The Thousand Mile Memory

The importance of remembering, the folly of forgetting.

'Youre a f*****g junky', said Paul, the pawn shop owner, 'you know that, Peter?'

Peter surveyed himself mockingly, ran a hand down his haggard beard.

'I may be homeless, but at least I'm good looking.'

He pointed a finger forward. 'Better looking than you, anyway. Although that's not hard.'

They both sniggered. A young couple who looked eerily alike in their bright suede jackets and green bowlers darted accusing glances.

'Right,' hushed Paul, mopping sweat from his temple with a fat tattooed hand, 'I take it you're her for Absorption?'

'Well I'm not here for the f*****g company for Gods' sake.'

'Ive got a ten o'clock if you want it, but it's only a 38-F.'

Peter looked disturbed; he bit his lip.

'How much are we talking?'

A man sniffed in passing on his way to one of the display cases wherein small graphene tubes were stored,their labels reading things like 'first bike ride summer 58' and 'honeymoon 09.'

'Only joking mate, this one's a doozy,' said Paul. 'Wait til you see the state of him, he's literally shaking, he was waiting outside when I came to open. There's 175 in it for you.'

'F**k it,' said Paul, 'I'd remember you for 175 E Units.'

When Peter arrived in the Transfer Room, he saw that Paul wasn't joking; though well-dressed the man was utterly dishevelled. Eyes lost beyond knowing.
They nodded awkwardly to each other as Peter took the adjacent seat.

'Both of you have read the terms and have signed the binding agreement,' said Paul, 'so let's just get on with it.'

The lost-looking man sighed with relief, shaking his head, his braided pony-tail bobbing on his back.

'Sit back,' said Paul, mostly to the stranger, 'and let the machines do their work. Whatever it is your trying to forget will soon be gone...forever.'

The various devices whirred into life, emnating subtle hums.

1 (a)

A green film covers everything save a holoplayer which pierces through with staggering clarity. A video is playing in the mist and a woman's moans fills the air. Peters disembodied sphere of feeling experiences an alien shock to the system. The part of Peter that is still himself realizes that this video is probably a cheating girlfriend or wife. Otherwise the sale would be obsolete. There's a man and a woman copulation in the images and the man does not have a pony-tail. Dread overwhelmes the entire memory. Plain dread.

And then his eyes open.

Payment time.

2

'It is with great sorrow,' said the judge, 'but also a little pride, that I release you back into society Mr Kaczynski.'

Pride? thought Larry. Where does this prick get off?

'I just hope my deepest condolences and the apology of the justice system as a whole will be, in some way, sufficient.

Sufficient, Larry kaczynski's train of thought went on, My left bollock.

'And if not, the judge said wryly, 'the compensation might.'

Larry met the judges coy gring with his now-famous grimace, the one he'd been wearing when he was sentenced to death 7 years ago.

'I hearby dissolve all charges against you, said the judge, 'you're free to go.'

Larry coughed.

Shelly was waiting for him outside. She lit him a roley before he reached the car. They kissed each other for a long time, Larry gently pulling on her hair at the back. Then he dropped the roley to the floor and opened the passenger side door.

'I have some money to spend, let's get some real cigs, f**k it, some cigars. And a bottle of something strong.'

'First,' said Shelly, 'I've got a gift for you.'

'Just tell me what it is because I'm not in the mood for suprises.'

Dejected but still holding some semblance of hope she said, 'it's a voucher for one Absorption. I thought you might wanna start fresh.'

Allowing a large smile to form, Larry began kissing her on the neck. Now he knew for sure.

She had known he was guilty the whole time.

3

'What the f**k is this?' said Peter when he was handed the money. Paul looked more than apologetic; he looked embarrassed.

'The memory registered as a C when he came in,' he said, 'the pain mustve wore off during the Absorption.'

'But we signed the-'

'You know how it is Peter man, contingencies are in place.'

Peter sighed, eyeing the lost-looking, pony-tailed man at the display cases who seemed to have found himself very well indeed since part of his memory had been removed.

Peter called to him, 'are you sure that was-'

The man made a humming noise and put his fingers in his ears.

