” she explains “a system containing loads of metadata about the world, the various objects places and so on. It combines this with GPS data about the user and some aspects of a social network.” “So” I interject “It's an information overlay for you life” - “yeah, pretty much.” She continues to inform me on the finer points of Imiter until a quaintly anachronistic klaxon sounds for our first lesson.

I part company with Coline and head down a well lit corridor toward my first lesson: English Literature. Education of this kind is relatively rare nowadays, replaced largely by interactive digital syllabi, long distance conferencing and in some cases simulated classrooms with tuition by artificial intelligences. However, with my family’s vaunted membership to the exclusive and expensive “Cult of the Real”, I have access to flesh and blood contact with educators and peers. I am one of the first to enter the room sit down on a chair in the middle row that automatically adjusts to my bodily dimensions. A scan of the screen directly in front of me indicates that 45 minutes of the lesson have been allocated to individual research into a new topic: the 16th century poet John Milton. I am presented with a biographical time-line starting with his birth in Cheapside, London Dec. 9 1608, running through his Cambridge education and “studious retirement”. I learn of his publication proclaiming opposition to the power structures of the Catholic church at the time and views on divorce. There is information running thought the deaths of his first two wives - all the way through to the publication of the second edition of his famous epic poem Paradise Lost in 12 volumes in 1674 and his death on Nov. 8th that same year. Through the accompanying portraits, I can see his transition from his youthful, almost effeminate good looks in his 20s to the lugubrious face that stares blindly out of a later etching. Each section provides more detailed information on request and I spend my time first looking at his university years and at those leading up to his death. Just having read about how Milton earned the epithet “The Lady of Christ's” from his boisterous peers at Christ's college I notice our tutor Mr. Morris, a grey, owlish man amble in. The next 20 minuets are spent with the class sharing and comparing their biographical findings, some of the complaining that they'd rather just focus on the text, Mr. Morris pointing out that with something as wildly out of context as Milton's writings, it's very necessary. After we've pieced together a likeness of the man, Mr. Morris introduces Paradise lost which we'll be studying excerpts from.

I leave the classroom, reeling slightly from immersion in radically different cultural climate I have to prepare myself for more of the same in History, where we're looking at the Cold War. Upon entering the second class room, I notice that the tutor, Mrs. Brown, a petite woman who has some trouble projecting her voice; is present at the outset of the lesson, as are a scattering of my peers. I take my seat and take stock of the screen in front of me. It is displaying a world map with a time slider extending from 1945 to 1990, as I move it, some geographic information changes and flashpoints blink in and out of existence. Mrs Brown, satisfied with the proportion of students present, commences to recap the early stages of the cold war. “The Second World War left not only unimaginable devastation across Europe and parts of Asia, but an immense vacuum of power”. She goes on to describe the division of the world into the main “worlds” in the cold war- The first world (American-Europe – capitalist), the second (Russia and Soviet Bloc, later China; Socialist) and the third world (non-affiliated- Africa, India, Middle East, colonial or post colonial). She comments that these entered popular parlance as ratings of the relative economic power of countries, and that such a use had fallen out of favour. We are given half an hour to peruse our maps, and instructed to give some attention to Korea in 1950. By this point, I discovered, China had fallen into the hands of Mao Zedong, anti-western socialist and ally to Stalin. This was important to the Korean conflict because Korea's only border is with China, it being a peninsula and divided north to south at the 38th parallel between soviet and American power respectively. Our time is up and Mrs Brown chirrups a detailed account of the 3 years of war that would follow, the involvement of Soviet and Chinese forces in driving back American defence of southern Korea. My mind wanders slightly and the lesson is over quite abruptly. As I sway out of my seat, I mull over the fact that a divided Korea was the longest lasting artefact of the cold war, persisting well into the 21st century.

I drift down the corridor, plotting a course for a café where I often have lunch. I attempt to cruise absently along the street, with its generous pavements and oppressively tall office blocks and signal towers. I want more than anything else to lose myself in the mindless perceptual drone of billboards with their glossy, inoffensive mythology-to open my wrist to this soothing catheter... Wrists: dangling from my arms, swinging rhythmically; it all feels so wrong. Why must I have a body? I feel like a puppeteer who is at once pulling the strings and careening down this city street, reflexively avoiding the paths of other such marionettes. I can never fully detach myself or fully inhabit the moment. These kinds of thoughts are awkward and repetitive but pass the time. My lapsed concentration leads me to collide with another pedestrian: A pallid, empty-eyed wire-head with a death-march gait who doesn't acknowledge my presence. Despite myself I envy this overstimulated husk. Her flesh fused with cut-price hardware, in surgical procedures commonly leading to septicaemia and electronic components protruding from ruptured sutures. The software allows them to control their own nervous systems to the point that they can neglect even an entirely gangrenous limb. Some have been found, still alive, bodies half consumed by necrosis and blissfully immersed in simulation. As I walk on in her wake, I catch the trailing scent of septic tissue.

