A Calculated Life Page 4

  And then, the dressing gown hanging from a single hook on the back of the plain-faced door. Jayna became aware she was describing how the garment hung as a set of equations—approximated, for she wasn’t trying too hard—equations that described the peaks and troughs of all the folds. She allowed the dinner conversation to seep into her thoughts. Do bionics like Hester and Benjamin play with mathematics in the same way? If I were an organic, even a smart organic like Dave, would I see a hanging garment and think about the folds or would I simply…see it?

  As she climbed into the warm bed a cold thought crept in beside her. The joiner’s mistakes are no worse than my own. The lights started to fade. A westerly wind, one dead family. The smallest stick insect, still thriving. The room was dark and all she could see was a line of light tracing the door. And, now, there’s no Tom. Didn’t expect that. Not even on my radar.

  CHAPTER 4

  Craig and Dave stood toe-to-toe in front of the elevators and passed notes and coins back and forth, clearly making a deal of some precision. But, then, Craig would not approximate even over a jar of home-made honey. Jayna knew this was the core of their transaction. She approached them along the spinal corridor of Mayhew McCline. It seemed incongruous—Craig handling coinage—because day in, day out he dealt with columns of numbers relating to sums of money exchanged in the digital ether. Here was the head of Accounts buying honey from the junior archivist, a sideline officially condoned by Olivia. But Jayna recalled an outburst by Hester: “I never eat any of it. I pour it down the sink as soon as I get home. I mean, where have those bees been?”

  Craig peeled off and Jayna raised her eyebrows at Dave. “How’s business?”

  “Pretty lively.” They waited together for the elevator. After a few moments, he turned to her. “Do you ever get bored, Jayna?”

  “No, Dave. I don’t suppose I do.” And trying to sound bright, “You always seem busy.”

  “Well, I’m inventive. I’m bored out of my fucking head, really.”

  Her back felt clammy.

  frustrate, verb: 1. prevent (a plan or action) from progressing, succeeding, or being fulfilled; prevent (someone) from doing or achieving something; 2. cause (someone) to feel dissatisfied or unfulfilled. Adj. archaic frustrated.

  An image flashed across her mind: scraps of paper on a pavement with a fragment of the Talking Horse Toy Shop logo. She wanted to ease the tension. “Let’s talk sometime, Dave. I’d like to know what you do outside of work. You know, your hobbies.”

  “Yeah. Well, maybe. Come up and see my bees sometime.” Dave rubbed the back of his head with his right hand. “You’re not like the other analysts, are you? So up their own arses.” He looked over his shoulder to check that no one had overheard. As if embarrassed by his own remark, he changed the subject. “Your stick insects all right?”

  “A bit sluggish.”

  He laughed. “Jayna, you cracked a joke.” The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. Dave punched the button.

  “Well, it wouldn’t work with Latin names,” she said.

  “That’s true.” He leaned against the side wall of the elevator. “S’pose you’ve heard the rumor about Tom Blenkinsop?”

  “What rumor?”

  “There was a note.”

  “A note? What do you mean?”

  “A suicide note.” Ping! The elevator doors opened. “You haven’t heard?” They stepped out and lingered awkwardly.

  “How do you know?” she said.

  “Someone overheard. It’s doing the rounds now.” They both detected Olivia’s voice, approaching.

  “Got to go,” said Jayna. She set off down the glass-walled corridor, spurning the squared floor pattern, which would normally have dictated her stride length. Benjamin walked across his office to greet her. He guided her to his meeting area by placing his hand in the small of her back and applying a slight pressure.

  “Take a seat, Jayna. I want this preliminary because you’ve not had an appraisal before. Just want to make sure you know the format.”

  She sat on the sofa and covered her face with her hands.

  “What’s the matter? What did I miss?”

  “I have to tell you, Benjamin. I should have told you before.”

  “Told me what?”

  She looked up. “Tom sent me a report to finish…I told him I was too busy to help. He was very upset, really angry with me. And then, he went on holiday upset, and committed suicide. I think it’s my fault.”

  “Suicide?” shouted Benjamin.

  “Everyone knows about the note.”

  “A note? There’s no suicide note. His brother would have told me. Though…Ha! Funny, ha! He did leave a note…for me, tendering his bloody resignation. Poached by Stanthorpe’s for a fifty per cent hike in salary. That’s why he booked a last-minute holiday—he was using up all his entitlement.”

  “Oh.”

  “Jesus, Jayna! How did you jump to that conclusion, that you pushed him into…suicide?”

  “Well, it seemed too much of a coincidence.”

  “But it would be completely disproportionate. Can’t you see that?” said Benjamin.

  “I suppose…Sorry, Benjamin, I got the wrong—”

  “Okay. Let’s order some tea, calm down and start again.” And as an afterthought, “I’ll have to stop that bloody rumor now.”

  After some twenty minutes’ mock appraisal, Benjamin cut the air with outspread hands. “Enough. Let’s go off record. How are other things going? Working hours and so on.”

  “Fine.”

  “Because I noticed you were here early today. If you’re working too hard then you will jump to irrational conclusions.”

