Some Day Days

Manuscript Edition

  Some Day Days

  C. Litka

  Copyright 2015 Charles Litka

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  Chapter 01 – Piece One – Kiss of the White Witch

  Yesterday

  The scent of grass and warm stone laced with fleeting wisps of chatter and laughter drifted through the open window, moving the curtains ever so slightly, without shattering the stillness of my room. I was meditating on the end of a summer’s day and the end of my second trinity term – labs completed, problems solved, papers written. Nothing left to do but to go down for the long vacation.

  ‘Gallagher?’

  My name. Knew the voice too. Mostly in dreams.

  ‘Are you awake, Gallagher?’ This with a rap on the door frame.

  Was I?

  I swung my stocking feet off the window sill, twisting to stand facing the open doorway. My heart gave a lurch, staggering me, taking my breath. How could the mere sight of her do that?

  Selina Beri – remote, unreachable, almost mythical, stood in the open doorway. A quantum event on a Newtonian scale.

  ‘May I come in?’ She asked with cool innocence.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Please. I’m just...’ well, stunned.

  She stepped into my room and casually considered it – tattered, in an end of term way, neglected for more pressing concerns, semi-broken up for going away. She looked at me, considered it too. I may do her an injustice with that line, but it’s close enough.

  ‘Sorry to drop by out of the blue. I was studying in the library and decided to take the chance you were in. My last exam is tomorrow and wouldn't you know, I ran into an issue I’d overlooked. I hoped, perhaps,’ she hesitated, found a word and continued, ‘on the basis of our nodding relationship you might be willing to help me.’

  Our “nodding relationship” was just that – I’d managed, on the several occasions, to contrive to be in position to wish her a good morning before or after Manaham’s Q & A session. She may've nodded in reply.

  ‘I feel foolish... Gallagher. But I’ll only take an hour of your time, that is, if you’re willing and not otherwise engaged,’ this with, perhaps, a ghost of a condescending smile.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I said and should have left it there, but half my ancestors are Irish and they were having none of that, ‘I was merely airing my socks, but that can certainly wait.’

  She was not amused.

  ‘Sorry. Of course, I’d be glad to help. I’m finished with term and have nothing at all planned this evening...’

  She nodded slightly. Obviously. ‘The issue is, well...’ she shrugged, watching me. ‘Remember, several weeks ago, the Manaham’s Q &A session when you and Professor Manaham had a rather extensive exchange of ideas on the impact of dyaries, those dynamic diary recorders?’

  Beri was referring to Manaham’s “The Philosophical and Policy Implications of Technology” lecture that somehow we both ended up taking this term. A gift of the gods as far as I was concerned. Since lectures are recorded online videos, live interactions with lecturers are called Question and Answer sessions, though who questions and who answers is open to interpretation. Some professors use this time to update their recorded lectures and answer questions, others believe in finding out who actually viewed their recorded lecture by asking the questions.

  ‘Er, yes,’ I said, likely blushing.

  ‘You seemed to know quite a bit about the subject.’

  ‘A hobby of mine. I use a dyary myself... And I spent my gap year, and spend my vacations working for an anti-surveillance firm, so, you see, I’m familiar with the technology and some of its implications. But he did go on and on about it,’ I added, apologetically.

  She waved that aside, ‘You impressed him. The thing is that he merely mentions dyaries in passing during the actual lecture so I dismissed the whole thing as Manaham off on a tangent and based my study program on his lecture material.

  ‘But today, as I was doing a quick sampling of past Q & A sessions, I was dismayed, and I’m putting that very mildly, to discover that for the past several years he’d spent the better part of that particular Q & A session also on dyaries. And without a Gallagher to spur him on,’ she paused and then with a sigh, ‘Finals have no doubt driven me around the bend, but I can’t help but feel that the implications of dyaries on public policy is exactly the type of question I’ll find on my final tomorrow – important enough to spend almost a whole Q & A session on, but missing in the recorded lectures...

  ‘I’m a mathematician, not some sort of policy maven. The philosophy part of my major was just something to keep my parents happy. They have civil servant ambitions for me, you see. I’ve put off and neglected that aspect of my degree, so when I discovered an issue I know nothing about – I’m quite the luddite – on the last day, it sent me into a panic. I’m certain some paranoia and panic are common around finals, but I can’t afford to overlook anything...’

  Shinge strolled through the door, buttoning his shirt. ‘Care to step out... Oh my,’ he stopped. ‘You’ve company...’

  ‘Omar V Shinge, Selina Beri,’ I said, introducing them.

  Omar was not one to be staggered for long. He beamed, ‘Ah, the incomparable Selina Beri, it is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Beri. Hugh has often spoken of you.’

  That was a lie. I mentioned her once before I’d learned to keep my mouth shut about such things. I glared at him. He smiled back.

  She gave him a faint icy smile, ‘Nice to meet you. I’ve called on Gallagher for his expertise in dynamic diaries.’ On the off chance anyone would imagine this to be a social call.

  ‘Then you’ve come to the right shop.’ Omar replied merrily, never deterred. ‘What Hugh Gallagher doesn’t know about gadgetry isn’t worth knowing. I'm only sorry I can’t stay to learn more myself, but I’ve promised to meet the gang for a night out, dull the pain of parting and all that. Why don’t you kids joint us – I’m sure the whiz and bang of dyaries can be put off an hour or two. The evening is still young.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve that final tomorrow and still have work to do.’

  Omar shrugged. ‘You worry needlessly, Miss Beri, but once Hugh sets you right, join us. He knows where to find us.’

  He bowed slightly and humming ‘When You Wish Upon a Star’ left, closing the door softly behind him with a Cheshire cat grin.

  Beri removed her hat and glanced at my desk. Taking the hint, I pushed my stuff to one side clearing a space and offered her the chair. I pulled the other one closer.

  The initial shock had worn off – I was now just scared. Hardly dared look at her. I knew this was plain on my face. Nothing I could do about it. If Selina Beri was the queen of the Seelie Court come a'calling, the world would not have seemed more fey. I was not at ease.

  She pulled her watson out of her bag and placing it on the desk, turned to me. ‘I glanced over Manaham’s suggested readings but they seemed rather thin on policy. I’ve looked in on some dynamic diary sites, which have, no doubt, lots of useful information, but most of it’s buried deep in discussion threads. These can be m
ined, but not in the time I have at my disposal. To save time, I’ve jotted down a series of questions.’

  ‘Okay... fire away,’ I said.

  In expanding my written diary I've no intention of expanding its readership, which is to say, me. However, in trying to make this piece a “story” it seems to need a brief explanation of dyaries. So...

  Dynamic diary devices, known simply as ‘dyaries’ have been around for several decades. However, only in the last few years, have they become a growing fad in the twentysomething set, especially among students where they can be quite useful in recording discussions, labs and such for later review. Beri was an exception in this regard. Dyaries consist of a constantly recording micro-sized video-camera and mic which is connected wirelessly to a storage device, usually one’s mobile communicator, that is to say, one’s “watson”. The micro-cam can be unobtrusively mounted as jewellery, though the most useful ones are hidden in the frames of glasses or on hats where they follow the movement of the wearer’s eyes. Hardware and software smooth the jerkiness of the camera and tailor the audio to deliver a complete day-long record of what the wearer sees and hears.