The city inures people to death, through limited exposure, and the omnipresence of comforting distractions. In the same way that pitiful social deprivation can sit meters from the most fabulous affluence, you have only to avert your gaze a few degrees from the lurching heap of ulcers and transistors before you and you're met with a limpid rectangular portal into a world of perfect bodies, considered lighting and luxury goods. Before long, these juxtapositions become commonplace, you care little for either though one appeals slightly more than the other. If I approached every day with the receptiveness of a child, I would be a wreck in no time. As things are, it all feel overwhelming. I turn a corner. Painfully aware of my own body, I make my down another street, this one narrower and quieter. Though controlled by reflexes and procedural memory in theory, every successive step seems to require my concentration. I'm so unsettled by this that I mediate my walking so as not to appear to be self conscious. I am adept at causing myself needless anxiety. Windows flash by, as do people of whom is seems I could learn no more if I had an eternity in which to probe and guess, than I can in these fleeting moments. Cars make themselves known by way of a quiet hum and a buffeting wind as they pass. Consummate and saintly, it's hard to imagine their potential to eviscerate me were I to step into their path. Hard but not impossible: I would burst and sweep like confetti across their contours.

As I approach the familiar sight of Count café, an unassuming café on Count street, I relax somewhat. I make my way through the glass door into a pleasantly warm room, lined with light tables and chairs. Some of which are adorned with professionals on their lunch breaks: bankers, marketing executives and designers from the surrounding complexes. The breezy interior is more crowded than usual, mainly because it's too cold to sit comfortable outside. Some are gathered in small groups, many sit in solitude, all exude a deep calm – something which draws me to this place. I make my way over to the counter and the salesperson recognises me on sight, amiably inquiring whether I'll have the usual. I affirm, adding that I'd like tea instead of coffee. “it'll only be a minute” He says, gesturing toward a vacant seat by the window. I negotiate the knees of two be-suited individuals, facing each other from adjacent tables engaged in rapturous conversation, and sit down. Hands laid on the textured aluminium table in front of me, I survey my surroundings with a slow panoramic turn of my head. The interior is mostly white, the ceiling a matt cream and the floor is tiled white with off-white grout. The small kitchen in the back is mostly obscured from sight though markedly less insipid than the front. Frantic figures sometimes silhouette the orange walls, absorbed in the noble task of feeding a small segment of the urban population. The shop-front consists entirely of window, which would rob me of any sense of privacy were it not for the partially reflective finish on the outside. The narrow pedestrianised street outside is placid, paved with sandstone slabs and sparsely adorned with languid passers by and the occasional anxiously striding person whose work has overflowed into their lunch-break.

I decide to unearth my toy and fiddle with this Imiter thing that Coline was so enamoured with. I finger the relevant icon and up flashes my profile, which seems to have imported some information from the social network and has my location registered as “Count Café and Restaurant, Count street”. Alongside a brief description of place, is displayed the name of the most frequent patron, a Mr. James Brighman. I feel an irrational pang of jealousy. I access Brighman's profile. My lunch is served. I recognise the man's face, which is ruddy and garrulous, I often see him chatting with friends and colleagues. I absently take a bite of pannini. Bored with Brighman, I tap an button inscribed “view surrounding area” accessing a 3D rendered analogue of the area around the Café. I can navigate by touch. Experimentally, I hit a node floating in the middle of the street, which expands detailing trivia, history and news associated with the area. Apparently an illegal cybernetic surgery was bust by police earlier this month... What need could these wealthy urbanites conceivably have for cheap implants or augmentation?

Four bleeps in quick succession: friends requests, all unfamiliar: Julian O'Rourke, Dick Nowicki, Anna Newman and Georgina Fowler. I decide to access their profiles> They seem quite unremarkable except for the bizarre use of language that often crops up: “ochre tallow mar your sanctimonious iris” … “live- needled – watch me stridulate and jitter”. Odd. Out of morbid curiosity and boredom, I accept all four requests. I continue playing with the device for some time with no real purpose in mind, needing none but the sprightly pleasure it affords me. During one of my occasional lunges for the pannini, I notice that a shadow has fallen across my table, I look up to see that it belongs to Julian O'Rourke, who's profile I'd recently viewed; beside him stands Ann. Dick and Georgina are a short distance away. Julian just stares at me and for lack of a better course of action, I smile weakly and wave. He continues to regard me evenly, his Arctic blue eyes honing themselves to fine points on my discomfort. Amused, Ann flashes me a smile and ushers me outside with a curl of her slender forefinger. Both of them are tall and white: he has neat sort blonde hair, wears a long grey coat, black trousers and a dour expression; she has eyes like stagnant green pools, is garbed in a sleeveless black shirt, a short black skirt, heels and stockings. Her features are fine, if a little jaunty and she is lightly made up. Her hair is short, almost masculine and bottle-black.

