VISUAL EFFECTS / CH. 2: BAD MEMORIES
5AM, FRIDAY MAY 13TH, 2270
After checking on Simon's thoughts the night before, seeing his concern concerning her, and then feeling guilty about spying, Alice hadn't slept well. Now she was awake again. She didn't want to be. Could she tell her story, tell of the pain? The thought went round in her head as she tried to go back to sleep.
A flash of memory: Alice, aged ten. Singing on the way to Sunday school. Convinced of her parent's love, convinced of God's love. Two foundations to her life. Always present, seemingly unshakable in their permanence and presence.
A flash of memory: Alice, aged eleven. Sitting in Sunday school, listening to the Bible story. Hearing the thoughts of Mrs Huntsman, the teacher, which had such little correspondence to the story she was telling. Joseph ran from Potiphar's wife, because it would have been wrong, she said. Thinking of escaping the horrible brats soon. Thinking of a face, he wouldn't run from her bedroom. Quite the opposite, really, the result of careful planning. Adultery. Hypocrisy. Alice recognised the face, Mr Jones, one of the church leaders. More hypocrisy. Could she tell the story, tell of the pain? Wouldn't it mean re-live the story, re-live the pain? It still hurt.
Another flash of memory: Alice, aged sixteen, taking time away from the inter-church Saturday meeting for a confrontation, wanting it out in the open. Mrs Huntsman was back as her teacher, and Alice couldn't stand knowing the hypocrisy.
Alice tried to force the memory away, but it came back. Mrs Huntsman saying Alice mustn't pretend to know secrets, it was nasty, she mustn't tell things she'd made up. It was all a game really wasn't it? A nasty sort of lying. She'd always been such a nice girl, why was Alice doing it? Alice saying no, it was the truth. Anger. Alice saying too much. She had, hadn't she, planned adultery with Mr Jones? Just before his wife had died in that swimming accident. Just before Mr Jones had killed himself, in remorse, in guilt. He should have been there. He could have saved her. But he'd been with Mrs Huntsman hadn't he? Mrs Huntsman going pale. Asking how could she know, no-one knew, it had been a terrible dream. Alice saying, “It's there, in your mind. I can see it now, and I could see it when you planned it, plainly, not a dream. You were teaching us about Joseph running from Potiphar's wife.” Mrs Huntsman calling her a witch, a puppet of the devil. Nothing had happened, it was all lies, damned lies. Saying that Alice was cursed, that Alice wanted to destroy lives. Alice would bring a curse on everyone who knew her. Alice seeing that Mrs Huntsman was sure of what she said, was sure Alice lied. That what Alice had seen was a bad dream, a false accusation of the devil, not the truth.
Alice remembered, against her will, going home early, in tears, in confusion: was what she'd thought was her gift from God really a curse? What she'd thought was truth a lie? Where was God? The worst part was to come: getting home. The house was still, parents missing, then the police came. Her parents had died in an explosion. Mrs Huntsman had been right: lives had been destroyed, was Alice a curse on those she loved?
Alice cried into her pillow, and tried to doze off, only to face yet another memory flash: Alice at college, accepting the arguments of the humanists, denying any reality to God, but trying to use her gifts for good. Seeking to deny the curse that was poisoning her life, keeping her alone. She'd rejected the attribution of the gift as a work of evil and reclaimed it, partially, but still feeling those painful memories whenever she did.
Tell a story, tell of the pain, re-live the story, re-live the pain. But what if the beginning of the story is wrong? Re-tell the story, change the story? Change the pain? Could it be possible? She thought more clearly.
Nothing could remove the past pain, but perhaps something could make it stop. Could it even let the wounds heal?
But to re-tell the story, you must remember it. All of it. The most painful parts even, especially. To remember the pain suppressed so long. What would be the consequences? Peace? Madness? But to not, to recognise two things true which contradict so totally? Madness surely.
Another memory flash intruded on her: Yesterday, Simon, full of faith. Simon, with a message to her from God. So certain of it he was prepared to approach a stranger, and to tell her his deepest secret, certain she was trustworthy. Simon, full of certainty, telling her to use her curse/gift/power, on him, not even knowing what he asked. Equally confused about /his/ gift. Alice, still half believing in the curse, believing in the pain, using the gift, seeing the truth in what he said. Recognising the touch of God, so long-denied God, there, written so clearly in Simon's mind.