  Being able to record all that goes on in a discussion with your tutor or in lab for later review can be a valuable resource, so dyaries are commonly used by many Oxford students. But there are other reasons people use dyaries as well. As I’m a person who is into gadgets, and an early user of dyaries – in a rather shallow, thoughtless way I'm quite familiar with them. Arriving at Oxford and exposed to a far wider intellectual horizon, I’ve become increasing thoughtful about their implications. If dyaries ever should become more than a fad, it will mean that everything you do while you're wearing a dyary, or do with anyone who uses one, will be preserved, not only in memory, but in a manner that can be viewed by anyone, potentially everyone, at any time and for as long as the record exists – a life time or longer. Your whole life will trail along behind you for as long as those records exist – and many of them will be outside of your keeping. And then, when you consider that those records have the potential not only to be stolen, but to be altered or false ones created out of whole cloth, you can see just how potentially disruptive this technology is to the way we live our lives today. But I’d best stop here. I tend to get carried away on the subject.

  Beri began by asking questions concerning the technology of the device. I could, and did answer her questions authoritatively. I’m a geek. So I told her how effective the device was and how effective it was likely to become and how soon, how easily its records could be used, archived and preserved, and then how hard, or easily, those records could be hacked, altered, or fabricated – in great depth and detail. Old hat...

  Selina Beri is not old hat. She is, you’ve gathered, the flame and I, a moth. She’s also a brilliant mathematical student, with an impressive first in her Honour Mods and two well received papers published in a first rate journal of applied mathematics to her credit. As a brilliant, posh, and very attractive science major, she’s been the subject of a fair amount of gossip within our college, which formed the sum of what I knew about her before yesterday.

  She’s two years ahead of me at the uni and completely out of my league, perhaps even above Omar’s orbit. She’s cool, even cold, posh, and outside a small group of mostly postgrad friends, unapproachable. I gather attempts by bolder souls outside of this group to get to know her have not ended well. Until this term, I’ve contented myself with admiring her from a safe distance on the rare instances when she dines in college or seen out and about Oxford. This term, finding myself in the same lecture with her, I’ve been able to stare at her for two hours a week and wish her an occasional good morning with no discernible effect, until now.

  Now sitting next to me at the desk, or pacing the room or finally settling into the club chair, she was all mine to talk to and watch for the fleeting hour. She was very much the mathematician, coolly approaching dyaries in great detail and depth, building her understanding point by point, line by line – I, a mere source to be mined. Luckily I’d spent years thinking about dyary issues so I kept pace with her once we drifted from technology to the broader social and policy issues of dyaries. Not only had I read those threads she hadn’t time to read, but contributed to them.

  She was writing notes with a stylus on her watson and I said something which I can’t recall clear enough to record when she said sharply, ‘Don’t flirt.’

  ‘I’m flirting?’ I asked, startled. ‘I’m sure I don’t know how.’

  ‘I was being charitable. Don’t do whatever it was you were doing, if you’d be my friend.’

  Friend. Did she actually mean that or was she just speaking absently? I didn’t dare reply. I just watched her scribble on her watson.

  A minute later she gave me a quick, unreadable glance. Had she just realized what she had said or was she wondering how I took it? In any event, she said nothing more and went on writing.

  More and more now, our discussion often tapered off into silence as she mulled the implications of what we had talked about. During these silences, I was content just to watch her discretely – just to feel my heart lurch. As I said, dyaries were old hat to me, but Selina Beri...

  In the ruddy light of the setting sun I watched her work – stylus flying over the watson's screen on her lap. ‘What are you writing in? Sanskrit?’ I ventured.

  ‘Shorthand.’

  ‘I’ve not seen that used before.’

  ‘I can write as fast as I think. The watson reliably converts it into searchable text.’ she answered without looking up. ‘The reason you’ve not seen it is that it takes time and effort to learn shorthand – more than most are willing to make. Now leave me to work.’

  Five minutes could go by in silence now – she was writing outlines for test answers. We had been going about this for almost two hours. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said without looking up.

  I filled and plugged in the electric kettle, found an unopened packet of biscuits in the cupboard and set them out on the rickety end table next to her. I poured the boiling water into two big mugs, the tea in a yellow submarine infuser for her cup, and gave it time to brew.

  ‘Milk or sugar?’ I asked. ‘It’s a China Keemun.’

  ‘Plain would be fine,’ she said.

  I carried them over to the table, their steam trailing golden in the sun light, now slanting deep into the sitting room. She looked up and thanked me, absently.

  She slipped her watson into her courier bag, took off her glasses, set them on the table and brushing her fringe out of her eyes, she said quietly, ‘I still don’t see a way to manage all the implications of dyaries. Your suggestion that dyary records should be held to be intrinsically unreliable and unverifiable may indeed be the only way. However, I doubt I could sell that as an exam answer. Somehow, it does not sound like an answer that would win me many points...’

  ‘We’ve been able to tear down every other alternative we’ve come up with. The examiners can do the same. Even so, it might be safer writing a more conventional answer.’

  ‘I’m tempted to do just that. I doubt that I’d have the time to develop an answer to justify the idea that evidence cannot be used – even in criminal cases – because of a broad general rule that dyary records are unreliable. Once people see a video record, they’ll believe it, even if the law says they shouldn’t.’

  ‘If these devices ever come into wide use, people will come around to understanding that they can be used to direct an investigation, but not to convict, because in the end, their authenticity can never be guaranteed. And I’m certain they’ll grow to appreciate that many things we do in life are best unseen, forgotten, or at least unprovable. The inauthenticity of these records will be seen as a virtue, though in the long term, we may have to become comfortable living our lives naked.’

  ‘Some would like that.’

  ‘Depends on the climate, I’d imagine.’

&nbs
p; She glanced to me, unsure of my intent. But I was just keeping the conversation from ending, so I looked innocent enough.

  She closed her eyes again and we sat in silence. She looked very tired. Perhaps, like Sherlock Holmes, she was feeling the reaction to the rush of events since her discovery of the slightest chink in her study program. I cast about for things to say, but around her I couldn’t trust myself not to say something stupid. I said nothing, so we sipped our tea in a rather surprisingly companionable silence.

  ‘I appreciate all your help, Gallagher. I may well end up using none of it. Still, the peace of mind is worth it. I don’t like being unprepared... And I really need to earn a first...’ she said without opening her eyes. Then with a little shake of her head she added, ‘Everything should’ve been well in hand. So when I found an issue I’d overlooked – on the afternoon of my last day – it hit me at my most vulnerable point and sent me running to a perfect stranger.’

  ‘We’ve a nodding relationship,’ I ventured. ‘Hardly a perfect stranger.’

  She smiled slightly without opening her eyes.

  ‘I also appreciate your ability to keep still. I do need silence to think things through.’

  I said nothing. She opened an eye and glanced at me. I smiled and she laughed quietly.

  ‘You’re good at it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She sighed. ‘I suppose I’d best be going – this wasn’t on my precisely crafted schedule. I’ve still things to accomplish.’