Leaving the remnants of a sandwich and an untouched cup of tea, I put on my jacket and hurry outside. I am greeted first by the cold, and then by Dick and Georgina. Dick approaches, grins manically, and throttles my hand in his beefy grip. I'm stunned and obtuse as Georgina hugs me, I melt into her warmth; I feel her soft skin against mine for an instant and then she withdraws. In the awkward post-hug eye contact I notice that her eyes are a rich brown, her skin is coffee coloured and her features soft and friendly. She has similarly androgynous hair to Ann, except slightly warm in hue, her attire is gender-neutral. Dick is tall and burly with a frightfully pallid complexion, he wears a tan jacket and black trousers and generally makes me feel ill at ease. The second duo rejoins the first with me in tow, they all produce hand-held computers like the one in my satchel and form a circle around the outstretched electronics. I stand on the margins, unsure of myself and they convene in quiet murmurs. Abruptly, Dick turns his gaze toward me with an annoyed expression, half ushers, half manhandles me into the circle. I take the initiative: “How do you know of me?”. Julian responds “Our families share certain affiliations” - “Do you know my brother?” I ask, remembering his odd behaviour this morning. “Yes” he replies “No finer or prouder proprietor of opposable thumbs have I ever met” What was that supposed to mean? “Ah..yeah...What are we doing exactly anyway?” Ann cuts in: “We are stray heat in a dying mound” - Julian regards her affectionately and adds “true, but more specifically we need a destination.” “Let the cherry pick!” says Dick–Georgina smiles apologetically: “He means you”. I try to suppress a blush and look from face to face, hoping for aid. Julian is the first to speak: “If you consent, we would like you to choose our destination, simply browse the city and when you find somewhere to your liking, send us the co-ordinates”

Painfully aware that all wait on me, I scramble for my hand-held and hit view surrounding area. I swipe frantically to zoom out and then reverse the motion, finding what looks like a small public park. I send the location to my new companions. Companions for whom I'd be skipping my last lesson of the day: “I just remembered, I have economics in twenty minutes” -“Forget about it” says Dick “A computer program could do everything they're teaching you” - “A computer program could do most things a person learns in school, in fact, one could simulate this very moment!” snarks Ann. Julian responds measuredly: “Hmmm, well I think you'll find that some things are irreducible...” -“Like my fuck-stick!” interjects Dick. Georgina grimaces and explodes with: “You and your fetid fuck-stick!” Everyone is visible shocked by Georgina's sudden burst of ire, including myself, I assume. Julian looks at Dick steadily, a smile creeping onto his face: “Oh prancing Priapus, can't you keep your glands to yourself? Of fuck-stick you are sad, bereft. No girth or heft, but natal cleft adorns your loins. Bar the occasional admiring prod of some old sod, who's rod weaves warp to the weft of aforesaid cleft.” - “Maybe I should jam my fuck-stick in your talk-hole! Detestable pest, I might just make you catamite to my pederast—my reptilian smog-belching piston.” – Julian rejoins very quickly: “Apologies, I was merely inattentive, I overlooked the possibility that it was of insufficient size to reflect visible light.” Ann giggles. I am stunned by all of this. Dick looks to be in a similar state, making an obvious attempt to gather his thoughts, he stares directly at Ann and produces: “Burp on my cock. I find it arousing! Do away with this discretion which you seem to be espousing.” Everyone groans and Ann actually looks slightly uncomfortable.

We have been conducting our way down a busy street and yielding quite an array of puzzled looks from strangers who happen to overhear a scrap of our conversation. As for me, I haven’t said a word, I'm trying to work out whether this is normal behaviour or if it's being put on for my benefit. The conversation comes and goes in spates. It always seems to come from a word or phrase chanced upon, often from Imiter in an outstretched hand. They were all poetic and displayed a distaste for the banality around them. Georgina was perhaps the most interesting: “Torn cornflower blue, beneath hair of corn-silk hue, they twitch like maggots in flashbulb violation-putrid seawater seeps from the shell of his skull, his brain driftwood, his trench-foot stare.” There is a brief pause, I feel I have neither the talent nor the courage to try and contribute. Ann starts: “A month of juddering ceilings and nausea, a familiar door, embrace. Love's membrane, frail with waiting, sheers off in his arms. A swift divorce and an occasional parade” Julian is ready: “Days spent in a flickering box, when sleep triumphs-pounding carrion grey swims before closed eyes, sloshing vertigo and numb feeble sorrow. A meddle for courage and a scout's badge for knot-making, but not the courage to hang oneself. Sallow morning mirror and onanism's stale whiff, I wish I were a memorial statue and all I felt was stone...”

Guided by GPS, me and these four strangers weave our way through the rectilinear latticework of the city. I barely noticed anything in passing. There isn't enough of me to pour beyond the words and the screen of my hand-held, an occasional rivulet reaches the pavement and streams between the feet of passers by. The talk seems tiring, although it isn't all poetry, but it is tangential. I'm being slowly drawn into a will to be apart, not only from the mundane but the flare of the last minute, the feeling of the last second. In a sense, I'm attempting divorce myself from one of two opposed categories, but I have no way of distinguishing one from the other. Our feet continue to pound the pavement, interspersed with lurches of macadam. We walk in single file, me close to Georgina, Julian and Ann at the fore and Dick thrust between us. Georgina is now just as silent as me, and oddly this brings me closer to her. In an attempt to reach her I ask: “Why are we doing all of this?” - She replies vaguely “Why do we do anything?...well because we think it's fun” . She chokes slightly on the word fun, the silence resumes and I seem to have failed to breached the gulf. I try again: “What's with the strange poetry?” - “It's beautiful, life affirming and takes us away from these stolid grey streets and ambling crowds”. I ponder this and fall off into quiet again.