Memory flash: Yesterday, Alice, head whirling, confused, shocked. Wrapping the deadening blanket around her mind. Keeping out all thought but going home. No parents, no grandparents, all gone. But home. One place left, with all the ghosts of pain, but security nevertheless.
Managing to get home without thought. Locking the door. Crying out “Why? Why now, not before?” Weeping, weeping. Until sleep.
Memory flash: Alice at work, a journalist, secretly using her gift to find the weak points in public figures' lies. Asking the questions they hoped wouldn't be asked. Gaining a reputation as a champion of truth, with excellent sources. Knowing that, in truth, that last was a lie, and hating it, but unable to contradict it. God, oh so long denied, was real. God, source of all truth, saying the curse that had dominated her life, was false. Her life, so long without anchor, had been cut loose by a lie; the lie of a woman who had so desperately rejected the truth that she'd blotted it out, until the lie had seemed like truth to her. Alice realised it now, she'd seen it recently, in drug addicts and alcoholics. Back then, young, vulnerable, shocked, ignorant, she hadn't seen it. She'd not known it was possible, back then, for someone to convince themselves so deeply of something that the truth seemed a lie.
Now, Alice saw that so much of her life had been based on that lie. She was just as much a party to it as Mrs Huntsman. She had been given a second chance, now she had to respond. Sunday school songs, words of simple faith came to mind. She prayed them, sang them.
Restored relationship. Peace flooded her. Costly forgiveness undoing almost half a lifetime of denial in a few seconds. Strangely, the pain was numbed. There were questions, of course. What now? What had the rest of Simon's message been talking about?
She had so many different things she could apply it to, it was so confusing. Why had the message, so clear in some parts, been so vague in others? Maybe to drive her to get help. Even if she didn't want to, even if obedience and thanks didn't demand it? It wasn't much of a question really, when she looked at it like that. God had told her that she needed help, in something. She wondered where, of all the places she'd considered going to do some investigative reporting, it might be.
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She mulled it over that morning, interviewing the university professor who she'd not met the day before. Then, at lunchtime, she contacted Simon. Trusting him seemed much more natural now. Would he like to meet up? Perhaps her favourite sandwich bar? She told him where it was.
He thought it wasn't the wisest place to talk secrets, perhaps. Might she have people following her? A walk instead? Somewhere harder to bug, like a hillside? Maybe?
“What's your schedule?” she asked.
“Quite flexible.”
“As in you've no plans?”
“As in, you helped me solve what was going wrong, so in about ten minutes I could start the system up fully. After I do that, I next need to have a look at it about thirty-six hours later.”
“It's almost one o'clock. That'd mean one A.M Sunday morning if you turn it on now, wouldn't it?”
“Yes. I didn't manage to put it all back together as soon as I'd hoped.”
“And you're planning to turn it on now?”
“Yes.”
“Committing yourself to be back in the lab at one A.M. Sunday morning?” Alice verified.
“Yes, is that a problem?”
“I thought you could organise your schedule to suit yourself?”
“I can.” Simon sounded puzzled.
“Sorry, I just don't get why any sane person would choose to be up a one A.M on Sunday morning. Unless you're going to a really great party, I guess. Are you?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Are you sure you're not totally strange?” She was ever so tempted to see what he was thinking.
“Theoretically, the experiment works best at night, when there's not so many disturbances.”
“Oh, so it's all in the interests of science?”
“Mostly.”
“Only mostly? What's the other motive?”
She saw him blush on the picture. “Oh, the ususal.”
“The usual?”
“Fascinating and beautiful woman suddenly walks into life of shy scientist-type,” he said, turning redder. “Priorities change.”
Ah, hormones. Alice realised. Yes, that explained his behaviour. She left him with his fantasies. “You didn't seem very shy yesterday.” she pointed out.
“God didn't give me much time to be.”
“So... you're planning to start your experiment at such a time that it doesn't interfere with your hopes of gaining a social life?”
“Is that so very odd?”
She declined to answer that one. “OK. I'm going to go to my favourite sandwich bar, I won't object to company, and I promise not to reveal any secrets there. How does that sound?”
“Very sensible. I'll come as soon as I can. And then what?”
“I go back to work. Some of us need to work almost normal office hours, you know?”
“Oh, yeah. OK.” she heard his disappointment, and was planning to say something non-commital. Her mouth didn't obey instructions.