  She still frightened me, a bit, especially now that I’d have to entertain her on a purely social basis, but I knew I’d never forgiven myself if I just let her go away. ‘Please stay for a while longer. Do you a world of good. You’re more than prepared and you know that. Relax. Take a breath or two, finished your tea, have a few more biscuits, sit and soak in that sunlight. Do nothing at all. That’s what’s called for now. You needn’t say anything. You know how good I’m at that.’

  She sighed. ‘I suppose, perhaps, for a little while. I certainly don’t feel like getting out of this chair at the moment. Not even sure I can...’

  ‘It does sag rather deeply. Very cosy.’

  ‘I may be as prepared as I’ll ever be, but that doesn’t make me feel comfortable. Finals do that to you. I feel like I should be doing something. Still, you’ve given me several hours of your time, your expertise, tea and biscuits – I’m obliged to you,’ she added, rather obliquely.

  ‘You saw what I’d planned for this evening, so you don’t have to worry on my account. I’ve enjoyed... our discussions...’ I finished lamely.

  She considered me briefly, giving nothing of her thoughts away. Of course she was aware of my, well, admiration for her, even before she’d come around. Still, as long as I said nothing, I hoped she’d overlooked it.

  She took a sip of tea and closed her eyes again. ‘It’s been a demanding year. So much work. My senior project took up ever so much time and effort, and now these last hectic weeks spent catching up on the philosophical side. I haven’t had time to relax all term. Still, I don’t suppose it’s any different for everyone else in their last term. When do you finish up – next year?’

  ‘No. I've two more years in my program.’ I replied, thought of adding more, but that might well break the spell, telling her nothing she cared about.

  ‘Enjoy them while you can,’ she said, pausing before continuing, ‘I think this year has been harder for me, emptier, and far less enjoyable than it should've been. My best friend and a good many other friends have either moved on or were wrapped up in their own demanding work. Looking back now, I’d never have guessed how much I'd miss them, how much I needed their company and consul. They’d not have let me work so relentlessly. Still, it’s almost done. I just want it over. Sorry to be so gloomy.’

  ‘Oh, I was feeling rather blue myself, before you came. Hate to leave, even for the long vacation.’

  ‘For me it’s more of feeling blue that I’m not sad about leaving. Oh, my first two years were quite wonderful, but the last two... This past year I could’ve done my research and work anywhere, given how little time I spent in college life. Can’t help feeling I’ve wasted, well, things I can’t quite put my finger on...’

  ‘Still there’s next fall with the long vacation to put all that behind you,’ I said hopefully.

  She shook her head. ‘Not really. I start my “plum”, a plum position with the Treasury Office on the first of July as a Level B Research Clerk in the Office of Budgetary Statistical Analysis,’ she replied listlessly.

  ‘Oh... You’re going down for good?’ I said, suddenly a whole lot bluer. I tried to rally, ‘I hope this plum is more interesting than its title.’

  ‘Ha,’ mirthlessly. ‘I doubt it. Only on my best days can I work up any optimism at all. Mostly it’s just dread.’

  ‘Then why be a Level B Research Clerk? Why such a hurry to leave Oxford at all? You’ve certainly a brilliant postgrad and academic career ahead of you – if you go that route. Or have you grown that tired of our feckless student life? I’m sure that with the hard lessons learned this last year, you could find the joy again in student life.’

  ‘Don’t make me more maudlin than I am. Of course I don’t want to go down with only an undergrad degree. But, you see, my parents have arranged this plum for me... But you really don’t want to hear all this do you? And really, I don’t want to sit around whining about my petty problems...’ she sighed.

  ‘I believe it’s called venting, a method of unwinding, and unwinding is exactly what you need to do. You know I’m a sympathetic audience...’

  She gave me a sharp, warning glance.

  ‘...based on our nodding relationship,’ I added warily. ‘You needn’t fear I’ll be indiscreet. I’m not clueless. We're ships passing in the night.’

  She considered that in silence for a while. And then with a sigh, ‘I’m rather like a runner at the end of a marathon – too tired to be myself. Even just sitting with you is out of character these days. My present mellowness has everything to do with exhaustion and nothing to do... Well I really don’t want this mellowness to mislead you. I am the person I’m reputed to be.’

  ‘Actually, since I hardly know you at all, I don’t think I could know the difference...’

  ‘Pull the other one, Gallagher,’ she said. ‘I’ve earned a reputation for being cold, unsocial, high handed, a right posh. And it’s well deserved. You’ve now had your official warning.’

  ‘Fair enough. But you needn’t be so guarded. I’ve no expectations or illusions. You’re here on account of my knowledge of dyaries. As a consulting geek, I often do this for people. I hope I've put you at ease, or as at ease as anyone can be during finals. And as part of my professional service, I’m offering you a further opportunity to relax and unwind by taking an hour of your time just to kickback with, well, a friend of the flying hour – professional, discreet, no illusions.’

  She shrugged. ‘All right Gallagher. I rather doubt I've the energy to climb out of this chair of yours anyway.’

  I quietly let out the breath I was holding and said, ‘Great. So tell me more about your plans and your plum.’

  She took a sip of tea. ‘My parents view an advanced degree as a waste of time – I’ve already wasted a year taking a four-year degree in Mathematics and Philosophy instead of three in PPE. And since I’ll have no need to worry about promotions – as long as I don’t make a hash of things – what use have I of an advanced degree?

  ‘My parents are mid-level mandarins – my mother, a Tory party nabob, and my father, an upper-level civil servant. They expect me to follow in their footsteps, especially since there's a long tradition in both families of serving the British Crown, in one capacity or another, for ages. Though our early ancestors in India and China served in far humbler situations – servants, native officials, native wives of missionaries or native mistresses of soldiers – several hundred years of persistence has paid off, more or less. My parents have arran
ged a nice, secure position for me – an extension of the Beri bureaucratic fiefdom. They’re shockingly traditional for this day of age, and simply expect me to fall into the family line... And I’ve done nothing to dissuade them...

  ‘The thing is that even a Level B Research Clerk should actually have an advanced degree, probably in economics or finance, but a ‘double first’ in Mathematics and Philosophy will just about do. The fact that the position is already mine – the cart before the horse – tells everyone how this plum fell into my lap. So you see why it's so important that I earn a ‘first’ in the finals. Not only does it move the horse to its proper place, but any subsequent promotions I might receive might be defendable as well.

  ‘Oh, it is all meant kindly enough, they love me and want to see me succeed, but within the rather narrow light of their experiences...’

  We sat in silence, I did not quite know what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry...’ more or less thinking out loud.

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re wondering how I could let things just happen this way?’

  I shook my head ‘no’, but she had turned to stare out the window.

  ‘The fact is that I’ve not taken any interest in my future. My mathematical studies, my papers and my final project have been my sole passion. In fact, they’ve been my refuge. An end in itself. I’ve not given my future any real thought and hardly any effort... since other people – like my parents – have. So here I am, a prospective Level B Research Clerk. And so you see, I can’t really complain. I know the Treasury is not what I want to do with my life, or at least I don’t think it is... See how I hedge! On the other hand, I don’t suppose it’ll do much harm to work at the Treasury for a while –I might even be able to apply my expertise, until I decide what I want to do with my life. I can, if I care to, look on it as my gap year. In a year I’ll have earned some money so I could return to college on my own if I felt like it. Of course, I don’t dare tell my parents that.’