I don't feel these spurts of poetry take me away, not properly. If I find myself melting into the pictures conjured by my companions, the street just hits me harder when it ends. I am more conscious of the thicket of eyes around me, the boldness of the buildings. Even the billboards take on an unsettling quality. Above all, I'm so tense I can hardly walk. “I feel as though I'm made of glass...” I am shocked at my uttering this aloud, but continue: “Hard and brittle ...and transparent, ever pierced by strange eyes.” Ann gives me a cryptic look, draws in a breath and starts: “Touch me and shiver. Wrap my surface – sharp finger-pain. Hum warm through me and I sing...agh! Sounds like a riddle...” Dick cuts in, seemingly inspired: “Well riddle me this, I'll riddle you with shards. Perforate and lacerate your plush, gurgling flesh. Your laughing veins and whittled bones!” Georgina verges on voicing something but drifts into silence, and we walk on, pace quickening. My hand-held tells me that we are near our destination. Staring blearily into the parting drift of pedestrians we march on.

There is an abrupt change in my surroundings, now less grand-no longer scoring hard lines into the horizon-less confident. Softer, some squat, only a few stories, a few are dilapidated. There are less people, and those that there are seem also less sure of themselves. The whole place seems less certain of its existence. Fewer billboards, more blanched-blue sky. The change is so sudden, within 50 meters I have gone from fecund commercial district to twisting wilderness. Dirt is visible and some greenery has found it's way through cracks in the pavement. I have never been here before and am relieved that we are close to our destination. We cross the road and head right, down a narrow street and into an alleyway. A blotch of green is visible at the end of a long stretch of gravel, flanked on either side by the weathered walls of warehouses and other industrial buildings. We crunch our way halfway down the path, led by Julian who comes to a sudden halt. He turns to me and says “We wait here, Jimmy.” - “My name is Will, not Jimmy!” He rejoins with “Well someone has to be. We wait regardless.”

Wait we do, in wordess half-silence. There is the noise of wind as it buffets the metal roofs of the industrial buildings and whirs through crevices both man-made and crafted by erosion. The humming of machinery is constant, and easily overlooked completely, as is the noise of the occasional passing car. At one point we hear several sets of footsteps and conversation issuing from where we came. They are likely threatened by this loitering coterie because they decide against approaching us. I take to studying the wall opposite me, to the left of where Georgina stands, her delicate neck craned so as not to meet anyone's eye. The wall has clearly seen better days, some of the outer layer of plaster has sheered off, revealing moist bricks. There is a constant trickle of waste-water from broken pipes above, a beard of slippery algae coats it's path. An uneven ring of spongy moss surrounds the pooling of water that it makes its way into the dark opening of the storm drain. I am jerked out of my contemplation of his industrial water-feature by an arrhythmic crunching approaching from my right. It could only belong to the lurching body of a wire-head, stuck on autopilot while their brain is fed a fabricated reality.

I automatically press my back against the bricks in an attempt to make room for this person, and my companions do the same but with a little more languor. As the staggering figure comes nearer, it becomes clear to me that it is a man who is completely oblivious to out presence. He appears dishevelled to say the least. His clothing is tattered and his skin is in places very pale and in others swollen and red with infection. He stumbles closer like a broken machine still operating under the assumption that it works. He has almost reached me when he crashes jerkily to the ground, Julian has tripped him up. Julian positions himself in front of the man as he confusedly scrambles in an attempt to right himself. He has almost made it to his feet as he catches Julian’s swift knee in the face, splintering his teeth and rotten gums. This pain shocks the man into a semblance of self-awareness. He lets out a terrible roar from his jagged, bloody mouth and launches himself at Julian clawing at his face and neck. Julian escapes this embrace with the help of Dick who knocks the man hurtling into the wall in front of me with a cruel fist. Julian disgustedly picks a long septic fingernail out of a tear in his cheek and administers a series of savage kicks to the man who now jitters against the wall and attempts to pull himself up the slimy surface. Dick swings a fist like a sledgehammer downwards, where it collides with the man's spine, sending him prone and twitching. Ann looks on with a real appetite while Georgina stares blankly into the screen of her hand-held. I am both nauseous and enlivened. The sheer energy and brutality galvanises my brain. It is as though hard neon-blue snakes force their way into my eyes and ears, compared with the flaccid flat-worms of my everyday life. I am dizzy and may vomit, but I can't look away.

Ann, Julian and Dick toy with the body. Sadistically prodding it and experimenting to see how it will react to different stimuli. A stiletto-heel in the back of the neck for example disturbs exposed electronics and causes the legs to shake violently. Dick turns away from the group and appears to be fumbling with something in front of him. Ann looks horrified: “Dick, don't!” Without turning around he replies: “The will wants what the wan will wants”. - “Oh Julian! please make him stop...” - “I'm afraid I can't, each of us walks to the beat of our own drum.” As Dick turns around the the source of Ann's discomfort becomes clear: His turgid penis is exposed and sheathed in a latex prophylactic. He reaches down and firmly grabs the man by the collar, propping him up against the moist wall of the warehouse. With his free hand, he wrenches the man's trousers down around his knees revealing soiled undergarments. He peels the undergarments away to reveal... to reveal... I lurch forward and vomit. The sight and smell are simply too much for me. My stomach voided, I look up again to catch sight of Dick, sodomising the man with knotted, piston-like thrusts. I wretch again and turn to my right. I lean against the wall for support and begin to cry. Georgina places a hand on my shoulder and I edge closer to her, latching onto her for emotional and physical support. We lean against the wall facing each other in an awkward embrace, both of us weeping and me trying to lose myself in the womb-like warmth.

