I did two daft things today. Hamish and I were discussing something trivial when I said that I should consult my diary entry for two days ago, just to be sure. Hamish threw me a puzzled, slightly suspicious look. I corrected myself, of course. Said that I meant my entry for three days ago, and not two, before changing the subject at once. I can’t believe I was careless enough to make an error as spectacular as that.
(NTS: Must watch my words in Hamish’s presence. He'll start investigating me if I slip up again. It’ll be terrible if everything I’ve built up over the years comes crashing down on my head. The powers above will demote me at once if they discover that I’ve been masquerading as a Duo. Or sack me without a severance package. My excellent track record in the force—and the sheer number of cases that I’ve solved within a day when I can still hold everything together in my head—would mean nothing to them. After all, the force still has a Jurassic outlook as far as Monos are concerned: none of us is capable enough for higher office. Didn’t I write here that Commissioner Mayhew had stated in a 2014 interview that Monos should be thankful that the force is broad-minded enough to employ them as constables in the first place?)
The second daft thing happened later in the evening. I finished work at 18:20 (it was, after all, a quiet day) and decided to undertake a circular jog to Grantchester. I saw a beat-up Fiat at the edge of Newnham village, just before the footpath across the meadows. A blond woman was perched behind the wheel, her face blurred by the tinted windows. She looked up at me as I jogged past; I gave her a curt nod before continuing on my way.
Hey, the woman shouted. I turned around in surprise, only to realize that she had jumped out of her car and was bearing down on me. She was clad from head to toe in black to match her vehicle.
Aren’t you Hans Richardson? she said, frowning. I nodded, astonished that she knew my name.
You fucking piece of shit, she shrieked. The next thing I knew, her right hand had flashed forward in my direction.
I ducked just in time. I did not understand why I was a fucking piece of shit. Or why she thought I deserved a slap in the face. I did understand, however, that the woman had tried to assault a law enforcement officer.
I think I’ve read enough; I flip off my iDiary with shaking hands. I need to do two things today:
Beware of Hamish. He’ll smell a giant rat if I slip up again, especially because he remembers what happened two days ago with crystal clarity (unlike me). I should keep him at arm’s length at all times, if possible.
Solve this case before the end of the day, while I can still hold everything together in my head. Fact: While a few Sunday patrol units will still be operating tomorrow, Toby and most of my more capable assistants will be on leave. If I were to pick up the threads of this investigation again on Monday, I would only have a few skimpy facts about the Ayling case in my Dictaphone, notebook, and iDiary. Basically everything I’m able to write down or record today, which won’t be sufficient. To make things worse, Hamish will still remember everything about today on Monday, down to the smallest significant (or insignificant) detail. I won’t.
I grimace at the clock on my wall. I should get going; I have only thirteen hours left until midnight. And I should steer clear of Hamish at the same time.
It sounds like a mission impossible. Especially as I have very little to go on at the moment. Apart from a few telltale black and white garden pebbles and a fibbing novelist-politician.
Maybe I should give the dead woman’s iDiary a second chance.
Ten Things You Should Know About a World Where Most People Have Full Memories
By Mark Henry Evans
24 May 2015 | The Sunday Times
Sex in a monogamous relationship will get more and more uninteresting, causing adultery to be rife. Repetition breeds boredom, especially if people remember that they’ve deployed the same missionary position twenty years in a row.
People in long-term relationships (like, say, those in twenty-year-old partnerships) will understand why they are still together.
People will be divided by the color of their skin instead of the number of days they can remember.
Children younger than age eighteen will be a little less cocky and a little more respectful to their parents.
People won’t have any difficulty distinguishing between fact and fiction.
People will be collecting experiences instead of objects, and no one will be cluttering his or her home with useless junk.
People will be perpetually drunk (or stoned) because they need to escape from both the present and the past.
People will be keeping diaries out of boredom instead of out of necessity, and Apple’s market capitalization will be half of what it is now.
Society will dispose of people who have less than full memories by putting them in proper institutions for the demented.
People will understand the true meaning of love and hate.
Mark Henry Evans’s novel The Serendipity of Being is about a murder that takes place in a darkly skewed version of contemporary Britain where most people have full memories. The book will be published in February of 2016, priced at ￡11.99 in hardcover.
Letters to the Editor
31 May 2015 | The Sunday Times
Dear Editor,
Mark Henry Evans’s “Ten Things You Should Know” (published on 24 May 2015) was an utter load of rubbish. The novelist is asking readers of his forthcoming novel to suspend disbelief and buy into a parallel dystopia where people have full memories. But the “high-concept” premise is so far-fetched it’s ridiculous. How could a world like that exist? If people understood the “true meaning of hate” (as Mr. Evans claims), they would be killing each other without restraint. There would be world wars, terrorist attacks, megalomaniacal dictators, religious extremists, and all sorts of other horrible things. Civilization would grind to an immediate halt, crippled by its own hatred. Or humanity would simply wipe itself out in a nuclear apocalypse.
I am appalled that your newspaper would inflict such claptrap on its intelligent readership to promote a novelist’s upcoming book. There are better ways of parting with ￡11.99. I’ll be spending the money on a hardware upgrade for my iDiary.
Shame on you, Mr. Editor.
A DISGRUNTLED READER
Oxford
Chapter Five
Sophia
8 September 2013
It was Mariska who provided the spark. But it was a newspaper article that supplied the kindling two days later.
Front page of the newspaper’s Arts and Literature section. Photo of Mark Henry Evans grinning back at me. Holding his novel On Death’s Door at a book signing. Looking as smug as a cat that caught a rat and gulped down an entire celebratory bottle of Champagne.
That same night, I began typing away in the iDiary the orderlies gave me. It wasn’t difficult. After all, I knew what being a Duo meant. The words came easily. They flowed like high-grade vodka. I recorded all dates, times, and events with determination. I wrote down all the “facts” of my miserable existence. Each and every one of them. I wrote to free myself. To redeem myself. To avenge myself. After nearly two decades of bottling up my desire for retribution.
It all came pouring out in a torrent of words.