  ‘That, at least, sounds more encouraging, both the part about using your work in your new position and maybe continuing on with school.’

  ‘We’ll see. I haven’t had the time or curiosity to delve deeply into what sort of research the Office does, but I presume it gathers and analyses a great deal of economic data for government planning purposes. What I’ve been working on these last two years is a new mathematical model that can be used to identify micro trends within extremely large bodies of data. My research project actually involved using mega-data from the high energy particle physics experiments that came out of the SLHC in Geneva, but I’d think the same procedures and techniques could be applied to economic data as well. Assuming, I get the chance.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t you get a chance? You’ve a brilliant college record, published a well-received paper and patrons on high, so why shouldn’t they put you to work?’

  'Oh, I don't know... It's just that sometimes I feel like I'm treated differently, like I'm somehow too attractive to be really intelligent. Clever, perhaps, but not truly intelligent. I know that sounds vain – I am vain – or that I'm being overly sensitive, readings looks or remarks all the wrong ways. And maybe I am. But it annoys me that I'm valued more for my looks than for my work or ideas, which often seem to be treated with subtle surprise or suspicion, or even resentment, as if you can't have both a brain and looks. It's like I’ve somehow cheated – it's one or the other, not both. I mean, really, I don’t wear make-up. I don’t wear high heels, mini-dresses or padded bras. The only thing I won’t do is make myself dowdy to fit their stereotypes.... I can be stubborn as well as vain.’

  In my opinion Selina Beri is the most beautiful girl in the world, but I let that pass without comment, knowing the fate of fellows bolder than I...

  ‘Even here at the uni there’s been times when I’ve felt the need to make an extra effort to prove my work was my own. It’s nothing overt, and maybe it's all just in my head, but a joking comment, or extra interest in my research resources, seem to imply that I couldn't have come up with this on my own. As I said, maybe I'm just imagining it, but I fear I'll find more of the same attitude within the stuffy corridors of the Treasury office. Really, why do people find it hard to believe that a mathematical formula I derive, comes from my own original thinking? Why must I be suspected of just being clever, instead of intelligent? Of using my looks rather than my brains, plying my charms on some malleable male, squeezing their vast brains of every drop of intelligence and then calling it my own...’

  She caught the grin on my face, shot me an icy glare and a dark frown...that turned in an instant to a wide smile and a free, youthful laugh.

  ‘Why, you don’t count, Gallagher!’ she exclaimed with a wave of her hand. ‘I certainly didn’t use charm to pick your vast brain. A presumptuous rudeness, not charm. But you see how it works. I can't even consult a friend (My heart lurched.) without it being construed as stealing some man’s expertise.’

  ‘I’m certain first rate minds recognize your brilliance, since even I do,' I added with a smile. 'And just for the record, I know that in tracking me down, you weren’t being lazy, just far too zealous in your research.’

  ‘No. I was panic stricken... But then, I knew you’d be a soft touch. Why, I’ll bet if someone like that shy, stuffy Alicia Charters turned up crying at your door and told you that her watson was dead after dropping it into the river with all her projects’ latest revisions unbacked up, you’d not only manage to get it up and running again, projects intact, but serve her tea and scones just as you've done for me....’

  I could not suppress a startled expression which had Beri laughing again.

  ‘I’ll spoil my effect, but I saw you, the dyary expert, dining with Charters, during a recent dinner I had in college. I know Charters rather slightly through a Women in Science Society. So I rang her up and asked if I could drop by her rooms for a few minutes to have a little chat about you along the lines of if you were someone who would be willing to help me, someone who was not a...,’ and here she stopped, loss for how to put things.

  She glanced at me. ‘You’re not going to help me here, are you?’

  I smiled and shook my head ‘no’.

  She laughed and said, ‘Anyway, that shows you how desperate I was. Charters kindly obliged and we had a little chat before I showed up at your doorstep. You’ll be happy to know you came highly recommended. She said you were friendly, down to earth, someone I could trust. So you see, I’m neither as bold nor as foolhardy as I may have seemed.’

  ‘I’ll certainly thank Ali when I see her.’

  ‘I will too. But, Gallagher, I hate harping on this point, just don’t underestimate my reluctance to get entangled at this point with even friendships – or my ruthlessness in avoiding those entanglements.’

  ‘I won’t. Ships in the night...’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, or anyone else’s for that matter – it’s just that I’m so weary of dealing with infatuated boys – puppies are how I like to think of them. They think that just because I don’t have a boyfriend I’m fair game. Even my parents bring them around, sons of old and dear friends and valued colleagues. Old customs die hard. At least those boys are often no more keen than I, to seal a family alliance. The puppies are more annoying. They seem always underfoot and why? Merely on account of how I happen to look, which is nothing I can take any credit for. I assure you they’re not mathematician groupies, which is something I can take credit for. You've no idea how tiring it is to have these fellows vying catch my eye, to talk to me, eager for a look, a favour, the chance to be at my beck and call...’ she caught herself, and suddenly looked at me.

  ‘Sorry. I hadn’t meant that to sound cruel, or imply anything about you. No doubt you have a pack of girls hanging about you...’

  ‘For computer support, unfortunately.’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Count yourself lucky. At least it’s for an accomplishment, not a gift. How’d you feel if all they ever seem
to value in you is merely what you look like...’

  ‘That’s not very likely...’ I laughed.

  She waved that off with a laugh. ‘You never know...’ She paused and then added, ‘I hope you realize my pack of puppies is a gross exaggeration. It just seems like a pack because I've become over sensitive to being judge solely on how I look rather than what I've accomplished with study and hard work.’

  I don’t know exactly how big a pack we puppies are – no club meetings or summer outings – but I do know that I wasn't the only fellow who spent a great deal of his time in Manaham’s class studying Selina Beri from the best seat that could arrange, and our dyary records would convict them, as it would me.

  ‘What is it about me, anyway?’ she asked. She lifted one of her legs into a patch of the mellow sunlight, ‘Perhaps my ankles... I think they are quite nice.’

  ‘Now that you point them out,’ I said (just to be on the safe side), ‘they’re quite charming. But I think most people, even the puppies, see things in you beyond your beauty. And, well, some – and I’m just theorizing here – might not have made a deliberate decision to, ah, to have a crush on you. Sometimes those things just happen all by themselves and who can say why, or do anything about it?’

  She glanced at me. ‘If you didn’t look so innocent, I’d be wondering who you’d been talking to...’

  I was talking about me... and knowing hardly anything about her, I gave her a puzzled look. ‘Huh?’ I asked.

  ‘Let’s just say that all through my teen years, I was notorious for developing instant crushes on the looniest collection of boys. I try to forget, but my best friend Grace won’t let me... Fortunately, I was too shy, too gawky, and had a friend like Grace, a year older and a lot more down to earth, to keep me out of trouble... I suppose I should be more understanding...’

  I raised an inquiring eyebrow, but she just smiled and shook her head.

  ‘In any event,’ I continued. ‘there’s more than your looks that attract, even though you guard your private self rather effectively. If some are too callow to see beyond your beauty, so what? You have true friends and family who appreciate you for so much more than your attractive ankles.’