My eyes are shut. All events are indicated by cold sounds. Sounds which I can't seem to block out. There’s the repetitive dry slap of pelvis against buttocks, the clack-crunch of Ann's high-heel shoes as she paces around, becoming more and more agitated. Julian is only heard to murmur occasionally in his abortive attempts to calm Ann down. This continues for some time, I can't really tell for how long. I continue to lean into Georgina, and lose myself in our makeshift sanctuary. At a certain point I hear Ann shriek and pelt quickly–I turn my head–towards Dick and the man, a glistening object in her right hand. It appears to be a small switch-blade, and I assume she is going to attack Dick. So does he, and raises his heavy fists to defend himself. She darts past Dick and with one deft movement, scores a red line right across the man's neck, severing his windpipe and right carotid artery. The wound flaps open like a gill and a small gout of blood slops out. One tremulous heartbeat later, a red deluge collides with the wall and mixes with the green stream. Dick grasps at the man's long matted hair and wrenches his head back, causing yet more blood to escape from the gaping wound. He seems to mimic the gesture with his own head which he tosses back in ecstasy as he ejaculates. Dick then lets the gurgling body fall into the puddle of drain-water and produces a sanitary wipe from his pocket. He uses the wipe to remove the prophylactic. He then produces another wipe and cleans his hands and penis. Once finished, he stoops down and inserts the soiled wipes and limp prophylactic into the storm drain and walks amiably away down the ally towards the park.

Ann and Julian soon follow him and I am left with a flushed looking and unsteady Georgina. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood intermingled with the stench of septic tissue and faeces. I attempt to speak: “Does this happen a lot?” - my voice seems choked and faint. She nods and says: “I wouldn't have ever had anything to do with them again, but I thought at least if it happened to someone else, they wouldn't be alone like I was”. “th-thank you” I stammer, looking into her kind brown eyes. “We should get away from this” she says and with mustered resolve. She leads me down the ally way towards the overgrown park, away from the pitiful man. He is clearly dead, his remaining blood mingling with grey drain-water. Supporting each other with our arms intertwined behind our backs, we make our unsteady way towards the other three. From what I can make out at this distance, Julian and Ann are sitting on a park bench together and the hulking silhouette of Dick is perched some distance away.

“Why do you think they do this?” I ask. She chews her lip and replies: “The impression I get is that it to come down to this Cult of the Real which their parents belong to. They feel they can push their experience of reality to its limits in spite of the effect it might have on others – I still doubt that their parents would approve of… This.” I give this some thought and reply with: “Well they seem old enough for that not to matter… My brother was acting strangely at breakfast this morning and my father sometimes does talk about a Cult of the Real. I always assumed it was some pretentious metaphor for his dislike of virtual reality. Apparently not... So I've been initiated into a cult?” – “Yes, membership is optional, as I said, I came here voluntarily. Dick comes because he's an animal; Julian and Ann are sadists” – “So getting back to the cult... What are their core beliefs, what do they class as real?” –“You should really talk to Julian about that, he's the most philosophical. It seems to me that it's about preserving the range of experiences one can have just using one's body. You know-Without any virtual reality or anything like that”. Despite the violence and rape, I think to myself, everything we've done has been quite puritanical, we haven’t taken any drugs or done any virtual reality. “Well that makes sense, in a perverse way. One thing confuses me though” – “What?” She interjects. “Imiter” I continue “Surely that counts as virtual reality.” She takes a while to answer this: “The technology has been around for a long time, and it's not invasive, you still use the senses you're born with... It does seem odd though, maybe they're just nostalgic for a time when virtual reality was just hinted at an not realized” We walk on in silence, I resolve to speak to Julian about this and if possible, to avoid Dick.

We soon come to the end of the path and and are met by an rugged, degenerated expanse: A small run-down public park with a deserted road running in front of it. We had entered through the rear, and in front of us is a vast residential area. There is a mass of dilapidated high-rise buildings, some of them tall and faded white, but the majority are squat and brown. Some are windowless and sullenly whistle in the wind. The nearest one–directly across the street–is in such disrepair that I can only assume that it is abandoned and probably crawling with wire-heads and drug addicts. Ann and Julian greet us while Dick sits with his back to the group staring into the distance, thinking thoughts probably best kept private. I approach Julian and ask: “What can you tell me about the Cult of the Real?” I notice that his clothes are still faintly speckled with blood and that the tear in his cheek is now slightly inflamed but no longer bleeding. He inhales substantially: “It was founded by a group of disgruntled professionals in the early 2020s, who were disgusted by the advances in virtual reality. Some say that their ire stemmed from the fact that all the pleasures of the flesh would no longer be exclusively at the disposal of their class, but at the beck and call of the masses. I think this is a glib reading. For particularly at the time, the experience that one could glean from virtual reality was a hollow copy of the real thing. This is not so much the case now, but there are still some things which are impossible to simulate. Take what you have just experienced for example: the panic, the excitement, the vomit. No simulation could even approach that level of fidelity, of ineffable rawness” He speaks very well, and seemingly without pause. I still find it hard to look him in the eye. Partially after what he did to that man, partially because of the coldness and steadiness of his gaze.