'F**k it,' said Peter to Paul, 'just give it to me.'

He received 75 E-Credits.

Later, he bought a small bag of OK from Garry, his usual dealer, and two more on credit til the next day. It wasn't greed, it was necessary just to cover the morning withdrawals. If a grade B or more did not come into the shop the following day he would be, to put it politely, fucked beyond measure. Lucky for him, when he got to the shop, Paul greeted him with uncharacteristic excitement.

'Petey me old buddy, where have you been?'

Peter looked bedraggled: huge lakes of purple beneath eyes of wine-coloured thunder, face pale, hair shaggy.

'Don't worry my friend,' said Paul, 'we'll have you tip-top in no time. Have a look at this.'

He handed him an e-sheet, something he'd never done before. But Peter was a regular, afterall.

'What am I looking at?'

'That,' said Paul, licking his lips at the thought of commission, 'is a textbook high grade B memory.

Peters heart burst into a new, upbeat rhythm.

'How much?'

'Ready?'

'Just-'

'1500.'

Peter couldn't talk for a moment. When he did, the words came out fragile as eggs.

'Now, the client has been waiting for twenty five minutes...he looks dodgy as f**k.'

Peter didn't even hear him.

When he got into the Transfer Room, Peter barely registered the man with the scarred neck sitting on the adjacent bench. Not even a nod. He was busy working out how many bags of OK he could buy and still have money left for a deposit.

A lot, was the answer.

What he did register was how calm the guy was. Usually, the man or woman was in a state of panic prior to having the memory transferred but this guy didn't seem too bothered.

'Before we start,' said Larry, 'there's a law against tattling isn't there?'

Paul stiffened. 'Eh, yeah. It's policy. Regardless of the content of the memory, the agreement includes a non-disclosure section so this young man can't say a word.'

'Just making sure,' said Larry and winked at Peter who smiled in turn. He was sure he had seen this man somewhere but his mind was racing too much with the prospects of the payoff to place him.

After Paul explained the conditions of the agreement the two men in the chairs were advised to relax, which they did, and soon the machines began their customary hum.

3 (b)

Her breath is steady as he digs in the knife for the 21st time. A deeply erotic sensation is fought off by bristling rage.

'I told you, didn't I?' says Larry, 'that if you ever lie to me, even once, it's death by a thousand cuts. We must be up to twenty by now...'

Her face, neck and upper body are covered in gashes of different depths dropping thick, oily blood down her naked body. Her hands and feet are tied down to the sturdy bedframe by crude but efficient knots, her eyes bloodshot and distant in their bruised sockets. She tries to plead but cannot even speak. Within Larrys form a shocked and sickened Peter resides, helpless to do anything but observe and endure.

'Please,' she finally manages to say and Larry feels something stir in his jeans. He slaps down hard on his rising penis.

'Down boy,' he grins toward his victim. She continues to cry quietly, knowing the futility of her tears. He moves toward her with the knife out.

Later he cuts her throat and and takes his penis out.

Later again he begins dismemberment, which seems to take an age. And all the while Peter watches, roaring internally.

4

When Peter opened his eyes there were tears streaming down his face. His heart rate would have shocked the most seasoned physician. And his hands: two gloves of jelly shivering on a high wind.

'Peter?' said Paul, 'you okay mate?'

It took a few moments for Peter to blink back into reality; when he did he saw the scarred man smirking at him.

'Jesus, what the hell did I do?'

As he stook awaiting payment Peter saw the man, no, the f*****g animal, get into a car with an attractive blonde.

What have I done? he thought. And then he remembered where he had seen that animal before.

The news.

As Paul was counting out the money he registered Peter's devastation, one not expected given the money involved, and so said, 'look mate, whatever it is you absorbed just remember it's not you, it will never-'

'I just want the money,' said Peter.

Concerned but unwilling to push it, Paul handed it over.