  It was true. She had turned up before the other analysts to steam through some personal research. She’d downloaded research papers on child development, The General Practitioner’s articles on food cravings (was Lamb Biryani a common craving?), University of Warwick research into the olfactory senses, together with 1,143 linked resources, which oddly led her to historical crime stats organized according to perpetrator status and crime category.

  “I wanted to spend more time preparing for this meeting. And, to compensate, I plan to leave the office earlier this afternoon.” Had he looked through her downloads? She should offer more. As she stood to leave the meeting, she added, “By the way, I’m doing some wildcat research at present. I’m taking a broader look at crime stats. It isn’t a high priority but I’ll let you know if anything interesting emerges.”

  “You said you were busy with the energy stuff. You didn’t want distractions.”

  “It’s back-burner research, Benjamin, rather like the Letters to Shareholders. Research without any guaranteed commercial outcome. That’s why I’m allocating a very low priority. But I have a hunch…And I still hold the classified crime data. We must make full use before our access approval comes up for renewal.”

  “Okay. But don’t get carried away. Let me know before you increase its status. You’re the one concerned about your working hours.”

  “Fine.”

  “Anything else you want to raise?”

  She seized the opportunity. “There is, as a matter of fact. I’ve been wondering…I think it would be an excellent idea for me to see a few home environments. I was fascinated by Jon-Jo yesterday…I know I’d need authorization and I’d need invitations…”

  “I’m not sure. Leave it with me.” Benjamin guided her towards his door by placing his hand behind her arm. His hand slid towards her elbow.

  She stopped in her tracks and turned towards her boss.

  “Jayna, I’m sorry. Really. It’s in the small print, I know.”

  An internal communication flagged Sad News hit everyone’s array shortly after lunchtime:

  I’m sorry, yet relieved, to inform you all that Tom Blenkinsop’s body has been found by the local coastguard. An autopsy is required before the body can be released to the family. However, when funeral arrangements are eventually finalized, Mayhew McCli
ne staff will be informed and anyone wishing to attend will be given time off to do so. If any of you are struggling with this sudden loss and require counseling, please contact HR.

  Olivia

  Why would counseling help, wondered Jayna? Why would talking about Tom’s death to a professional be any different to chatting with colleagues? Scheduling a meeting with HR seemed so unnecessary. The junior analysts, she noticed, were congregating yet again in the kitchen. And, after all, it’s not as though anyone here were related to him.

  Leaving precisely twenty minutes early, Jayna called into the small floristry tucked into the ground floor retail outlets below Mayhew McCline. Some succulent foliage might prevent any further malaise among her stick insects. The second smallest, she thought, had never had a name…Eloise kept a projection of her cat at work; it wandered around her work array. She called it Freud but Jayna could make no connection. So puzzling. People seemed to harbor a delusion that animals were like them, thought like them, which, of course, they patently could not, any more than the pigeons in the park or her stick insects. Why didn’t they just appreciate animals, birds, insects for that matter, for what they were? Obviously, I have my own proper name. I am perfectly human, as organic as any bionic. Much smarter of—

  “Yes, love? Is that all you want, just that bit of greenery?”

  Jayna held out a limp straggle of variegated ivy. “Yes, it’s for my stick insects.” She presented a particularly endearing smile.

  “Take some of these offcuts instead. I won’t charge you. My nephew has stick insects and he says they really gobble up rose leaves, and they like all types of ivy. It’s all organic, too. No pesticides. You see, I know about stick insects. My nephew tells me everything.”

  “Thank you, that’s really very helpful. It’s difficult to find the right kind of greenery in the city center. I depend on handouts from friends.” A look of pained resignation crossed Jayna’s face.

  “Well, call in any time. It’s only going to waste. And if Geena’s here instead of me, tell her it’s all right with Prudence.”

  “Thanks, Prudence.”

  The assistant wrapped the offcuts as if dealing with a Valentine’s gift. Jayna took hold of the precious package and murmured, “My name’s Jayna.”

  The tentative nature of her statement provoked a gently spoken response: “That’s a nice name.” Prudence evidently recognized a less robust creature than herself.

  On her way out, Jayna nodded to her reflection in a mirror behind the flower racks.

  She set off for C7, merging with a mish-mash of adults who walked with greater or lesser determination in the direction of the Library Theatre. She walked in step with the two people nearest to her. Walk the same streets, breathe the same air. And she considered carefully the range of people she’d met over the past six months—her colleagues, her friends, the staff at C7, and now Prudence. I inhabit their worlds and they inhabit mine; it’s a seductive thought. But…do some people inhabit other people’s lives in a more…demonstrative, more invasive manner? Maybe I should see it differently. She conjured a three-dimensional timeline with thousands of colored tubes weaving in and out. Our lives run parallel for a while then intersect or shoot off. Take Jon-Jo—he’ll have more intersections than I ever will.

  A young man ran past Jayna from behind, the flapping material of his jacket making violent contact with hers. In that instant, she saw zebras bolting…and a lioness…teeth and claws sinking into striped flanks. A bloodied mouth.