“In many respects I envy your innocence, you're taking this all in for the first time. I remember my first time, I reacted in much the same way you did, vowing never to involve myself in anything like it again. As my life went on however, the things which used to satisfy me, could no longer fulfil me. I considered drugs, and yes virtual reality, but I simply couldn't deny the logic of the cult.” I cut in with: “This is all very interesting, but what is this logic, to me you're sadists, as plain as day.” He twists his mouth thoughtfully: “Well sadism is an acquired taste, a taste which I think you'll find comes with the territory. It's merely a very advanced form of hedonism, for the boundaries of experience must always be pushed. Take Dick for example, we may wish to quibble with his choice of behaviour, but one must remember that it is his body and his desire. His is a cruel body and a perverse desire. One must respect this. The overarching philosophy of the cult is a sort of somatic phenomenology: We believe that the notion of a disembodied, free-floating mind is an unnecessary abstraction; that all that one can really say exists is one's body and its interaction with the world.” My puzzled expression causes him to pause, I form a question: “Well surely as you speak, you are also thinking, how can you say the mind doesn’t exist” He replies quickly: “Thinking and speaking–like fucking and eating– are just different kinds of doing. All being is doing. You are taught that you have a mind in much the same way that you are taught that your name is Jim.” – “Will!” – “Ah yes… Will… What I'm trying to say is that both the notion of a human being as a mind, and as a body are inadequate. The best solution to the problem is to concede that we are only body, and by body I didn't just mean a physical object in the sense that it is usually meant. Because there is no distinction between body and mind, there is also none between physical and non-physical, which as far as I'm concerned is a false concept anyway.”

“Since the body is what we feel and how we are identified by others, it is clearly more appropriate that mind or spirit. Some prefer being but I am personally more comfortable with body” As he regains his breath I say: “Ok, I think that I understand. But what about ethics, based on your actions I'd say that ethics go out of the window” He smiles appreciatively “Yes! Well you see that ethics is about feeling rather than logic. Logic is merely a kind of language which doesn't contradict itself. Morality is part of the flesh, it's about what feels right, and clearly what me and my companions have done today doesn't feel right to you. I accept that, it took a long time for it to feel right to us.” I scowl: – “I'm sorry, that seems like a cop-out to me” – “Tell me Will, What is the real cop-out regarding morality as a body-feeling or pretending there's some sort of divine or rational order to it in an attempt to hide from the frightening flexibility of your emotions?” – “It seems to me that you think your philosophy allows you to act in any way you please” – “Because of and and in spite of what I believe, I am a body and an animal. I simply choose to open the boundaries of what I feel is right and wrong.” – “Ok” I concede “you've told me what your point of view is, and while I don't agree with it, I have bo hope of changing it.”

I say that I have one more question: “Why do you use Imiter but have nothing to do with virtual reality. What's the difference” Julian replies quickly: “Put simply, a horse-riding or coitus simulation which requires surgery is virtual reality while a hand-held device is augmented reality. You are still using the body you're born with to use the interface, you're still touching and doing. Furthermore, what you think of as your body and as your environment are often interchangeable. Have you ever used a tool to the extent that it felt as though it was part of you? Well in a very real sense it was. The distinction we make is that the surgery which hijacks your central nervous system, while opening up to a range of varied and bizarre simulations, cuts you off from your body. The distinction may seem arbitrary, and like a lot of others, it's not set in stone. Some purists who belong to the Cult of the Real eschew the use of all complex tools but I think this is dogmatic and foolish. I think that what it comes down to is choosing to live a human life, with all of its contingencies, frustrations and joys” This makes some sense to me, and I nod in agreement and add “Sorry, one more thing: “Why pain and abuse? Why can't you seek out pleasant sensation?” Julian makes a face and says: “I've had my share of those, but there truly is a limit to the wholesome pleasures in life. I suppose it comes down to preference but I maintain that one must sample everything before one makes one's mind up. You may disagree, but I think there's a species of beauty in every human experience, including grief, agony and humiliation. There is poetry in violence and rape, a tranquillity in torn flesh and despair” Realising that arguing is pointless, I nod and wait.