That night Peter bought three nights in a fairly nice hotel, an ounce of OK and a bottle of Rind 600. He gulped down the fruity alcohol and smoked the OK but it did not alleviate the torrential tension. He could not escape that poor woman's pleading, the blood-soaked flesh, the feeling of the cold blade as it cut and scraped and chopped the living and then dead flesh. Or all the unspeakable sexual acts he had seen but never thought existed in so-called civilised society. It was as if the memory was a living thing, chasing him through a thousand miles of psychic terrain. Peter thought it would never end. He drank faster researching it all on the hotel's bio-net. Smoked deeper and deeper as the woman's, Sandy Kaczynski's, wails continued unanswered in his head. Yes, he was going mad.

The next morning he noticed the disconcerted - or concerned, he couldn't discern anymore - faces of strangers as they passed him on the vile treadmill of the public street. He began making faces at them out of pure desperation and twice they scowled back at him. He even started whispering to himself 'no please' and 'I'll do anything.' Whether he was talking about the insanity he was sure was building within him or actually emulating Sandy Kaczynski's voice, he could not tell. The only thing he knew with any degree of certainty was that those gruesome memories had changed him forever.

Was it ever possible to go back? He didn't think so.

Going by the effect the memory had had on him, Peter considered it to be a grade A 1. Illegal. The only reason the initial memory had been given an A 3 was because the originator clearly had no conscience and therefore it had little negative effects on him. So how could he get rid of it with a rating that was surely above the law?

Begging.

5

Peter dragged himself into the pawn shop smelling like a brewery and a K house combined. When Paul saw him he actually considered pretending not to know him. Then pity set in and he ushered him into a small cubicle alongside the display cases.

'What the hell have you-'

'I need a favour,' Peter interjected in a voice at least three octaves lower than normal. Paul creased his face.

'What is it?'

'I need you to downgrade a memory for me. I don't care whose on the other end. I really don't. I just need to get rid of this, I'll do anything.'

'Sweet Anubis,' said Paul. 'Must be a really bad one if you're willing to pay.'

'I'm in no mood for jokes man, I need to get this outta my f*****g head...now.'

He growled the last word unintentionally.

Paul sighed. 'You know I can't do that mate, everything here is computerised.'

Surprising even himself Peter burst into tears. Quick, soundless sobs. When he spoke again his voice was high and strained.

'I'm going to die soon with the way things are, and I thought I was ready but I'm not. Not like this, not as me. There's too much I have to make up for before I go.'

'For Set's sake calm down man,' said Paul, 'well figure it out.'

'No!' roared Peter, 'I've tried to figure it out and you were my solution. If you can't help me then I'm going back to the hotel to find the biggest f*****g knife I can, and I'm going to stab myself through what's left of my heart.'

'Just relax...relax. Give me a minute. Let me tell the staff I'm going on a break and we'll sit down and figure this out. Okay?'

Peter sighed with brewing relief.

However, ten minutes later, he was sitting in the back of an ambulance on his way to the psych ward.

6

He did what anybody would do to get out of a psych ward: he lied. Said 'yes I'm fine, just a minor breakdown but I'm alright now, thanks for the help.

And, thanks to a shortage of beds, they chose to believe him. Little did they know that had in fact helped him, but in the darkest way possible. For in the three days he spent there he plotted his revenge on Larry Kaczynski.

It wasn't a purely selfish plan; killing this animal was, in anybody's opinion, for the betterment of ALL. And, of course, it might go some way to taming the raging beasts currently infesting Peter's head. At least the b*****d would never be able to hurt anyone ever again.

Getting the address was easy due to the amount of press involved in the case but following through with the intention of killing proved a lot harder than he thought.

7

It was night-time and the clouds occulted the moon. In the deep black of the backgarden not even his shadow was visible. But the floodlights kept coming on. He darted behind a brush of sage, waiting. Nobody seemed to notice. He moved forward again eyeing the many windows for any signs of movement.

He had no plan of escape.

Peter was going to murder him, there and then, and call the police himself. As for the blonde, he'd have to figure out what to do when or if she was there.

With an ungloved hand he picked the lock just like the Learntube video had showed him and soon he was inside a pitch-black kitchen. From his pocket he took a tasergun and butcher knife. Something creaked upstairs and Peter crouched instinctively as if on a battlefield. However, he was unaware that, regardless of the noise from upstairs, Larry kaczynski was in fact behind him.