  ‘Outside of family and a few close friends, I doubt it, and if they exist, they are wise enough to let well enough alone. And well advised.’

  Warning noted. Again.

  ‘I know I’ve a reputation for being aloof, cold and heartless’, she continued in a low voice, ‘But what am I to do? String the admirers along? Use them to flaunt my good fortune? Find amusement in their striving and silly ways while always ready to cut them when they try too hard or get too bold? I think it better to puncture their infatuation quickly. Kindness in coldness, I tell myself. They write a sad sonnet, drink a few pints, and move along to gawk at some other poor girl, and I earn a reputation that discourages at least some of the puppies. Am I wrong, Gallagher?’

  I shrugged. It had not discouraged me, but I lied, ‘Infatuation doesn’t last, no point in prolonging it. You’re not really doing more than what’s necessary...’

  ‘I don’t know... maybe I’ll just follow the old customs... Or I’ll become a nun. That will serve them... But since I’m being this candid, I’d not have you believing that I’m some sort of long suffering saint. I’ll cheerfully admit that there have been times that I've enjoyed delivering the short and sharp to some of my eager pack. The hounds, bigger, more experienced boys. The boys who are in love with themselves and imagine that finding themselves so wonderful, I couldn’t do otherwise. Boys who had gotten the idea that I was something other than what I am. I 'd toy with them and lead them on for a while, back when I was in my darkest moods.’

  ‘Just to show you what I had to put up with... Well, I’m no doubt telling you nothing you don’t already know, but some of these hounds used their dyaries to produce an avatar of me in their game kits or on their watsons. They then would insist on showing me their Beri avatar, always an eager member of their imaginary harem. You’d not believe some of the bodies they give to my avatar... The real one they can’t acquire, I assure you. We may not be really rich, but I can afford an anti-spy device to fry their eye-flies and such. Some girls, I know, will brag that they have eye-flies all about their place... It is said that, well, I’ll not banter names, some are said to have walls dotted with eye-flies...’

  ‘Tanya ___,’ I remarked, not exactly thinking...

  ‘Why Gallagher, I’d not have thought that you ran with that crowd.’

  ‘I don’t. But when that crowd’s tech toys get broken, they turn to the crowd I run with to get them up and running again. Besides, those types of things get around – everyone knows of Tanya.’

  She gave me a long look, harder to read.

  ‘Do you have an avatar of me?’ she asked quietly.

  I could have lied and said “No”, but I don’t lie well. She’d know, she’d quickly finish her tea and go. And I didn’t want to lie to her. So with nothing to lose, ‘Yes.’ I said, and hurrying on, in the hope of forestalling half a cup of a tepid tea in my face...an alternative I hadn’t considered until I saw her look. ‘Not anything like the avatars of your hounds. You see, I’ve spent a significant portion of my youth playing a sci-fi role playing game, and I’ve recently started using your image for one of the characters...’

  She emptied her mug, ‘Thanks,’ she said sharply and started to rise from the club chair.

  Instinctively I reached over to put a hand on her arm. ‘Please, Selina. A chance to explain?’

  She just looked at me for a long moment, or two. Then she shrugged and settled back into the chair, still watching me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and finding my hand on her arm, pulled it back quickly. I paused to consider what I needed to say. ‘I think I need to try and assure you, that, well, I’m harmless, a puppy if you will. I hope you realize from our discussions that I’m well aware of the privacy issues in our very Orwellian society. Anyone who attempts to acquire information beyond what’s provided by an individual for the public has crossed a line and is on a steep and slippery slope to being someone creepy. I’ve occasionally run across such fellows on the cyber side of the issue, and I assure you I don’t want to be like them. I truly felt I hadn’t crossed that line with you, either in the cyber or real world. Until this evening, I knew very little about you-- basically your published works and whatever gossip happened to come my way over the last two years. And well, I’ll admit that the several times I was able to say hello to you... establishing our nodding relationship... was not entirely by chance, but I believe that is fair in the game...’

  She may have nodded, but she’s one of those people that can look right at you and give nothing of her thinking away.

  I continued, ‘However, since I’m feeling very embarrassed at this moment for having used your images in a game, I suspect that I compromised my principles a bit. Even though it seemed right at the time. I never really expected to ever have a conversation with you, so you'd never be all that real to me...

  ‘anyway, I play a game called Terratana Worlds. The AI, artificial intelligence, of Terratana Worlds is quite good. You can input videos of people and it uses logarithms together with these images to construct an avatar that not only looks, but acts, very much like how the model subject might react in the game situation. Of course, the more data – the more images, the wider the situations and emotional ranges used, the closer this avatar actor is to its living model. Until we ended up in the same lectures my dyary records did not include enough of your images to create such a character. However, being able to see you twice a week allowed me a large enough sample to create an avatar of you in the game. So a month or so ago I used my dyary video from those Q & A sessions to re-image a character in the game. Since this was part of the game that only I’d be playing, I felt this was harmless. In any event, even with the dyary records from our Q & A sessions, I had only a tiny, hardly significant sample of your image, so the game could
only build a briefly viewed, thinly sketched character with a limited range. I want to assure you that unlike those other fellows – the hounds – I didn’t cut and paste your face onto a generic bimbo supplied by their game – to create a bimbo that they could then have do whatever they pleased. From dyary images from Manaham’s class I used only your face and your figure in the sense of how you move and act. Essentially you’re a virtual actress playing a role in the game. I hate sounding like your hounds, but I’d like to show you the avatar and its role so you can see the difference – then I’ll delete it.’

  ‘I don’t see any difference...’ She gave me a cold stare, but said ‘Go ahead, Gallagher,’ she said and picked up her glasses from the table to watch.

  I stood and reached across the desk and pulled my omnikit and input board out of the clutter. I set it up on the desk and aimed its laser projector on the blank wall facing the desk and started the Terratana Worlds game app.

  The opening sequence played through, my star ship falling towards a white, snow covered world with a glowing city at its equator ringing a blue needle of a tower....

  ‘Are you familiar with this game?’ I asked.

  She shook her head no.

  ‘Well, it's a space opera themed role playing game that can be played alone, in meshes, or on line. For single and mesh games, players build small star kingdoms within the fictional Terratana star cluster... See, here’s my avatar, Captain Kee, arriving at the Blue Tower, the palace of the ruler of my star kingdom.’

  The game showed my star ship landing on the docking platform on top of the Blue Tower and my avatar descending though the levels of the Blue Tower to the throne room of the White Queen.

  ‘I’ve set the game to auto-play, so it’ll just run through a mission assignment sequence. Your avatar, the White Queen, is the ruler of the star kingdom and Captain Kee one of her agents... a loyal knight and true. Well, actually more like a loyal henchman and true... but with a bit of a young Merlin thrown in. It’s my fantasy, after all...’

  The sequence ran its course, Kee arrives in the throne room to receive a haughty greeting by White Queen with Beri’s face and general grace, followed by a brief outline of the threat to the star kingdom by the White Queen, thus setting up the game play. The Queen then summoned her major domo to explain in greater detail the assignment... I paused play.

  Beri had intently watched her avatar move and talk during the several minutes of play in guarded silence.

