Foyer of the Kandinsky a few hours later. Small boutique hotel nestled amongst the townhouses of South Kensington. Discreet entrance. Understated elegance. Pretty Polish receptionist behind the marbled front desk. Matthew and Veronica Adams, I said. She checked her computer and nodded. Room 261. Pointed me to the stairs. Plush carpet. Soft atmospheric lighting. Magnolia-scented candles.
He answered the door within ten seconds. Still in his jacket. Tie not yet undone.
So I undid it for him.
It’s all going according to plan. I should be pleased by how things are developing.
At any rate, I do enjoy a good fuck now and again. It’s been years. Plus he hasn’t lost his touch.
I even know what I will do to him tomorrow.
It’s something he will never expect.
Wired
World Wide Wishful Thinking?
Web to Improve Memory Storage and Change Lives
6 August 1991
A British scientist’s creation will be one of the greatest inventions by humanity for humanity, it was claimed yesterday night.
Duo Tim Berners-Lee, 36, has announced the launch of a public memory-storage device called World Wide Web. He describes it as a means of placing and exchanging memories on an “Internet” with no central manager or database.
Berners-Lee, who works at the CERN research lab in Geneva, has created a simple coding system known as HTML (hypertext markup language). He has also worked out a set of rules called HTTP (hypertext transfer protocol) that would allow memories to be exchanged across computers. So far, this Internet has only been used by professionals and academics, but its benefits will eventually be enjoyed by everyone.
Berners-Lee has insisted that he will be taking the nonprofit route in the future development of his brainchild. “Technology is worthless unless it serves the basic human need for the transfer and retention of memories,” he said.
One Duo scientist said: “This is going to be massive. The idea of strangers swapping memories on a global scale, at a simple click of a button, is staggering.” But another sneered: “They said that the Segway would revolutionize transportation. Today, it is only used by lazy tourists.”
Chapter Six
Hans
12? hours until the end of the day
This diary is still the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever read. Its contents are a blatant, unsettling paradox. She claims to remember everything but not really. Her so-called memories tend to get fuzzier over time, she says.
How does one recollect something that’s fuzzy? That’s impossible. One either remembers—or not. One either learns facts that matter—or one doesn’t. Well-learned facts spring to mind. Badly learned facts don’t. It all depends on how much effort one puts into learning what one has written in one’s diary. But either way, people have concrete facts in their heads—or they don’t.
It’s a simple matter of black and white. Just like those pebbles in the dead woman’s overcoat.
I reach forward to rein in a knight.
I do not have any lingering sensorial snapshots in my head from, say, last Monday. But I know what’s important. What Monday has taught me. (Fact: Most everyday experiences are mundane and are not worth remembering anyway.) I have a description of what really matters from Monday in my diary. In textual black and white. If I learn these facts well, I can dredge them up as readily as, say, the date Hitler shot himself in a Berlin bunker at the end of the Second World War (30 April 1945). They are as clear as my memories from before my eighteenth birthday.
In short, the words in my diaries become clear facts in my head if I learn them carefully enough.
It’s as simple as that.
So how can memories be fuzzy?
The woman’s bonkers. Which suggests that further forays into her diary may well be a waste of time.
I should perhaps check a small point she made, though. I pick up the phone on my desk.
“Hamish,” I say.
“Yes?”
“Before you head to the Guildhall, ring the Kandinsky in London and find out if a Matthew Adams ever stayed in room 261. If he ever brought a female companion with him. A woman named Veronica Adams.”
My sergeant-driver cruises to a stop in front of Sophia’s cottage in Grantchester. I jump out as soon as the car comes to a halt. Our appearance for the second time in one morning is causing a sensation amongst the locals. Even Sophia’s next-door neighbor is poking her head out for a closer look.
“Good morning,” I say, striding up her garden path and presenting my identification badge. “DCI Hans Richardson of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary. Could I ask you a few questions about your neighbor Sophia Ayling?”
The woman’s mouth creases with alarm.
“Please don’t be worried. I’m merely conducting a routine inquiry.”
She nods, though with a frown on her forehead. I suspect she’s a Mono, like Claire Evans, judging from the dimness of her eyes. Fact: Twenty years of detective work have taught me that intelligence is correlated with eye clarity and focus, two attributes some Monos, unfortunately, do not have. It’s a shame the lack of intelligence of a few reinforces the bigotry against the many.
“All right, then,” she says. “Come on in.”
I step into her living room only to be greeted by an overpowering blast of burned grease and stale cooking oil. The space is full of chintzy knickknacks and floral-patterned furniture. A china bulldog grins down from the mantelpiece near a battered sofa with swirling patterns of forget-me-nots. A ginger-haired Persian cat throws me a suspicious glance from a corner before darting past an ornate grandfather clock.
“Your name, please?”
“Mrs. Martha Brown.”
“Class?”
“Mono.”
“Have you ever spoken to your neighbor Sophia Ayling?”
“Yes. But let me check my diary to be sure.”
She pulls out a diary from the folds of her apron and taps its keyboard before giving me a vigorous nod.
“We’ve talked a few times, indeed. Usually about Rufus.”
“Rufus?”
She points at the ginger-haired animal, happily sharpening its claws on the base of the clock.
“What about your cat?” I ask.
“Sophia drops by often to hand him back to me. Especially before she leaves for London. My diary says he likes sneaking inside her cottage at night. I don’t know why he’s taken a fancy to her. She must feed him in secret.”
“Does Miss Ayling go to London often?”
Mrs. Brown studies her device for a few moments before replying:
“Yes, she spends quite a bit of time there.”
“Do you know why?”
My question triggers a void on Mrs. Brown’s face.
“I don’t think I’ve…er…ever learned the reason why,” she says, flapping her hands in a slight fluster. “But I’ll do a keyword search for you.”
As Martha Brown peers down at her device again, I find myself studying her sharp-clawed cat. Perhaps Sophia encouraged Rufus’s nocturnal visits because she once had a cherished Persian cat. Her diary may not have been completely delusional.
“Inspector.” Mrs. Brown interrupts my thoughts. “I’ve just typed the words London and neighbor. Nothing shows up, unfortunately.”
“Do you know what Miss Ayling normally does in Cambridge?”