“But I do like hill-walking,” she found herself saying. She certainly hadn't meant to. Mentally she asked herself, whatever happened to playing hard to get, Alice?
“Tomorrow?” he asked full of hope once more.
“Yes,” she agreed. “So, are you joining me for sandwiches?”
“With pleasure.”
----------------------------------------
“Hi. And thanks for your help fixing my apparatus,” Simon greeted Alice.
“Hi, but I didn't do anything.” she protested.
“Yes you did, you asked about the noise. One of the pumps was leaking oil, that's why it was so noisy.”
“You worked it out, you mean,” She corrected.
“Only because I told you why they were noisy. I'd been getting silly results for a week.”
“Anyone could have asked you about that.”
“No one did though. Of course, you're the first visitor I've had in there for weeks, so it's hardly surprising.”
“You're stuck in that lab all week long with no human contact?”
“Well, I do come out sometimes. Tea breaks, for instance.”
“Hmm.” she said, then added in a mock computer-psych voice “The subject seems entirely happy in his own company.”
“What about you? You know lots about me and all I know is your name.”
“I'm much more a people person. I'd go crazy without anyone to talk to.”
“What's your line of work?”
“Journalist.”
“Oh!” he was set back. He'd assumed she was working on the campus.
“Problem?”
“No. Just I was trying to guess which university department you were in...”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not a disappointment. But I was thinking I recognised you from something, I guess I must have been wrong. Unless... might I have seen you on the news?”
“It has happened.”
“Urm... uh oh. let me guess... I just stuck my foot firmly in mouth, and I'm about to find out you're actually world-famous, and if only I watched the right channel I'd see you every night?”
“Not quite.” she said, with a laugh. “Normally I make it a policy to stay safely off-camera.”
“Why?” he asked,
“I can't be bothered to spend hours a day covering myself in war-paint. Can't have our reporters having imperfect skin, can we?”
“There's nothing wrong with your skin.” he asserted.
“Thank you, I actually agree. But apparently, the discerning viewer still doesn't want to see real skin on their screens, just makeup that looks like a more perfect version. A lie, in other words.”
“You don't like lies?”
“Not really, no.”
“Admitting that I'm straying into territory I don't know much about... what sort of journalism?”
“I guess you could call me an investigative journalist... I like catching public figures with questions they don't want to answer, and to do that you need to do some digging.”
Simon looked at her closely for a while, then nodded, with a frown. “I remember, two or three years ago, maybe I'd have seen you?”
Alice wracked her brains, trying to remember what she'd been working on that long ago which might have affected him. “Did I do something bad?”
“Depends on your point of view.”
“What about your point of view?” she asked. For some reason, it mattered.
“I think I'll have to think about it,” Simon said, deliberately neutral.
“Did I hurt someone you know? It's never my intention, but I know it happens.”
“Let's just say you made something public that had consequences, and those affected me.”
“So... tomorrow is off?”
“No, but it gives us something else to talk about.”
“I'm sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don't be. You were doing your job.”
“But I hurt you, or people you love.”
“Let's not talk about it now, Alice. You're guessing, and that's not really helpful.”
“I don't need to.” she whispered.
“No, you can wait until tomorrow.” he said, “Speaking of which, when would you like to leave in search of peace, quiet and fresh soggy hillsides?”
“The forecast says rain?”
“A chance of it, around lunchtime. I've got a plan, if you'll indulge me.”
“Indulge you how?”
“Leave the city by about nine, travel half an hour, and then start walking, lunch at a place I know while the rain falls, more walking, home by night-fall.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Would you prefer a mixed group? That's very easily arranged.”
“How easily?”
“We go along with the group from my Church who are going on roughly the same route, and were aiming for a different lunch stop.”
“Hmm. When do I make the decision?”
“Any time between now and when we meet up tomorrow morning. But either way, I'm buying lunch tomorrow.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because when you invite someone to lunch, its rude to make them pay. I've invited you, so I'm paying.”
“But I invited you to lunch here, and you paid for your sandwich.”
“That doesn't count.”
“You've got double standards.”
“Not at all. You just said that you wouldn't object to my company, tomorrow I'm seeking yours.”
“Even after I hurt you.”
He looked at her intensely. “Alice... It's Alice Findhorn, isn't it?”
“Yes! You know my name, how?”
Simon shrugged, “I remembered it. Can I ask you to do something?”
“Depends what it is.”
“Please stop apologising for being a lover of truth. Just love it more.”