Bright Young Things

  ‘It sounds so cool,’ says Paul. ‘How do you win the game?’

  ‘By making your character live to a hundred.’

  ‘What if your character dies before that?’ he asks.

  ‘Game over,’ she says. ‘It’s quite hard. Even I find it difficult.’

  ‘I bet it’s totally addictive,’ he says.

  ‘Mmm. I was quite inspired by playing games like “Final Fantasy VII”, where you do almost feel like your character has a real life, and you’re able to earn money and then spend it on things. One of the problems in the real world right now is that a lot of the time you can’t earn money even if you want to. So a game like mine allows a person to have a normal life, even if it’s just in a game, which is basically – except for a few random elements – fair and makes sense. Real life so isn’t like that. That’s why I thought the game would work. Plus, people can have fun experimenting with different characters. You can set yourself challenges, like you could choose to be a baby from really poor DSS parents, and try to turn the character into the prime minister or something.’

  ‘And this is a comment on what you think about the world?’ asks Paul.

  ‘No,’ she says defensively. ‘It’s just a game.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he says, smiling. ‘Whatever you say.’

  She smiles back. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ve often thought about designing a game,’ says Paul.

  ‘You should. It’s fun.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s not really going to change anything if I do, though.’

  ‘Change what?’

  ‘The world.’

  ‘The world? Anne starts laughing. ‘You want to change the world? How?’

  ‘By fucking things up. Making people aware. Why are you laughing?’

  ‘You can’t change the world. You have no control over it.’

  ‘You do, though. Especially now.’

  ‘Why now? Why not before?’

  ‘Computers. You must know what you can do with computer systems.’

  She frowns. ‘Yeah, I do, but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So you fuck up the system, which eventually fucks up the company . . .’

  ‘It’s like the “Horseshoe Nail” poem,’ he says. ‘If you can fuck up a nail . . .’

  ‘I loved that poem when I was a kid. How did it go? Oh, I remember: Because of the nail the shoe was lost, because of the shoe the horse was lost, because of the horse the battle was lost, because of the battle the kingdom was lost, and all for the want of a horseshoe nail. Something like that, anyway.’

  ‘Well, then, you can see what I mean.’

  ‘But no one ever won a battle by tampering with a horse’s hoof, Paul. The poem’s just a metaphor for what could happen if that particular horse was crucial to winning the battle. It doesn’t mean that if it happened to any horse the battle would be lost.’

  ‘So maybe I’m just trying to find the right nail, or the right horse.’

  ‘Do you think MoneyBaby does that? Do you think the horse is the banks?’

  Paul loves this girl. She thinks like him. ‘Yeah,’ he says.

  ‘So you really want to change the world, then?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, smiling at her.

  ‘Do you think people want that?’ she asks.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Normal people. Your mother, your friends, whoever. Do they want the world changed?’

  ‘They . . . I don’t know,’ says Paul. ‘Probably not.’

  Anne pulls a face. ‘They’ve been brainwashed,’ she says, in a film-trailer voice.

  They both laugh.

  ‘They have, though,’ says Paul. ‘They just want to buy stuff. Be entertained.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Anne. ‘They want to be entertained.’

  ‘I don’t get what you’re saying.’

  ‘Why not just let people watch their TVs and play their games and stuff?’

  ‘Because there’s more to life than that. More than just capitalism.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘You know it’s true,’ he says. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Yeah, but if these people don’t believe that, who’s going to convince them?’

  ‘People like me, I guess.’

  ‘What, by force?’ she says.

  ‘No, of course not. By educating people. Shocking them. Pranks.’

  ‘So you dress up as a rabbit and people throw away their TVs?’

  ‘You know it’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘The only way to have any effect on people is through entertainment.’

  ‘In what way?’ he asks.

  Anne looks like she’s about to say something profound.

  Then her expression changes.

  ‘Give them fun stuff to do. Make them nice games. Nice books. Nice films.’

  ‘Why?’ he says.

  ‘Because it makes life nice. No one wants to live in a time of revolution. Not when we’ve been lucky enough to be born into a time of luxury and wealth and quilted loo roll and chocolate-covered pretzels and a McDonald’s on every high street. What people don’t ever consider is that maybe McDonald’s isn’t an evil capitalist icon taking over the world; that maybe it’s just a convenient way of eating in a hurry, and people like it so much it’s everywhere. Maybe the power of the consumer is more valid than the power of the people. Or maybe there’s no difference any more.’

  ‘Do you believe all that crap?’ asks Paul.

  She shrugs. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘For someone who doesn’t care, you’ve sure given this a lot of thought,’ he says.

  ‘Maybe I have,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘Seriously,’ he says. ‘What you were saying about games and books and stuff . . .’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You were going to say something else, weren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she says.

  ‘You were.’

  ‘Why do you care?’ she asks.

  He moves closer to her.

  ‘Look, Anne, I’m being really honest with you right now. I’m not making jokes or messing around like I do with the others. You’re the first person who’s ever made me want to be totally honest, and, believe it or not, I actually care what you think.’

  ‘You care what I think?’

  ‘Why is that such a surprise?’

  ‘No one cares what I think.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why, though? Why me?’

