‘Is it dark, Loots?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s still dark.’
I stared out of the window, but I couldn’t see the chimney-pots in their uneven clusters, or the slanting, tiled rooftops greasy with rain, or the pale, dome-shaped glow of the city sky beyond. I couldn’t see them, even though I knew they were there. All I could see was a beach of pure white sand and a girl in a blue bikini.
So it was true. Some kind of transposition had taken place. It wasn’t vision that I was getting, not any more. It was television.
What I was beginning to believe was that the eye clinic was affiliated to some government agency — one of those secret research establishments, rows of long, low buildings protected by attack dogs and electric fences. Visser worked both for the clinic and for the agency, though in what precise capacity I couldn’t be sure. There was something a bit too smooth about him, a bit too seamless — I’d always thought so. This new theory of mine explained the misgivings I’d had about him, misgivings I’d never been able to justify in rational terms.
Visser had lost contact with me in the physical sense, but his mental hold on me was as strong as ever; if anything, he’d tightened it. It appeared that they’d found a way of feeding TV channels directly into my brain. They were broadcasting on my own internal screen. I’d become a hybrid — part human being, part television. And someone else had the remote.
One night I watched the same channel for hours. The next night it was twitch-time: a different channel every five seconds. As to why this might be happening, I had no idea. I was sure of only one thing. I had no control over it. None.
I talked to Visser again. I decided beforehand that I would keep it short and to the point; after all, I didn’t want the call to be traced.
‘Visser here.’
‘It’s working, Visser. I just thought I’d let you know.’
‘Is that you, Martin?’
‘That’s right. It’s me.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because the last call ended, how shall I put it, somewhat abruptly.’
‘There’s been a new development,’ I said, ‘as I’m sure you’re aware.’ I was using his phrases deliberately. I wanted him to taste his own medicine.
‘A new development?’
‘You’ve really surpassed yourself this time.’
There was a silence.
‘I’m getting pictures,’ I said. ‘Images.’
The silence lasted. It was an uncomfortable silence on his part. Guilty, I would’ve said. He knew I was on to him.
‘I’m getting signals,’ I said.
‘And what’s your interpretation?’ he said at last, struggling to sound objective, to remain uninvolved, aloof.
‘I think it’s television. I think I’m receiving electromagnetic waves and internally reconverting them into visual images.’ I paused. ‘Strange thing is, I don’t recognise any of the channels. I think I must be getting cable.’
‘Extraordinary,’ he muttered.
‘That’s what I thought. You must be pretty proud of yourself.’
‘Martin, I’m worried about you. I’ve spoken to your parents. They’re worried, too.’
I walked to the window. Though I could feel the cold glass beneath my fingers, all I could see was a game of football. I’d been getting a sports channel for some days now. There was a team in a red strip playing a team in white. I couldn’t identify any of the players; it was probably some foreign league. In any case, the score was 0–0 and the red team was in possession, on the halfway line.
‘The trail’s gone cold on you, hasn’t it?’ I said. ‘You don’t know where I am.’
‘I think you should tell me, Martin. I could help you.’
Smiling, I turned back into the room. I’d lost him. That was all I needed to know. Perhaps I could allow myself a little more freedom now. Perhaps I could even venture out at night. As for the rest of it, Visser was no different from Arnold. He wasn’t going to admit what he was up to. There was too much at stake. Maybe he’d even signed some kind of official secrets act, forbidding him to talk about his work.
‘I’m going now.’ I grinned to myself. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were all right —’
‘Martin, wait —’
Against the run of play, a white forward beat two defenders and drove the ball into the top left-hand corner of the net. A brilliantly taken goal. Mouth wide open, arms outstretched, he raced towards the touchline. The red team stood around with their hands on their hips, looking at the ground.
‘One-nil,’ I said. Then I hung up.
That night I watched thirteen hours of TV — thirteen hours without a break; the titanium plate was hot, it had been on so long. I liked the game show best, though I forget what it was called. The host was a middle-aged man with a sun-bed tan and a toupee. He flounced. He twirled. He was constantly opening his eyes too wide, or flapping his hands, or rounding his lips into an O. He got on with everyone — but that was because everyone had been told to be nice to him. He was like an invalid, I thought, or a dictator. My favourite moment came when he revealed the prizes, when the contestants learned that they’d won a holiday for two in a resort nobody had ever heard of. Or a set of crystal glasses and a travel rug. Or luggage. How I longed for somebody to bellow, What? Is that all? But no. They whooped, they punched the air; they shook both fists at the same time. One woman even cried. Appearing on TV was clearly a powerful homogenising force.
My mind jumped sideways. If this was an experiment, then what kind of experiment was it exactly? What was the rationale behind it? What were its aims and goals? It was difficult to concentrate with a game show going on in my head, but that, in itself, set me thinking. The way I saw it, there were two possibilities (or maybe they were different applications of the same basic principle). Firstly, it was an attempt at social engineering. Ideally, everybody would be fitted with a small titanium plate. It was a simple operation. The scalp healed in no time, the hair grew back. By feeding people with TV — intravenously, as it were — you could keep them distracted, pacified. It was lobotomy on a grand scale. There would be no crime, no violence. You’d have a nation that was incapable of rebellion or dissent.
The second possibility was no less sinister. Obviously, this new generation of television (drip TV, as I had started calling it) could be used as a form of persecution. It’s hard to think when there’s a TV on inside your head. It’s hard to have much of a sense of yourself. People could be driven mad that way. And perhaps that was what was being explored. The use of visual images in psychological warfare. Torture by satellite. TV as a weapon. No wonder Visser didn’t want to talk to me: either I was part of some hush-hush weapons research programme, or else I was the first in a long line of passive citizens (or PCs, as they would doubtless come to be known).
Visser didn’t want to talk to me. It was only to be expected. Strangely, this realisation didn’t depress me. In fact, there was a sense in which it cleared the air. If I wanted to get at the truth, there was only one way to do it. The doorbell jangled as I walked into Sprankel’s shop. I’d waited for a break in transmission before leaving Loots’ apartment, so I was able to see that Sprankel had changed his layout in the past two months. Instead of plastic waste-bins there were TV aerials. Hundreds of TV aerials. They were dangling upside-down on lengths of string, twisting slowly in the dark air near the ceiling.
‘Sprankel?’ I called out. ‘Where are you, Sprankel?’
‘I’m right here.’ His head appeared above the cash-register, which, reassuringly, was still lined with Astroturf.
‘There’s no need to hide from me, Sprankel. I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘I wasn’t hiding, sir.’