I thread my way under a support, steadying myself against the A-frame. I kick a hole in the ceiling where the lavatory should be. My foot comes through short of the door, and too much to the left. I’m off by at least a yard.
I move again, hunker down against the frame, and dig through the loft insulation with the toe of my shoe. I find the ceiling and press, steadily and gently. The plasterboard does not crack; instead it crumbles against the retaining pins. The bathroom ceiling gives on one side, and grit and dust falls through the gap. That sound again: a rain of sand.
Light fans obliquely through the loft.
I toe the ceiling again and the whole thing gives way. Michel climbs up the ladder and comes over and together we stare into the bathroom. The ceiling has come down in one piece, shattering against the cabinet, the sink, the bathtub, and the windowsill.
Soon the ceilings are completely destroyed, smothering everything in filth and felt, particles and plaster. We climb down the ladder and explore. Every room looks like every other now – impossible to make out which room is which, or what each room is for. They aren’t even rooms any more, just spaces marked out by walls whose tops are just too high for us to touch – the walls of a maze.
Movement is hard because of the amount of felt, plaster and filth we’ve brought down. We pick our way between the larger pieces and stir the rest with our feet, seeking the familiar terra firma of carpet, floor tile and floorboard. But the mind cannot retain vanished geographies, and we find ourselves adapting to this new terrain. We crush the wood and plaster we’ve brought down to create narrow paths of pulverised stuff, and bit by bit, as our paths sink below the level of the wreckage, they come to represent a convention as incontrovertible, in its way, as the convention formerly established by walls and doors.
We take off our shoes. We take off our socks. In theory we have the freedom of all the space we have imagineered. Still, we stick obediently to the interlocking trails of our ephemeral redoubt.
We take off our clothes.
We find Poppy’s bed and we use it.
On and on like this. We are committed now.
NINETEEN
A year later.
Picture it: in the hills outside the capital, Ralf is eating çig köfte with Bryon Vaux.
Picture it: their favourite eating house. The walls of the dining room are decorated with antique blue tiles depicting water mills and mosques. The table candle casts a greasy sheen over Vaux’s almost-convincing eyes.
A while ago, with his purchase and restructuring of Loophole, Vaux threw Ralf a ball. It is doubtful that Vaux has had any idea, until this evening, of just how far Ralf has run with it.
Ralf is mid-pitch, deep in his argument for massively increased funding. He wants Vaux to help him bring to birth the next stage in the evolution of Augmented Reality. He says, ‘What makes a sense? What makes sight “sight”, smell “smell”?’
He might have handed his employer a package of pornography, the way Vaux’s mouth has set. The tension finds its way even to his fingertips; Ralf watches in dismay as Bryon Vaux bends and dents the photographs. Blind dogs, their eye-sockets fibre-opticked into satellite TV. Monkeys flayed and grafted to a newsfeed. Dolphins whose only water is the shipping news.
Entrepreneur, billionaire, icon of the new world order, Vaux has been diversifying his portfolio. He no longer devotes his energies solely to the entertainment business. Entertainment is a spent force, or so he reckons. Enwrapment – that’s the next thing. Captivation. Rapture.
Ralf is his pilot through the coming media storm. A good choice – Ralf has always had his eyes on the big picture. (‘I have lots of ideas,’ he once confessed to me. ‘I just don’t know how to rate them.’ I’d lay money he is not so naive any more.)
‘Briefly,’ Ralf begins, ‘there are three components to any sensory perception. First, a physical phenomenon – electromagnetic radiation, say. Second, a responsive organ, in this case an eye.
‘Of course,’ he continues, warming to his theme, ‘evolution has been pretty parsimonious about what she lets us see of the world. And every sighted animal, according to its specific survival needs, accesses a different portion of the spectrum. None of us – no species – gets the full picture.’
Evolution by natural selection, by Ralf’s measure, scrapes barely a couple of stars. Design’s the thing. Genius beats genetics hands-down, every time. With Vaux’s money at his back and a travel budget that has had him rub shoulders with the best and brightest splicers on the circuit, Ralf has been winning notoriety – the Da Vinci of vivisection.
There is something curious about Ralf’s style of delivery tonight – and no wonder, since his late-won eloquence is pulled daily from self-help manuals and crash-courses in public speaking. His pedantry has a saving, surreal quality. ‘Every sighted animal’ is very good.
But Vaux’s plastic eyes give nothing away. ‘You said three elements.’
‘The third component of sensory perception is the brain. Dedicated areas of the brain take the data received by the organ of sense, and search it for pattern and order. From that comes the model.’
‘The model?’
‘Your model, my model, of what the world is like. We only have models, Mr Vaux. From the little data granted us, we extrapolate a model of the world. This we call “reality”.’
Vaux picks up the photographs again. He imagines, perhaps, that Ralf’s explanations may have normalised them. Vain hope – he paws clumsily through the glossies and comes up with a German Shepherd, its eyes wired to a university mainframe.
‘We wired him as a pup,’ says Ralf, ‘before his eyes could see. Dogs are born blind. We gave him other eyes, and he grew into them.’
‘The dog adapted to the feed?’
‘Quite well.’
‘Quite well?’
Ralf shrugs. ‘We feed it raw data from the National Weather Centre. Whenever he feels a big storm on the way he starts barking.’
Vaux shakes his head – whether from wonder or confusion or dismay, Ralf (being Ralf) cannot tell. ‘A kludge, I admit,’ Ralf persists, nervous now. ‘The new neuroplastics give better results. With them, we can build new centres in the brain. New optic lobes, for different kinds of eyes.’
Vaux knows nothing of the thefts from Ralf’s home, from his car, and from the atelier he maintains in a piece of family property just across the road from Loophole’s old club.
Nor is he ever likely to. The thefts are a serious embarrassment for Ralf. That he ever borrowed such valuable and commercially sensitive kit for his own use is obviously a sackable offence. That he left it lying around unsecured for any passing street-thief or housebreaker to steal could well have Vaux suing Ralf for everything he has ever paid him, ‘Chief Imagineer’ or not.
It is Ralf’s own fault. Ever the tinkerer, he has never quite shaken off the feeling that he can achieve more by himself than he can while sitting in state in the bosom of some well-appointed science palace belonging to Vaux.
The thefts were not subtle affairs. Ralf surely guesses that the thieves knew what they were looking for. He surely suspects us – but he does not let on.
Meanwhile Michel and I find our own uses for Ralf’s aerosolised AR.
We hit the pharmacy without warning: surgical, bloodless and fast.
Wherever the night manager moves, walls tilt, floors vanish, ceilings fall. She comes to rest at last in the corner of the dispensary, barely moaning now, her vestibular system folding up under our psychoelectric assault.
Nausea has overcome her fear. She heaves miserably, spittle dribbling from her chin. She has nothing left to bring up. She has her eyes squeezed shut, but this is no defence against the images being hammered, seventy taps a second, directly against her visual cortex.