  ‘You’re clever. And . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well tell me more, then,’ she says. ‘Do you actually go on protests and everything?’

  ‘Fucking hell, no,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t change anything that way.’

  ‘So all the stuff you do is computer-based?’

  ‘Yeah. I break into systems and do damage.’

  ‘And is this because you want to save the world, or just because you enjoy it?’

  ‘If I’m really, really honest? Both, I guess.’

  ‘Aha! I knew it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All this political stuff is just entertainment for you. I win.’

  ‘Is this a game?’

  ‘It is now.’

  ‘Well then tell me this: is your game just a game?’

  She smiles. ‘I think you know the answer to that.’

  ‘You’re not as cold as you make out, are you?’ he says.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I’m just living in a way that makes sense to me.’

  Paul unscrews something on the motor.

  ‘So what are you going to do now you’ve got friends?’ he asks Anne.

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you have any friends before?’

  ‘Didn’t need any.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s why?’

  ‘I prefer being on my own.’ S
he pauses. ‘It’s less . . . painful.’

  ‘I see,’ he says, looking at her. ‘Now I think I understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘What drives you.’

  ‘Why would you want to understand what drives me?’

  ‘Because I’m in love with you.’

  Anne hasn’t said anything for about ten minutes. She looks confused.

  ‘Anne?’ Paul says eventually.

  ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

  ‘I, uh . . .’

  ‘I take it you don’t love me back?’

  She still looks vacant, like she doesn’t understand the question.

  Paul’s not sure whether he should have told her. But, you know, this whole experience just has spill-your-guts written all over it. There’s something about discovering dead bodies and planning escapes and then talking about important things with the only person you’ve ever really cared about that makes a person want to be totally honest. And there won’t be time for any of this tomorrow. Paul can’t bear to think that they could all drown, and he’d have never told this person what he thinks of her.

  ‘Why do you love me?’ she asks eventually.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yeah. Why.’

  ‘Because you’re clever and funny and sharp and sweet and—’

  ‘But I don’t think the same things you do,’ she says.

  ‘I think maybe we’ve got more in common than we’re making out.’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe. But you hardly know me.’

  ‘I know you like strawberry milkshake.’

  ‘That’s a good start. I prefer Coke, though.’

  ‘I also know that inside you’re a very emotional person.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yeah. I know you care about a lot of things. That’s why you don’t do anything.’

  ‘That’s why I don’t do anything?’

  ‘Yeah. Because you care too much. You’d always be disappointed.’

  She looks down at her knees. ‘Maybe,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not going to ask you to change,’ he says.

  ‘I thought that was what came next?’

  ‘No. I love you the way you are.’

  ‘Well I’m not going to change, so that’s good, I suppose.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Will you kiss me?’ she asks eventually.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Anne wakes up at about seven. Paul’s lying beside her.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ he mumbles, when she sits up.

  ‘Shhh,’ she says. ‘Sorry I disturbed you.’

  This is the earliest Anne’s woken up in the last ten years. Rain is tapping at the window and it’s cold. She snuggles closer to Paul, watching the raindrops hit the glass pane and then trickle down it. The wind occasionally makes a sharp whistling sound, and when it does there are suddenly more raindrops on the window.

  It’s 9 September 1999, and Anne’s not a virgin any more.

  ‘I can’t believe I lost my virginity in a house with a dead guy in the attic,’ she says.

  ‘You said you wanted to do it Jerry Springer-style,’ he mumbles.

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘Anyway, I’m not that bothered about the dead guy any more,’ says Paul.

  ‘No, me neither,’ says Anne. ‘It’s like having a weird pet.’

  ‘The others don’t agree,’ says Paul, laughing sleepily.

  ‘No. Well, he is rotting. It’s a shame we can’t stay here now.’

  ‘Maybe we could,’ says Paul thoughtfully. ‘You know, if the dead guy goes.’

  ‘Everyone wants to go home, though, don’t they?’

  ‘Emily wants to heal.’

  ‘She thinks she does,’ says Anne. She yawns. ‘What time are we going?’

  ‘Well, the motor works now.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘When everyone’s up, I suppose. When it stops raining.’

  By midday, everyone’s standing by the cliffs. The boat is now fully inflated with the air pump Bryn found in the attic room. The motor works, which Paul demonstrates while everyone oohs and ahhs over how clever he is.

  The sky’s still grey, and the rain has turned to drizzle.

  ‘Right,’ Paul says, after killing the motor. ‘Who’s going, then?’

  It was obvious when the boat was inflated that it would only take two people at most.

  ‘Remind me of the plan again,’ says Anne.

  He grins at her. ‘Two people go. Or one, but two’s better. Get help. That’s it.’

  Emily’s shivering like a child who’s been in the sea too long. ‘Count me out,’ she says.

  ‘I want to stay and look after Emily,’ says Jamie.

  ‘And I’ve got a sprained ankle,’ says Thea.

  ‘I’m not going,’ says Anne.

  ‘Me neither,’ says Paul.

  Everyone looks at Bryn.

  ‘Don’t fucking look at me,’ he says.