  She was the first resident to return to the rest station that afternoon. A lengthy, uninterrupted dousing in the communal shower offered a cure for how she felt, which was…unsettled: an unsatisfactory negative. In truth, she longed to feel waves crashing over her, just like the images she’d seen above the Opera House last week, an advertisement for surfing holidays in Cornwall.

  The bathroom was deserted. She undressed, adjusted the shower controls for maximum pressure, and allowed the water jets to blast and abrade her skin. Within a minute, her skin became reddened and sore. She turned slowly, and repeatedly, through 360 degrees so that water was constantly flowing down her unmarked skin. After two minutes, there was no appreciable temperature difference between the front and back of her torso. She became hot and then hotter still. What would happen, she wondered, if she didn’t stop? Like a child twizzing around, and around, and around, just for the experience, not caring for the consequences. She increased the water temperature. After a further three minutes, the room was filled with dense white steam and she felt light and lost. The whiteness absorbed her. And, as she continued turning, perspiration evacuated her skin, flowing in sheets. She felt a dull ache throughout her body. At last, she stilled herself, allowing the jets to shoot needles at her flat belly, her small breasts. As blackness closed in, she felt repeated spasms deep inside and her body buckled.

  She regained consciousness. It might have been five seconds or five minutes. Staggering around the shower room, her right shoulder and knee throbbing, she pushed open a window and turned off the hot jets. Then, lurching towards the toilet cubicles, she retched and for the first time in her life she saw the semi-digested remains of her previous meal.

  Jayna lay aching and unmoving on her bed. What’s wrong with me? I acted like a child and I nearly killed myself. Remembering the final moments before she collapsed, she saw the white steam clouds and the black halo, which first filled the edges of her vision and then closed down her senses completely. She rewound, and recalled the pounding hot jets and the deep spasms. They seemed to come from nowhere as though a button had been pressed.

  Her bedside companions twitched. She mustered a groan.

  Her head was in a vice and she felt bruised. But she knew she ought to eat something. If she didn’t appear in the canteen she’d have to offer some explanation tomorrow. Or, worse still, her friends would call by her room later.

  Approaching the serving hatches a new, slightly-too-sweet aroma hit her, just what she didn’t need. The canteen assistant looked up in her direction and proffered his slowly enunciated, open vowels: “Somethin’ special today. Lemon chicken with spicy noodles.” Confirmed by a new text display.

  “Is this a menu?”

  “Sort of. It’s what we’ve got to do now. Orders from above. We ’ad some big toffs down ’ere askin’ all sorts of daft questions.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “What food got wasted. If you residents liked some meals better than others. Things like that.”

  “Well we don’t comment on the food, usually.”

  “That’s what I said. But then they wanted to know if any of you lot had said anything at all, y’know, out of the ordinary.” Their eyes fixed, for a moment only. He turned away. “I told them: ‘What yer on about? ’Course no one’s said owt.’”

  “Right,” said Jayna. And she took her tray, feeling the weight pulling through her right arm on her bruised shoulder. Why didn’t he tell them? And why was he letting her know he didn’t tell them? By the time she reached her table she’d decided the explanation was simple. He didn’t like the toffs with the daft questions. He felt no obligation to cooperate. And he must be trying to warn her. Warn?

  “How’s the food?” she said to her companions, hoping to distract attention away from her inflamed face and neck. She was still steaming hot.

  Julie looked up and Jayna was taken aback to see her looking…forlorn? “There’s been another recall, Jayna. Another of our generation.”

  “Not around here,” said Lucas, jumping in.

  “Another?” said Jayna. And with studied calm, “But why?”

  “All I know,” said Lucas, “is that a female was taken out of service as a result of erratic time-keeping at work.”

  “Which was where?” said Jayna.

  “The Institute of Forensic Accountancy near Birmingham. They have links with the Tax Office and I had dealings with them over a particularly complex case of evasion, which—”

  “But, Lucas, what wa
s the cause of her poor time-keeping?” said Jayna.

  “I don’t know. I was simply informed that Nicole had left. My colleagues gleaned a little more information and I overheard them.” Jayna could imagine Lucas straining to listen in, just so he could report back. “Apparently, she’d missed a critical meeting and had also been absent without specific reason on a number of other occasions.”

  “And that merited a recall?” said Harry.

  “They can’t afford to take any risk with a breakthrough model,” said Jayna. “The research and development costs have been astronomical so they’ll want to maintain customer confidence. I suppose the Constructor could instigate a general recall but that would damage the brand severely, impact the subsequent uptake of new leases.” The sounds of knives and forks contacting crockery seemed to amplify as Jayna waited for some response.

  Julie raised the question on Jayna’s mind. “Why should this start now? This never happened with the Franks, as far as we know.”

  “I think a general recall will be unavoidable if this carries on,” said Jayna.

  “But maybe it won’t make much difference anyway,” said Harry. “If the Constructor saves our extended knowledge, we could be re-initiated and sent back to work.”

  “If there were a complete recall, it would be a crisis measure aimed at rescuing some market credibility,” said Jayna. The others nodded. She had deftly disguised her own uncertainty. However, she imagined she’d be quite a different person after reinitiation.

  “There’s something else,” said Harry, reluctantly. “More yellow paint, at C3 and C8.”