  ‘And that is your avatar’s only appearance in the game. From here I would go off on the mission I’d been assigned to. With so little data I couldn’t make your role larger, unless I wanted to do things like those others, which I wouldn’t do...’

  ‘So you see me as the White Witch?’ she turned to me with a look both sharp and lost.

  ‘The White Queen,’ I maintained, yet wondering if I had, indeed, stumbled over her title.

  ‘Ha! The book was written here at Oxford. So when I see my image ruling a snowy world, where I’m sure it is “always winter, never Christmas”, what am I to think?’

  ‘Selina, I created the character of the White Queen and her lonely tower on the icy world years before I ever saw you. I didn’t have enough data to make you a more active player in the game, and besides you’re, well, you are my White Queen,’ I added in a fleeting moment of boldness.

  ‘Am I really that cold, that cruel and wicked, Gallagher?’

  ‘No, never. You know that. But since you didn’t do more than nod hello to me before tonight your avatar couldn’t be friendlier, less aloof than you’d been to me. Unless I was to take liberties. As for cruel and wicked, well, the White Queen in my game rules a star kingdom that’s challenged by all sorts of ruthless forces, so she must be strong and determined. That’s the way the game is played, that’s how the role of the White Queen’s character is played, no matter who’s face it wears. Your image is role playing, like an actress.’

  ‘Yet you said that the game used my image to craft the character, did you not?’

  Even Captain Kee had rarely been in tighter quarters... ‘That’s broadly true. But considering the tiny sampling of data I had to work with and the role the avatar plays, you can’t read into your avatar anything of your true self. It’s the queen’s role that dominates play, not your character.’

  She looked at her avatar frozen on the screen for several seconds. ‘Still, I play the White Witch too well. Wicked, I hope I’m not, cruel, sometimes, but am I really that cold and remote, that lonely and unhappy?’

  ‘Think about what you’ve just told me. The images I used are from this past term, and you know full well what that’s been like. You can’t take that thin slice of your life and extrapolate it to the whole.’

  She considered that for a moment and then looking back to the frozen image of her avatar on screen, said quietly, ‘Is that all I am?”

  I may have misinterpreted her remark, but I couldn’t afford to have her wonder. And I wanted her to know I wasn’t a hound.

  I activated the game. I picked up the input board and taking control of Kee, I had him quickly step forward and grabbing the rich gown of the White Queen, rip it off. Beneath the gown was a featureless wire frame torso. Then there was a brilliant flash of light on screen and the view cleared to show the smoking remains of Captain Kee sprawled on the palace floor before the wire framed White Queen. The White Queen with Beri’s face turned to her major domo and said ‘Clean up this mess, Jeeves.’ and the game ended.

  ‘What... the...?’ I said, staring at the projected scene, and then glanced to her.

  ‘Heck?’ she said, watching me blandly.

  ‘Heck,’ I finished and looked back to the scene projected on the wall in wonder. ‘What the heck was all those fireworks about?’ I shook my head, ‘You see, if I was actually playing the game, and I’d been given a mission to kidnap the ruler of an enemy kingdom, I’d expect the throne room to have automatic defences like that. I’d have dealt with them before entering the room... But this is merely the opening sequence in the game, hardly part of the playable game at all and in the throne room of my own ruler. So why would anyone program the game to have an auto-defence systems active in this sequence? Why would they bother?” I stared at the frozen scene. It just didn’t make sense...’

  ‘Perhaps it has to do with the way the AI logarithms interpreted your White Witch model...’ Beri suggested mildly.

  ‘That’s possible, I suppose...’ I muttered, only to be brought up short, realizing what I had just said. Alarmed, I quickly turned back to Beri searching her guarded eyes. She was watching me gravely, giving nothing away, as usual. I hurried on, ‘I don’t believe that the auto-defence system has anything to do with how your personality formed the Queen’s avatar...’

  ‘Don’t be too certain of that,’ she replied coldly.

  ‘I’m not...’ I admitted, too confused to lie. ‘I’d certainly be reluctant to find out...’

  Unable to keep a straight face any longer, she broke out laughing. ‘Oh, Gallagher, you’re a strange fellow. My poor boy, you look so shattered, I can hardly tell you from your avatar.’

  ‘He can’t be feeling much worse than I am at the moment. I really, really didn’t expect a reaction like that... I only meant to show you that I’d not taken liberties like your hounds...’

  ‘Oh, all right, never mind. Use my face on your White Witch if you want to, it does me no harm. Though why you would want such a cold, joyless and heartless face, I don’t understand. I can’t imagine it would bring you much joy.’

  ‘She’s my White Queen,’ I replied and shrugged, ‘Until this evening she was all I had, and ever expected to have. It’s different now.’

  She suddenly looked quite soft and sad. ‘Well, perhaps after tonight she can smile and even laugh a little,’ she said, glancing at my glasses. ‘I’d hope, if only for my sake, for I feel a strange sort of kinship with your White Witch. Let her smile, at least.’

  That
sent a chill knifing though my heart. Could I? Dare I? No, not now. Yet after this night, would even her smile do anything but bring sadness, as she suggested? What could I say to her, without saying things she wouldn’t want to hear? I could not pin down even one thought... I glanced at her, as she was watching me. “Thank you,’ was all I could think to say, though I don’t know just what I meant.

  She nodded with a faint smile. Perhaps she could make sense of whatever it was that I could not. After a silent moment or two she said, ‘I’ve been doing all the talking this evening. I don’t even know what you are reading for.’

  I had the sense of missing a step. I had expected good bye.... But I managed to say, ‘Physics and Philosophy.’

  She looked surprised, ‘Why you really are a strange fellow. I’d never have expected... I suppose I just assumed from your, ah, reputation and hobbies that it’d have been computer science or some such field. I must apologize for type casting you. Once again, the snob.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t mean to, I’m going to change....’ she paused and looked away for a moment. ‘My philosophy was just to appease my parents’ ambitions. So why are you reading philosophy? Or is philosophy what you intend to go on to grad school for? Have I just made yet another unwarranted assumption?’

  ‘No, I want to be a physicist, but I find philosophy, especially those of China and Japan in which I am mostly reading, fascinating and fun. I find physics, on the other hand, fascinating but hard work – so hard that I sometimes despair of getting into grad school,’ I admitted.

  ‘I’m sure you’re being modest... (I wasn’t, unfortunately.) So why did you choose to read oriental philosophy?’

  ‘Well, I’d brushed up against some of those ideas in high school – I grew up in a rather eclectic part of London - and found them very interesting back then. However, I’ve practical reasons for my philosophical excursion as well. I’m hoping that by absorbing a different slant on life it will give me a different and useful approach on the problems physics is facing today. Lord knows it’s in need of a new approach, seeing that it’s been spinning its wheels, splintering into contending camps for more than a half a century... Plus I’m hoping it will give me a better insight into the physics research that is coming out of China and India as well...’

  ‘So you’ve ambitions, Gallagher...’

  ‘I’ve some...’ I admitted, afraid to look at her when I said that... ‘But, they’re rather iffy...’