  ‘Jesus,’ says Thea. ‘Someone has to go.’

  ‘I thought someone would want to,’ says Paul.

  ‘I’m epileptic,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Have you got any medication with you?’ asks Paul.

  ‘I don’t need it,’ says Jamie. ‘Unless I’m stressed.’

  ‘Oh, so the stress of being here has just been mild, then?’ asks Thea.

  ‘Yes, if you must know,’ says Jamie. ‘I’ve quite enjoyed it.’

  ‘All right,’ says Paul, sighing. ‘Do we have a plan B?’

  ‘We sort of had a plan B, didn’t we?’ Anne says to him.

  ‘Not a very good one,’ says Paul.

  ‘Spill,’ says Thea.

  ‘Just that we could send the dead guy instead of us. But that doesn’t—’

  ‘Cool,’ says Bryn. ‘Top idea, mate.’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t help us escape, does it?’ says Paul.

  ‘It might,’ says Thea. ‘If he was, what would you call it . . . a message in a bottle.’

  ‘A message in a bottle?’ says Jamie.

  Emily’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, ignoring everyone.

  ‘Message in a bottle,’ she sings.

  ‘Go on, Thea,’ says Paul. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Well, we could strap him to the boat and send him off to sea. He’d wash up somewhere, and whoever found him would be like, whoa, dead body, the same as we were, and then they’d tell someone because they’d actually be able to, and we’ll have left a note in the dead guy’s pocket, or stuck to him or whatever, that says: I’ve kidnapped six people and they’re on the island I’ve just floated from. Then someone will come and rescue us.’

  ‘That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard,’ says Paul, smiling.

  ‘I love it,’ says Anne. ‘It’s totally ridiculous.’

  ‘Can’t we just send the boat and the note?’ says Bryn, frowning.

  ‘There’ll be no weight,’ says Jamie. ‘The boat won’t float.’

  Anne laughs. ‘Does this all have to rhyme?’

  ‘Boat, note, float,’ says Emily, beginning to sway.

  ‘She can’t handle this any more,’ says Jamie. ‘Let’s just do it.’

  ‘Is everyone sure they don’t want to go in the boat themselves?’ says Paul.

  ‘We’re sure,’ says Anne.

  Paul smiles at her. I love you, he mouths, when no one else is looking.

  ‘I’m not touching the dead guy,’ says Jamie.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ says Paul. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ says Thea.

  ‘What about your ankle?’ says Bryn.

  ‘Oh, good point. You’d better go then,’ she says to Bryn, flashing a grin at Anne.

  ‘Go on, Jamie,’ says Anne. ‘You go as well. We’ll look after Emily.’

  Jamie turns a bit green, then a bit pink. ‘OK,’ he says.

  ‘Use a
sheet,’ Thea shouts after them. ‘Like a hammock.’

  ‘OK,’ Paul calls back.

  ‘Do they know what they’re doing?’ asks Anne.

  ‘Who knows?’ says Thea. ‘Anyway. Tell me about last night . . .’

  ‘You could compose the note,’ Bryn shouts to them.

  Jamie says something to Bryn that the girls can’t hear.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ calls Bryn. ‘Jamie says he’s going to do it.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Anne. ‘We’ll just sit here, then.’

  Thea smiles at her. They both look at Emily. She’s totally vacant.

  ‘Emily?’ says Anne. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ she says, snapping out of it. ‘I just didn’t want to go on the boat.’

  ‘Oh. We thought you were having an episode.’

  ‘I will be when they bring that thing down here,’ she says.

  The grey sky gets darker, and it begins to rain hard again.

  ‘Maybe I’ll wait in the kitchen,’ says Emily, looking at the sky.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ says Thea. ‘Anne?’

  ‘No. I like the rain. I’ll stay here and help the others when they come.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ says Thea.

  ‘Yeah. It’ll probably take four of us.’

  ‘OK.’ Thea smiles. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  After five minutes, there’s no sign of the boys and Anne’s totally wet. There’s something about standing in the rain, though. Something different from standing in a cold shower, which it basically is. Anne loves the rain. You never get wasps when it rains, and children aren’t out playing, and people don’t lie in parks. She wonders where they go in winter, those hedgehog-people you only ever see in London parks in spring and summer, gulping Diet Pepsi in their lunch breaks in their short-sleeved work shirts.

  Sunshine always ruins Anne’s walks in London. It’s too hot, there are too many people, and you just can’t feel properly alone in the sunshine. She wonders whether she’ll ever feel properly alone again now she has Paul. She smiles. She doesn’t mind, as long as he lets her walk in the rain on her own from time to time. She suddenly wonders where she’ll be taking these walks, and if they’ll ever take place off this island. The escape plan, after all, isn’t going very well.

  Anne imagines never seeing another Tango commercial or Levi’s campaign. She imagines not drinking Coke again, or going to McDonalds. She imagines not paying council tax and rent (soon, her parents have threatened), and not buying travel cards and magazines and videogames. She imagines not living in a world with stupid people and racism and violence and big corporations. She imagines living in a world in which people don’t travel, all energy is renewable, and nature is just, well, natural. Whatever she said to Paul last night, it would be pretty cool.