8

Barefoot and blindfolded, Shelly paced slowly across the cold concrete floor. Larry had bought the house only three days ago and the carpet had yet to be fitted.

'What is it?' she said, smiling.

'Just wait,' said Larry, leading her to a thin wooden door.

The basement, she thought and, though still smiling, real worry set in. Here she was, blindfolded in a convicted murderer's house, heading towards the basement. A door creaked open and she heard a sound like a mouse chirping from somewhere below her.

'What is it?' she said again, her smile fading. Larry led her unsteadily down the freezing steps. The muffled sound became louder til it was a crescendo of squeaks and scratches. At the base of the stairs Larry took the blindfold off and Shelly gasped.

A man was tied down in a steel chair, like one from a pub garden, bleeding from one eye. The other eye was screaming for help, for his mouth was duct-taped shut.

'Surprise babe,' said Larry darting his eyes back and forth from her to the man in the chair.

'Remember all the times you said someone was watching you, well, turns out there was. And it was this sick f****r; he's a stalker, a pervert. He was following you but I took care of him for you babe.'

Peter shook his head violently from side to side in disagreement.

'Calling me a liar pal?' said Larry.

Peter stopped his movements, the thought of the myriad blows repeating through his body in a flash of remembered pain.

'I kept him for you to....well...have a go.'

'What?' Shelly barely heard the words over the full-body shock of the scene.

Larry moved toward her.

'Don't tell me you love me for my looks babe,' he said, 'remember what you said to me the night I got out?'

Shelly creased her brows, her eyes widening. 'I was pissed...babe.'

'Right,' huffed Larry, 'so basically you're a bullshitter then?'

'The-'

'Is that what you are? A f*****g bulshitter? Are you telling me my girlfriend is a filthy f*****g liar?'

'No babe,' Her eyes were huge now, 'of course not. I just need a minute, I'm just surprised is all. I want a hit before I do anything.'

Larry bore a smirk, shark-like.

'C'mon then,' he said, 'it's upstairs. Let's have a pipe then see what you're made of.'

9

Is death to be my redemption? thought Peter. For a life wasted on cheap drugs and cheaper drink. For merely consuming? For knowing there's something more, something sublime in the aether yet sitting around getting stoned all the time and feeling sorry for myself. If I hadn't been an addict then I wouldn't have absorbed such a disgusting experience and therefore went mad with revenge. If I had not been so selfish, I wouldn't be here.

Fresh rivers of tears careened down his face mixing with dry, crisping blood. There was nothing left to do but die well. Maybe it was his last chance at some kind of dignity - to die with honour. However, when the two assailants reappeared with a set of tools (screwdriver, mallet, iron file etc...), he knew he would not pass through the gates of mortality with silent decency.

10

During the night he was awoken by the slim silhouette of Shelly creaking quietly down the stone steps of the basement. When she reached the bottom she stood there regarding him like a trapped animal, a glass of water in her shaking hand. Finally she said, 'don't say anything, he doesn't know I'm doing this.

She slowly, stingingly, peeled the duct-tape across his mouth and lowered the glass of water to his crusty lips. After he had taken a long sup, she said, 'how did you really get here?'

Peter savoured the cool liquid filling his throat, said, 'I absorbed his memory of killing his wife and...I couldn't just sit around doing nothing. He did it, you know. Everything they say he did.'

'I know,' said Shelly, her eyes glazing tearfully with disgust.

They remained in mute contemplation for a moment. Peter was building up the strength to make a move, though Shelly was none the wiser.

'What are you doing with him?' asked Peter.

Shelly considered. 'He doesn't hit me,' was all she said.

'You need to get rid of him,' said Peter, his face almost lost in the gloom. 'You're going to get hurt.'

Shelly shushed him even though his voice remained quiet, barely a whisper. She shushed him because she knew he was right. After another few moments of wordless meditation Peter felt the encounter get away from him. He needed to act. Now.

'Can I have another sup?' he asked.