Ann pipes up: “You can talk about it all day but what really matters is how you feel. Tell us: How did you feel back there? How do you feel now?” I still feel shaken and the area around my eyes is still puffy and stings from earlier tears, I feel a very strong affection to Georgia, who is sitting quietly beside us. I decide to answer as honestly as possible. “Well when you started attacking that man I was very shocked, I couldn't look away. I felt both sick and exhilarated. When Dick did what he did, it caused me to feel overwhelmed and very unsettled.” Ann looks down briefly and replies: “I felt similar about Dick's behaviour, but the feeling drove me to commit a fascinating and exciting act. I'm satisfied. Are you?” What a question! It hadn't crossed my mind, my mouth still tasting of bile and my legs still unsteady: “I don't know.” – “Fair enough.” says Ann. “But it's a question you really should ask yourself” She turns to Georgina and asks her the same question. Georgina replies “Yes” but refuses to elaborate as to why. She even asks Dick who, without turning around says: “Most assuredly.”. She turns back to me Ann says “See, others are sure. Are you satisfied Julian?” – “Somewhat, I don't think I experienced anything particularly new, but our newest addition is quite interesting, as is Georgina. I suspect that he's not being entirely honest about how he felt, but this is his decision, not mine”

Deciding to change the subject, I address Julian: “So, what role de my brother and parents play in this Cult of the Real” He replies: “I do wish you'd stop saying it with that inflection. Your father sometimes attends meetings with fellow elders and your brother is an occasional member of a number of coteries such as this one.” – “So my brother would have witnessed and maybe participated in similar acts to what I've seen today?” – “Indeed, I can attest to that first hand, he has been less active since he started working but he does thoroughly enjoy allowing himself absolute freedom in the company of like-minded individuals.” I consider the fact that both my father and brother know what I've been doing today, and there will be a lot of conspiratorial looks and awkwardness if I'm not candid about it from the outset: “My mother doesn't know does she?” – “I don't believe so, no.” I nod, somewhat reassured. –“So” I ask everyone else “What are we going to do now?” Georgina immediately suggests that we should go home. Dick says he wants to get something to eat which makes both me and Georgina groan with nausea. We soon deicide that Dick, Ann and Julian will go and have a meal while Georgina will accompany me to the nearest subway station.

I take one parting look at the distant figure of the dead wire-head, sprawled in the blood-laced gutter, and shudder. Georgina and I walk behind the other three and we part ways at the front gate of the park, me and Georgina turning left and the other three right. We say our goodbyes and and amble down the deserted street which divides the residential and industrial districts. We walk quite close to each other, not touching, in a comfortable silence. I break the silence with a functional but not entirely necessary question: “Which station are we headed to?” She produces her hand-held and after a few finger movements she responds: “Enric street” – “That's on the blue line isn't it?” – “Yeah.” I confirm. She pauses and then asks me: “Where do you get off?” – “Ermswood.” – “That's a long way.” She says “You'll have to change at Foster Green.” – “Yeah.” Conversation continued in this humdrum manner for a while until I broached an important question: “Are you coming to any more of these meetings?” to which she replied: “I shouldn't think so. I enjoyed being there for you but I don't know if I could do that again. You weren't convinced by Julian’s philosophy were you?” - “No.” I reply “Just interested. I would be lying if I said I didn't see some truth in it or experience some exhilaration when that man was brutalized.” She replies somewhat sourly “Hmpf, well I certainly didn’t. What about my comforting you? Was that just an interesting experience?” I am lost for words. “N-no I'm thankful for that, It's just...It was confusing. Surely you understand. I was there and it affected me, I had little choice in how I reacted or felt” Her expression softens: “I understand but I want nothing more to do with it. Seeing how you were open to Julian’s persuasion even when I was there has convinced me that I can make little difference if I attend these meetings. I don't want to have anything to do with them and although I like you, the same will apply to you if you become part of the cult.”

This ultimatum is fair but it does give me cause for thought. It clearly causes her a great deal of discomfort to attend cult meetings, she only came along to help someone, and that someone turned out to be me. Everyone else there was cruel to some degree, hardened and hedonistic, but she is kind; so why am I stalling? Maybe Julian's words really have effected me. “I won't have anything to do with them.” I say, and she smiles in response. She gently takes my hand in hers, we walk on like this in silence for quite some time. After all that has passed today I feel overstimulated, but this simple contact with another human being is like a salve. The sun has sunk below the horizon, the street-lamps are coming on and the buildings around us which aren't deserted are lighting up window by window. It is becoming very cold. Georgina pulls closer to me and I reciprocate. Her warmth is very welcome. The road we walk down is far from safe, one can occasionally hear the sound of some altercation. Distant shouts, breaking glass and the like are frequent. I feel absolutely safe next to Georgina. Logic tells me that this is an illusion, but it's a human illusion. Julian would probably say that it's an experience of the body and therefore as valid as anything else we feel. I'm not sure that I'm convinced by his theories, and I certainly don't want to get them confused with his actions. My thoughts wander like this for some time, we take a several turnings, sometimes consulting our hand-helds and eventually make it to the station. A dingy stairway leads down into a bare, strip-lit foyer. Pausing for a moment, we both head down the stairway marked westbound and sit beside each other on a metal bench.

