Oh. With the light shining through it from the window, it is almost invisible. She places her thumb over it but nothing changes. Perhaps it is fingerprint protected.
Or you’ve got it round the wrong way.
She flips the newsplastic over just as a whirlpool of concentric rings spread from the centre, accompanied by a brief throb. ‘Acquiring satellites’ glides across. Anticipation growing, she grips the edges, the pressure from her fingers sending ripples through the page. ‘Confirming location’ comes up and the rings morph into an aerial view of the surrounding countryside, the detail clarifying as the focus narrows. The sensation of zooming earthward generates a wooziness similar to that she experienced when descending in the hova. The roof of their cottage, adjacent to its snow-covered yard tracked by hers and Daniels’s boots, fills the screen. As the camera circles, her own window comes into view.
The words ‘active subscriber BBC323770H’ briefly flicker and the image of the cottage gives way to the excited popping of headlines and videopix. Her eyes gad over the lively surface and because whatever she focuses on grows instantly larger, she is dragged headlong down a rabbit hole of shifting video imagery.
She is transported overseas via a war report to the deck of a ship on which roaring rocket-drones, laden underwing with bombs, take off against a grainy evening sun. She shudders as a trawler rams a crowded inflatable, spilling the occupants into the rough waves. She is swept by the windy weather all the way to the distant Republic of Siberia, which in contrast to the freeze afflicting England, basks in a month-long heatwave, and then is sharply summoned back to local events, watching from a stairwell of the quadrangle of Christ’s College the weekend’s riots being suppressed; the black clad police with helmets, batons and shields charging through the porter’s lodge, hurling gas canisters ahead of them onto the snow-covered lawn. She has the sensation of being knocked sideways, falling as the camera strikes the ground…
…and queasily holds her head, letting the flaring lights and smoke subside.
When she reopens her eyes, the sheet has grown calm, almost apologetically so.
With more care, she reads down the columns and, getting used to how the newsplastic displays its information and how to drill, searches Events, honing in on Cambridge and bringing up, after a few false leads, the Hawking Museum.
The museum’s exterior is a glass prism that appears to hover over the river. It slowly revolves, revealing through each wall a different exhibit. When an image of a young male face fills the page and almost immediately begins to fade, she urgently flicks out a finger to return it, inadvertently sending the index spinning like a carousel. She slows the motion with her palm and, keeping her eyes steady, patiently pages back, a view at a time. The process reminds her of Matthew in the library working the dog-eared cards of his ‘rolodex’, in search of the details of a book lost somewhere on his miles of shelves.
She finds the boy again. He gazes out, his life-sized presence mere inches away. She touches his glowing cheek, the flesh under her finger dimpling. The plastic is warm to her touch. ‘David – one of a kind’, the words say. ‘Prepare to be astonished. But don’t leave it too long – ends Saturday – folks that’s just five days!!!!’ She breaks away from the boy’s unblinking gaze. Ticket prices and opening times follow and then a final message scrolls across – ‘This exhibition made possible by the generous support of Realhuman Corp., Cal., USA’.
Evie closes her eyes and rests her brain from the exhausting viewing – the newsplastic may be the present but her own taste is for the old-fashioned books back in the apartment library. When she looks up again, David and the museum have faded from view.
She finishes her reading by pursuing her original purpose – searching for anything about her and Daniels – the deaths in the apartment and their flight. After ten minutes, she lays the newsplastic aside. She has found nothing. The relief is overwhelming.
Maybe they aren’t after me at all, she thinks, but this happy notion she keeps from Simon, afraid of a sarcastic put-down. Rather, she lets herself think again about David, his glowing skin and almost colourless lips, set in an unearthly smile.
14
Evie picks her moment after breakfast. Daniels has brought a rusty bicycle he found in the barn into the kitchen and propped it on the table on its handlebars. He pastes a thick glue onto the front tyre wall and lays across a strip of leather cut from an old walking shoe. ‘There, good as new,’ he says, standing back and admiring his work. She knows that, in the midst of a task which gives him such satisfaction, he is as relaxed as she’ll find him all day.
‘Daniels, can we go on a trip?’ she asks, seating herself opposite.
‘A trip?’ He’s taken by surprise. ‘When were you thinking?’
‘Today?’ She tries to sound casual, as if the timing is really of no consequence, although the exhibition will not be on for much longer, so of course it is.
He stiffens and puts the pot of glue and brush back on the side. ‘Is this such a good idea?’
‘I just want to go somewhere.’ Dare she mention the museum as being her goal – finding this fellow creature? Her instinct is that it’ll make him less likely to agree.
‘Where did you have in mind?’ he asks, as if it is a possibility, but she senses he is not taking her seriously.
‘Cambridge. It’s nearby. The colleges are meant to be very pretty. The river has swans which I have never seen and there are museums where I can learn things that will help me.’
He stares at the bike and with a rag starts to wipe the dust from the frame. She can almost hear him thinking up reasons why they should not go.
‘What do you think?’ She reaches out a fingertip and spins the front wheel by its spokes. She smiles up at him, pulling her lips wide, making herself as charming as she can.
‘Evie, there’ll be a whole lot of cameras and a whole load of people.’ He is still resisting, despite all her efforts.
‘So?’
‘So, it’s too much of a risk.’
‘Is that a yes?’ Saying it, so he’ll think he is still deciding.
‘I’m sorry, Evie.’
She rests her chin in her hands so that her mouth forms a forlorn little pout. She has a few tricks left yet.
Daniels looks at her awkwardly. ‘Listen, we’ll go soon.’
‘How soon is soon?’
‘As soon as we are sure that people have stopped looking for you. In the meantime, you should stick to the cottage. Walking in the lane shouldn’t be a problem. Preferably where I can see you.’
She drops her head onto her wrists and stares forward, mulling his responses. Things would be so much easier if she could just cry, she’d have him then for sure. Hiding her face anyway as if she is, she stands abruptly and, taking short quick steps through to the sitting room, runs up the stairs to her room.
He sighs irritably and throws the rag down. ‘Evie,’ he calls after her as she bangs the door.
It’s like we’ve traded one prison for another, Simon mutters, as if he had not been against the trip as much as Daniels anyway. For all his talk, events have exposed Simon to be a bit of a coward.
She thinks back at him, This is not over yet.
Minutes later, Daniels knocks on her door. It took even less time than she’d hoped.
‘Yes,’ she replies, sniffing loudly, as if she’s been sobbing. She is lying on her bed, curled on her side, facing the window.
He sits on the mattress behind her back and gently touches her shoulder. ‘Why does it have to be today?’