Shelly glanced down at the water in her hand as if she had forgotten it was there, then advanced slowly toward him.

Peter struck out with the one leg he had managed to get free during the night, thrusting sidelong in an arc. The glass went flying up into the air as her body flung backwards. She smashed against the back wall, her head making a dull crack against the concrete. The glass broke with a resounding smash. There was little time to make his escape.

Frantically, he searched in the dim light for a suitable shard. He found a triangular fragment and began scooping it toward him with his bare foot. The other splinters crushed against his soft underfoot and he suppressed a murmur of agony. Shelly seemed knocked out cold from the blow; her closed eyes showed no sign of consciousness.

Just as he managed to clench the shard between his toes, Peter heard a rumbling upstairs. A fear so potent it stung his heart set in. Desperately, he contorted his leg at a brutal angle in order to pass the shard to his teeth. With every muscle aching he placed the glass in his mouth, then craned his neck. He would only have one shot to drop the piece behind him, into his tied hand. The floorboards creaked above him. Larry had obviously realized that Shelly had absconded from the bed and there was no doubt where he was headed.

Great pools of sweat stood out on Peter's forehead as he dropped it. His heart was beating too fast for there to be any relief when he caught it between his fingers. Was there even enough time?

As quickly as his fingers would allow he began cutting awkwardly at the duct-tape on his wrists. Larry Kaczynski swung the little door open at the top of the stairs. Halfway down he realized the chair which had previously held his captive was now empty, but he was going so fast he could not stop in time.

A long sliver of glass appeared out of nowhere and pierced him directly in the eye. He squealed with the sensation.

'You f*****g...' was all he could scream as he groped blindly for his abductee. Peter grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him hard against the wall. Larrys face crashed against the concrete and it seemed that the whole house shook. Peter set off sprinting up the stairs, down the hallway, and out the door. The last thing he heard was Larry shrieking, 'you stupid b***h!'

11

Peter had never been in a hospital room this huge before. Didn't even know they had private rooms anymore. But the Guardian newspaper had paid for all medical expenses in return for an exclusive of the story. There was even talk of a book and movie deal. Peter was pondering about how he'd even go about writing a single page when a soft knock sounded on the door. Paul's grinning face appeared. 'Alright mate?' he said.

Peter shook his head. 'Obviously not. My only friend is a pawn-shop lacky.'

'Who said we're friends?' said Paul. 'I was just bored.'

He moved into the room, setting a chair alongside the bed. 'I would say you look like s**t but that's standard for you,' he said sitting down.

'I'd rather be ugly than fat,' said Peter pointing towards Paul's generous belly.
Paul laughed but then slowly settled into seriousness. 'Considering what you've been through you actually seem alright.'

'Yeah,' said Peter, 'it only took being kidnapped and tortured for two days to get me off the drugs.'

'Well you're clean now and from what I hear you'll never want for anything again. I take it you'll be back to the shop to have some memories transferred?'

'No,' said Peter. 'I wouldn't do that to anyone. I'm not him.'

He pointed to the misty images fuming from the holoplayer in the corner of the room which displayed images of Larry Kaczynski. The headline at the bottom read, 'Kaczynski Kills Again.'

After Peter's escape it seemed Larry had taken his anger out on the unconscious Shelly and then passed out himself from blood loss. That's how the authorities found him.

'And what about everything else?' said Paul referring to the hours and hours of captivity. Peter just shook his head.

He thought, if I have those memories erased I'll just go back to drink and drugs, to wasting away what should be a fullfilling existence. Some, though not all, people need those memories to survive. Harsh, painful reminders that things can always get worse, that happiness comes with living a clean life. Peter knew that in order to sustain his sobriety and therefore all the opportunities a sober life brings, he would have to live a life of constant contrast and eternal gratitude. Those recollections would serve to prove just how lucky he was, and he never wanted to forget that. From now on he was going to live life to the full and, in time, help others do the same.

'Turn that off, will you?' he said to Paul, tipping his head toward the image of Kaczynski.

The holographic mist disintegrated.


End

Kealan Coady December 2017