We are alone in this faintly dusty chamber. I am aware of the weight of concrete all around us and the strange echoes issuing from the tunnels on either side. We will have to wait seven minutes according to a display mounted on the ceiling, which intermittently shows public information videos. Neutered beige dummy-figures exemplify good subway-station etiquette, remember to keep their luggage with them at all times and to report suspicious items. I feel Georgina's hot breath against my left cheek as she nuzzles closer to me. I turn my head so that the top of hers rests under my chin. We remain like this until the train arrives, drifting into a cosy state of non-thought. There is a distant, mounting hum. The train comes to a halt two meters in front of us and the row of doors hiss open in unison. With a great effort we leave the bench and enter the nearest carriage. We sit furthest away from a group of animatedly talking commuters and try to get as comfortable as we were. The armrest hinders us somewhat but we do manage to preserve enough of the spontaneity and fullness of before. Time is kept by the halting, opening of doors, influx and exodus of passengers and closing of doors. I am dimly aware that I have to get off and change at some point… Foster Green, which is... 5 stations away. I should probably say something: “Uh... When can I see you again?” – “We can arrange something. Just contact me. I think it should be your decision.” – “You don't think I'll get more involved in the cult?” – “I'm not sure.” Words seem fail, the flawed things that they are. I lean over and kiss her moist lips, it is brief and leaves me in a violet daze. We look each other in the eye for an incalculable length of time. She the moves in for a lengthier kiss, open mouthed this time; tender and raw. As our mouths part I notice that she is suppressing a grimace: “Vomit?” I inquire. She nods. I must have become accustomed to the taste. We both burst out laughing.

It is at this ungainly moment that I have to change lines, so we share a goodbye that brims with uncertainty. I exit the carriage to a somewhat familiar station. Memory guides me up a flight of stairs across a white space full of moving people and down another stairwell. I lean against a tiled wall and wait the allotted 17 minutes, remaining blank and content with staring at the walls, tracks and other commuters. When inside the bright carriage, I attempt to play with my hend-held. After prodding listlessly at the screen for some time, I return it to my satchel. I think my brain has simply run out of emotive chemicals, the day in my wake seems little more than a collection of disjointed pictures. Like my stomach, I am purged of any substance. I am extremely hungry. I'll have to settle for something from the station vending machine. I sit there in this depleted state and wait for the journey to end, a headache creeps over me, brought on by the harsh neon lights that line the curved ceiling. I exit a now empty carriage and make my way up several flights of stairs, grabbing a nutrition bar from the vending machine and exit into the biting cold.

The nutrition bar and heat generated by my uphill march make the cold somewhat bearable. Vindictive bursts of wind cause my eyes to water and my body sometimes to shiver. My moist eyes give each light-source a hazy corona, behind me the city centre glitters and radiates yellow into a starless sky. My ears and face are numb. The sound of my feet on the gravel path leading up to my house causes me to shudder involuntarily. I feel a strong urge to eject the scant content's of my stomach onto the manicured lawn. I unlock the door and enter the corridor; the house is warm and quiet. I hurriedly grab my supper from the refrigerator and head up to my room, wolfing it down at my desk. I drink some tap-water to alleviate the resulting indigestion and start to undress. I toss my clothes higgledy-piggledy on a chair and jump into bed. Shifting restlessly until I'm warm and comfortable, I slowly drift into a more reflective state and try and recount the events of the day to myself. The incident in the alleyway had made an incandescent imprint on my memory and consequently dulled everything else. Everything except my moments of closeness with Georgina.

I struggle to separate the vertigo and nausea from the simple wholesomeness of her body against mine. In truth, both were a shock to me, I've done a bit more than kiss girls before, before and it never felt like that. Too much gut feeling for one day. My viscera are in a tangled mess. I think about her ultimatum and how I paused. Why did I pause? Julian never attempted to force me into anything, he seemed to think that morality was what you felt was right at any given time. His anecdote about resolving to have nothing to do with the cult and his subsequent failure to keep to it...I think that was what gave me pause. I wonder whether he was being truthful or just trying to manipulate me with calculated words. Fuck – Was Georgina trying to use me somehow? I highly doubt it - what could be in it for her, except romance. Pha! This train of thought is pointless. I've made a decision which I'm happy with, and will stick to, that's it. Mental masturbation won't help me get to sleep... Physical masturbation perhaps? I know a horrendous fragment of today will force its way into the forefront of my mind if I try to induce arousal. Regardless, I make an abortive attempt; My penis is flaccid and clammy against my hand, and the caress joyless. I can almost smell the blood, pus and faeces. The blank eyes of the wire-head and his unnatural movement: like that of a broken automaton. He's probably still lying there in that pool of drain-water.

I must think of anything but what happened today. What about the cold war? It's seeds in the ...aftermath of world war two. The fact that Russia was an enemy of the enemy, and supposedly radically antifascist...Christ this is dull. War is horrific anyway. Ponies? Ponies are nice. Clipping and clopping around green pastures and fragrant meadows....Oh what dross! I yawn. I consider attempting to think of nothing at all… not… working. I recall that when I was younger, by repeating the same thing over and over again, I could fall asleep. I remember part of a song that my grandfather often played, from the late 20th century: “Words are very unnecessary, They can only do harm” Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm... Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm... Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm... Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm... Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm... Words are very unnecessary, They can only do harm...Words they vary unnecessary, they can only do harm...Word's they vary unnecessarily, they can only do harm...Word's they vary unnecessarily, they can only do harm... Words they vary unnecessarily, they can only do ham...Word's they vary unnecessarily, they can only eat ham... Word's they vary unnecessarily, they can only eat spam...Churls are vary unnecessarily, they can only eat spam...Churls are very unnecessarily, they can only eat spam... Churls are very unsanitary, they can only eat spam... Churls are very unsanitary, they can only eat spam... Churls are very unsanitary, they can only eat spam...