  ...And from there, amazingly, we drifted on to talk like old friends for the better part of two hours. I made another pot of tea, found bread to toast to go with the local marmalade and just hung out like uni students. Beri’s mathematical focus made her more than half a physicist herself, so we had plenty of shop to talk about, making conversation easier for both of us. We also shared many Oxford experiences – the interests, ideas and lecturers of the rather narrow slice of social life found in our scientific programs. Since she is two years ahead of me, posh, and accomplished, she hung out with a rather exclusive, postgrad social set, so our paths rarely crossed – and when they did, I went unnoticed. And yet, I found myself becoming amazingly comfortable in her company. Between two years at Oxford, the social mentoring of Omar, her sentimental sadness and perhaps, her loneliness, we talked easily.

  Yet, beneath the surface, the blues we both felt wove their threads through our conversations. And however much I enjoyed her company, it was shadowed by the certainty of our parting, the certainty that when this ball ended, there’d be no glass slipper left behind.

  We had both been silent for a while in our chairs across from one another, she lost in thoughts, I gazing at her fondly, when she glanced at her watch. It was 10:38.

  I watched her as she summoned her old guarded ways. She reached down to retrieve her bag and hat, then she said, without looking across at me, ‘I’ve put this off as long as I can, but I must go now. I am tired, which is a good thing, but I still have a couple of little things to do before I can sleep.’

  ‘I understand. I’ll walk you to your flat,’ I said, trying to keep my tone light.

  She stood and looked to me as I stood too. ‘This has quite nice, bittersweet, but, well, nice. I should’ve never let this type of thing go out of my life. I appreciate your efforts, your concern for me. Thank you ever so much.’

  I could hardly look at her. ‘It’s been great. I don’t want to spoil the evening, so I’ll say no more.’

  She just nodded. ‘I’d rather you not walk me back to my flat. It would only make it even harder for me not to be cruel. I don’t want to be cruel anymore. I’ll be fine.’

  I shrugged. I’d not play the puppy. She had my number, if ever she should care to get in touch. ‘Then I guess it’s good night. Good luck tomorrow, Beri... good luck with your Treasury gig. And don’t worry about tomorrow. Just get some sleep...’

  ‘Thanks, good-bye Gallagher.’ and she walked to the door.

  She hesitated as she held the handle for a long moment and then turned around, leaning back against the door. ‘Don’t move, Gallagher. And I say that as your White Witch...’

  ‘Queen,’ I muttered automatically.

  She shrugged that off and hurried on, ‘Perhaps exams have finally driven me around the bend... Now I know this sounds crazy, but I feel a strange affinity to your avatar, to your White Witch, Queen, whatever. Silly, but what can I say? Seeing myself in your game was almost like an out of body experience. Like seeing myself the way others see me. I want her, at least, to be happy. Well, I want her to be able to show happiness, I’m not quite that crazy. And I hope that tonight... That is to say, I hope the person I’ve been with you tonight will enable you to make my avatar less icy and grim. Less sad and lonely. Nicer. Please help her find whatever happiness an avatar can find.

  I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I couldn’t tell her the truth. I said, ‘She’ll always be happiness for me.’

  ‘And I want to her to be whole, I want her to be more than just a head,’ she paused before adding, ‘I’ve done some foolish things in my time at Oxford. Some I bitterly regret. But I’ve never done just a silly thing in my four years, and if I’m ever to do something silly, my time has just about run out. Remember your orders, Gallagher, and the consequences.’

  And with that, she straightened up, slipped her courier bag off her shoulder and on to the floor along with her soft straw hat. Looking down she undid the buttons of her blouse and slipped out of it, dropping it to flood. She undid the tabs of her batik skirt and then slipped it down to her ankles. She stepped forward, out of her shoes standing only in her silky gossamer thin bra and panties. She looked down at her bra, and then up at me with a sly smile, ‘No, I guess I’m not that silly. I'm a mathematician, after all,’ and then slowly turned once around to face me once more, suddenly very shy and very young now. She glanced at me, blushed and spun around, crouching down to retrieve her clothing. I don’t believe I had taken a breath the whole time.

  ‘Silliness is a very stupid thing, Gallagher.’ she said as she wiggled into her skirt and reached for her blouse.

  ‘I think silliness very wonderful,’ I said softly. ‘I think you’re wonderful, Selina.’

  ‘And very strange,’ she said slipping into her shoes once more. She half turned towards me, clutching her hat and said. ‘It seems, I’ve started to live my life naked – well, almost naked. I trust you – for some silly reason. That was to make our White Witch a whole avatar. Good bye.’ She slipped out the door.

  My heart pounding, I glanced across to my desk, at my watson in its charging dock and my dyary equipped gasses in the jumble of stuff on my desk.

  Today

  Looking as good as my best allowed, I lounged, hands in pocket, against the stone wall across the narrow street from the Schools, where Selina Beri was finishing her undergrad life, one of a gathering mob of fellow students, friends, lovers.

  I knew this was what her ‘puppies’ woul
d have thought to do. But the possibility that no one might be here to greet and congratulate Selina after her last final, was not a prospect I cared to risk, puppy or not. If she had other friends, fine. I’d fade away. And if no one else was here, but she was once more the Selina Beri of the day before yesterday – the one that would not see me – well, I’d posted myself on the fringe, away from the route she’d take to her flat so she could just turn and go away. It had to be her choice.

  Time slowed to a crawl. (I did arrive rather early... unwilling to risk missing her.) But eventually students began to pour out the doors and across the green quad and out through the stone gate into our lane, a flock of noisy, cheerfully free blackbirds. My nerve all but deserted me, but I could not be seen fleeing.

  There are a number of exams sitting and hers was not the first to group to be released. When I saw her, dressed severely in formal black and white, black gown flowing around her, mortarboard cap at a jaunty angle and the red carnation, she was talking gaily with a girl walking beside her. The sight of her staggered my heart as it always did, and hoped always would. And seeing her happy warmed this staggering heart. A stray thought crossed my mind as I watched her in her formal black and white – becoming a nun would not work.

  Just outside the gates her friend was swept away by a smiling, beefy fellow. For a moment Beri lingered and watched them go, standing alone as the last of the laughing students hurried past her. No one stepped up to sweep her away. She shrugged off her reverie and glanced around, the smile on her face slowly fading. She saw me, considered me, and slowly smiled. She slipped casually though the thinning crowd to meet me in the lane.

  ‘Gallagher!’

  'Beri!' I said, adding, ‘Woof!’

  ‘It’s more like “Yip, Yip Yip!”. But never mind, I’m so happy it's over, I’ll forgive you today...’ she laughed, holding out her hands for me to hold. Which I boldly did.

  ‘Congratulations! I'm delighted to see you so happy.'

  'Thank you. I’m so, so relieved it is all over! I don’t believe the soles of my shoes are even touching the ground!’

  ‘I’m sure they're not!’ I said as I held her hands and looked at her smiling face. 'I'm not sure mine are either.'

  She blushed and then laughed and exclaimed, ‘Our question was on the exam! Right there in black and white! I had to discuss aspects of dyaries that would impact on policy formulation. Everything we talked about but without having to suggest a solution. If I’ve not completely slipped around the bend, I wrote a very competent answer, thanks to you! After that, the other questions just seemed to bring out my best work too. Maybe I just babbled, but if I wasn’t babbling, I’ve done my best!’

