Chapter 26: Woman Off Wire

Under soft clouds that caught the ruddy pink of dawn and an otherwise clear sky of amethyst purple, Dublin was a serene and self-assured mermaid stretching languorously along the coastline. My view of her was from a window on the second floor of a squat in Ringsend and as I contemplated on the rows of redbrick houses that formed sinuous lines curving towards a group of tall buildings and cranes clustered around Dublin Bay, I asked myself would I like to swap places with someone in one of those homes? A member of one of those families, still abed and dreaming? I would. Not because I wished to escape from the stress of being at the centre of a scandal that was swirling through Irish and international media like a hurricane (although that would be a relief) but because I’d love to return to a world where I woke to the scent of toast, the sounds of the kettle boiling, Marty on the radio, and – if it was a lucky day – my mum in the kitchen singing along to some song she half-knew the lyrics to.

Murmurs from the city reached me: a dark barking, a seagull crying, and somewhere behind me, like a giant clearing its throat, a large vehicle, probably a bin truck, was repeatedly revving its engine. Was Neo somewhere in Ireland, still asleep? What were his dreams like? Was he any less in thrall to Capitalism and DreamAds than his staff? As entrepreneur and multi-billionaire, he seemed to have near complete freedom, yet weren’t all his choices predictable from the point of view of how they best served those cold-hearted entities? Nearby, always elusive, Celine had answers. I didn’t trouble her though, she was drifting in a cathartic, post-coital wonderland.

This was the first day in forty that I had woken up without having to remove my DreamAds hood. The whole pilot program was on hold following the death of Kirsten McAuliffe, dreamtime operative (I’d learned her name from the RTÉ news, poor woman). By releasing the video online and reporting the whole incident to the guards I’d freed myself and everyone else on the scheme from ever having to wear the hoods again. The courts were no longer obliged to offer the option of joining DreamAds; the politicians were all hurrying to say, “we warned you”; the public were glad that the prospect of having their dreams invaded by adverts had receded (and at the same time were morbidly fascinated with the secret inner world of the DreamAds headquarters). Everyone was happy with my shocking revelation, everyone but Neo and his staff.

Behind me, the bedroom was minimal. A mattress, fortunately double, lay on bare floorboards and there was no other furniture. Under the duvet that I had bought yesterday were Amanda and Daniel. Nearby, three laptops were open, resting on the wooden floor among the discarded boxes and wrapping they’d come in. Amanda’s five stolen circuit boards, the reward from our boss quest, were side by side next to the wall.

I was curious about how much trouble Neo was in; not curious enough to leave the window and the view of a city at calm. A hint of coffee in the air, however, suggested that others in the squat were awake and that was sufficient incentive to get me to move. Quietly, so as not to wake my lovers, I left our room and went down a floor.

My senses had not deceived me, in the kitchen were Ciara and Constantine, the latter a temporary exile from Ukraine, currently working on one of the cranes I’d spotted from my window. An anarchist football ultra – apparently that was a thing in Kyiv – Constantine was clean shaven, with short, light brown hair. This morning he was standing by the cooker, dressed like a golfer: ironed trousers, sporty shoes, a sharp, white collar visible over his tight sweater.

‘Here’s our celebrity,’ said Ciara with a smile made gentle by the way they dropped their eyes after just a fleeting contact.

‘I admire you Cyn,’ said Constantine, having looked up from the pan he was stirring. ‘To go into that room of death was brave.’

‘It wasn’t exactly me. I have another half – we all do – and Celine’s not intimidated by anyone.’

‘Would you like a coffee? And beans on toast? I’m getting Ciara some breakfast before I go to work.’

‘I would, if there’s enough.’

‘I made enough for the whole house.’

Having placed a large Superman mug with black coffee in front of me along with a chipped, whitish plate with beans and two pieces of buttered, toasted brown bread, Constantine sat on the other side of the table and Ciara took the seat next to him.

‘Thanks Constantine, I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until now.’

‘You’re welcome. That room was crazy.’ This latter comment was accompanied by a quick glance of enquiry. Clearly, he wanted me to talk about my video of the DreamAds headquarters.

‘It was strange all right. Everything felt like a dream to me, mainly because Celine – my inner personality - was steering the craft of our body. Or rather, it felt like a nightmare. I was expecting to see computers and office workers at their desks, not blood and bizarre insect costumes.’

‘Why? Why do they do this?’ asked Constantine, efficiently scooping beans onto his toast and balancing them as he lifted it to his mouth.

‘According to the DreamAds statement given to RTÉ, it was a mishap during the performance of a play they had written.’

Ciara shook their head. ‘Some mishap.’

‘That makes no sense,’ added Constantine, looking up at me.

‘No, it doesn’t. I can’t explain what I saw, except in a very general way. The DreamAds hoods have the effect of putting you in touch with the personality who resides deep in your mind. That personality doesn’t understand or care about societal rules and laws. My guess is that if your mind has grown dark and sadistic because it’s part of an entity like DreamAds, then you don’t hold back, even from rape and murder. One of them even said it was their greatest pleasure. Or humanity’s greatest pleasure, something like that.’

‘I’m sorry, I must go to work.’ Constantine carried his plate and mug to the sink and rinsed them. ‘Be careful Cyn,’ he said without turning to me. ‘Stay off grid. Witnesses against the mega-rich have been found dead in the past.’

Upstairs, Daniel and Amanda were awake. Her bare arms, shoulders and head were protruding from the duvet while she lay on her stomach looking at the screen of one of the laptops; Daniel was sat up, leaning back against the wall with a corner of the duvet pulled to his chest.

‘Hey Cyn. Fancy coming back to bed with us for another session?’ my lover looked very cheerful.

‘Did I express any interest in that?’ Amanda, on the other hand, sounded cross.

Daniel said, ‘In words? No. But what better way is there to start the day?’

‘Let me explain something, so there’s no misunderstanding,’ Amanda pushed the laptop away and rolled over to look at him, then me. Her pale shoulders in the morning light had a yellow wash and I felt the urge to paint her like this and even looked around the empty room in the hope of seeing a sketch pad. There was a beauty shining from her that would catch at the heart of the most insensitive viewer.

‘Did either of you see the documentary, Man on Wire?

‘It’s about the time when Phillipe Petit walked back and forth on a high wire illegally placed between the Twin Towers, New York. At the end of his brush with death, a girl approaches him and says I want to help you celebrate your return to life. And even though Phillipe had a girlfriend and his friends were all waiting to celebrate with him in this incredible moment and even though news reporters from all over the world wanted a statement from him and their papers had deadlines, Phillipe went with this girl. Inside him was an explosive rebirth of life, one that needed to be released.’

Considering Daniel was a poet, he should have understood the analogy. Instead, he looked at Amanda in an obvious state of confusion. Perhaps it was just that he didn’t want to understand.

I helped him. ‘Amanda is saying that last night was a response to her captivity and near death. And that she won’t be doing it again.’

‘Oh, shame. It was explosive all right.’

‘Moreover, I want to code. The desire to write is upon me like never before.’ Amanda turned back to the laptop, presenting Daniel with not just one, but a pair of cold shoulders.

‘And I want to paint like never before.’ Unfortunately, it was not safe to return to my studio; I would have to buy new materials. ‘Poets are lucky. You can practice your art anywhere.’

‘Even in the jacks,’ replied Daniel with a grin and a stretch. Then he stood up and walked, naked, across the bare floorboards. He too looked beautiful in the yellow morning light, there was an unashamed softness to his body that matched his soul.

‘What are you coding?’ I asked Amanda.

‘When we first wrote the software for DreamAds, we did it for the Explorer, not the hood. Neo was hoping to release dream packages as a feature for cap users. Those early versions worked but not precisely enough. That’s what I took from their servers, my Explorer dream software. I’m going to release it, make it open source.’

‘Why?’

‘We haven’t stopped Neo; you know that. We’ve hurt him. Given him a setback. But it won’t take him long to relaunch. My idea is that if users can create dreams for free with the Explorer, why would they bother paying Neo for his hood? We have to undermine his monopoly of this technology. Can you imagine what the world would become if people get dream content from Neo, but with his adverts or politics inserted into them?’

‘All too easily.’ I sighed and that caused Amanda to look away from her screen towards me.

‘What?’

‘I just want to paint.’

‘If you hadn’t rescued me, I’d have been tortured and killed. Now you’re on his radar, Neo would do the same to you too. It’s him or us Cyn.’

I felt this to be true and it was a cold feeling, like sinking into the waters of a deep, dark lake.

Walking around town, I had a scarf around my mouth and the hood of my top pulled right up. Amanda believed it was facial recognition technology that had led to her being traced and bundled into a van near the hostel she had been staying in. Officially, a private citizen should not have access to the feeds from the various road and public building cameras. For Neo, though, it would be all too easy to arrange for a team of his people to monitor them. Or even just a insert a smart piece of software, one that was looking for us.

After filling a backpack with painting supplies from Reads, I treated myself to a strong coffee and sat on a bench in Stephens Green, sketching a robin in different poses. When the bird turned its head to the side to study me with a similar regard to how my attentive eyes must have looked, a bond seemed to form between us. Hello, my busy little friend. Some of the cold that I’d felt since my conversation with Amanda lifted.

I had a new phone, one that Amanda had made me buy, and once the robin had left me to enter a thick bush I took it out of my pocket and messaged Niall.

Niall. This is C. I’ve a new number. Going to call you now if that’s okay? Don’t say my name or say anything that an AI listening to us could use to figure out that it’s me.

Hi! Good to hear from you. Sure, now is good.

He answered on the first ring. ‘Hi there. I’ve been worried for you. How are you doing?’

That was a fair question. ‘Up and down. When I can… play music, I’ve never been better. But I can’t go back to the studio and I’m in danger from…’

‘I understand. I saw… I heard your latest release. It’s pretty popular.’

‘That’s good, I guess. I’m not really following it.’

There was a silence between us. Then Niall spoke in a quiet voice, ‘You know you can come here if you want to get away for it all, even for just a while. Kate would go wild to see you.’

‘All right so, I will. I’m on my way.’

‘Now?’

‘Next train.’

‘Maybe get O’Reilly’s bus from the Custom’s House. There’s one in forty minutes. Safer.’

‘Good idea.’

‘I’ll meet you. Text me when you come off the motorway.’

Full of unexpected energy and delight, I bid goodbye to the robin, wherever he was, and walked quickly towards the park gates. My dad had a big CD collection and there had been mornings in fifth and sixth year where I’d listen to CD before school, to try to make the day ahead manageable. One of the songs that worked well to motivate me was I Feel Free by Cream. I found it now on my phone and skipped towards my bus with that optimistic lyric as the soundtrack to my life. I had a bag full of paints, brushes, and paper and with them and a safe place to rest my head, I’d break the dark spell that was trying to demoralize me.