  ‘That is all one hopes for. I’m sure you’ve earned your first, and no one deserves it more.’ I replied, and ventured, ‘Will you allow me to take you out, Beri, to celebrate?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but my parents, brother and sister, and who knows who else from the family are waiting for me in my flat.’ she said brightly, adding without pause, ‘But please walk me back.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ I said as I released her hands so we might walk side by side. But she held on to one as she shifted to my side and we walked, hand in hand, just like young lovers, which even if I had neither the courage, nor the foolishness to believe, staggered my heart none the less.

  Walking along the maze of streets towards her digs on St Giles she was so bright and alive, talking about her finals that I just watched her and marvelled. I’m sure people had to skip out of my way as we walked, for I had no eyes but for Selina – all I saw was Selina Beri – and my dyary record to prove it.

  After we turned off the Broad on to the narrow Magdalen Street East, she turned to me and said. ‘I’m glad we have this chance to talk, face to face, for I have something I feel I must explain to you, about last night...’

  I had no expectations. I knew where I stood. I knew that even walking hand in hand with Selina, was only kindness, part and parcel of the overwhelming kindness she felt for the world today. Nothing she could say would hurt me. And that I knew to be a lie.

  I smiled, or attempted to, ‘Last night you were wonderfully kind and generous to me. I truly appreciate your friendship, last night and right now, with all my heart. It’s all I expect.’

  She watched me for a moment and then sighed. ‘Yes, everything said last night, rose out of fellowship. I must say that though I’m afraid it might hurt you to hear it. Kindness and fellowship is all I have... And what I did last night, at the end, and you’ll note I am blushing right now, I can’t fully explain, even today, except to say that it must be some girlish sentimentality that that cold White Witch image of me inspired. But I want you to know, as you look at me now, it was never my intention to hurt you. And I want you to remember it....’

  She went on, now looking down. ‘When I got back to my rooms, and considered what we had said, and well, how silly I had been, I was happy. Happier than I had been for quite some time. That is the first thing I want you to remember. Later, it suddenly occurred to me that what I had done could be seen, instead, as heartlessly taunting you with something....’ she paused.

  And I finished, watching her... 'That I could never possess.’

  She shrugged and continued quietly. ‘But, I assure you, that thought never entered my mind until hours later. Please believe me. I was angry at myself for the cruelty I may have, once again, unintentionally delivered. Then it occurred to me that my foolishness could be seen in yet another light, and hurt you in an even crueller way. I realized that you could see my act as a casual, condescending kindness tossed out as a little favour – like a squeaky rubber bone to a puppy. Or that I was implying that a look, an image, was all you deserved... a little play thing... ah, oh, you know what I mean. Silliness is a stupid thing, I’ve learned my lesson, Gallagher. I apologize, and hope that you’ll never come to suspect I did what I did with anything but good will towards you. And that I trust you.’

  ‘Nothing you have said, Beri was necessary. Nothing like that ever entered my mind. We understand each other perfectly.’

  ‘I am sure we understand each other – at this moment. But I wanted to tell you anyway, so as time goes on, you’ll not begin to doubt our understandings.’

  ‘Never, but thank you anyway.’ I replied. ‘And now, I too, have a confession I must make.’

  She looked to at me, a wary glance.

  I smiled and kept my voice light and cheery. ‘You may not believe this, but while I can’t claim to live an exciting life, I’ll tell you plainly that I don’t usually bother to keep a dyary record of airing my socks...’ I could see her wary look change to puzzlement, and then a dawning...

  I hurried on. ‘I realized as we talked after my game demo that you assumed that I was wearing my dyary glasses, but in fact I was wearing just my plain old glasses. My watson was being charged and my dyary glasses were in the heap at the end of my desk. I needn’t tell you how much I regretted that fact when I turned to see you standing in my doorway, but by then it was too late. It would have been foolish to try to sneak them on behind your back and, even if I could, it would have been in very poor taste. If we had known each other better, I would have asked you what you thought about recording our conversation. That is pretty much how we do things, when alone, in private. But, I didn’t know you at all. And well, even with my familiarly with quantum theory, I’m afraid I can’t see further through a brick wall then the next fellow, so I could not anticipate how wonderful the evening would turn out. And even when I realized you thought I was wearing them, it seemed too late, too lame to put them on then. I’m sorry.’ And to keep things light, I continued with a laugh. ‘There are lessons here, Beri. I assure you that I’ll now always keep a running dyary every time I air my socks.... and you should perhaps ask, if you care.’

  She laughed. ‘I’ll admit to feeling relieved, though I trust you, Gallagher. This morning I find I might not be quite as ready for the naked life as I thought I was.’ S
he then continued quietly, ‘Last night when I saw that cold and lonely avatar, a head without a body. and even today, it still seems somehow important that she should be a whole person – not just a head. And she should be able to smile. I know it’s silly. Perhaps in my mind I am seeing my White Witch like a voodoo doll or some such alias that touches me...’ she suddenly looked sad.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, I’ll find somebody if you like,’ I exclaimed. ‘But I’m wearing my dyary today, and I’ve never seen you happier, more alive, more pleased and I will even dare to say, more beautiful, for you are. So don’t worry about your White Witch, she’ll have smiles now. Christmas will come!’

  She looked to me. ‘It is true, isn’t it? You are not just saying that to make me feel better?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ With my free hand I pointed to the tiny lens in the frame of my glasses. ‘I’ve recorded this whole time, and, if you consent, I’ll make sure I add your happiness to her program. But really, Selina, I wore these glasses to remember you.’

  She beamed kindly at me, ‘You can be quite gallant.’

  ‘You’ll make me blush... But I wanted to say, as sort of an explanation for well, the White Queen and all, that looking back I find that you were hardly more real to me then my game avatar until yesterday, little more than an image...’

  ‘But even less friendly,’ she added with a faint smile.

  I shrugged. ‘You were never unfriendly, just, well, remote. But today you’re ever so much more than an image. You’re very real to me. Real and really quite nice. You’ve made me see my poor White Queen as the schoolboy’s fantasy it always was. I’ll see that today’s happiness becomes part of her, but you’re so much more. And you’re not the White Witch.’

  She said nothing, but still held my hand as we walked in silence for a while along St Giles Street. Then she looked up and around, shook a little of the softness out of her poise, pushed her glasses up and then looked at me.

  ‘This is where I leave you. My rooms are across the street. Thank you for last night, today, for everything. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ and adding quietly, ‘And remember, I really am the White Witch.’

  With that she stepped in front of me, pulled my head a little closer with her free hand and kissed me. She stepped back, and with an indecipherable look said softly ‘Good-bye, and good luck, Gallagher.’

  She stood back, dropped my hand and quickly turned away.

  ‘Good-bye, Selina,’ I said softly.

  And she made her way across the wide traffic lane into the shadows of the trees lining old road before her building, and then was lost in the blue shadows of the doorway without looking back. I stood there, a stone statue. An achingly hollow stone statue, staring, even after she had gone out of my real life. For despite the kiss... No, that’s wrong. Because of the kiss, I’m very much afraid I’ve seen the last of the real Selina Beri.

  A moment later, Archibald ‘Foggy’ Phelps appeared in front of me. He stared up at me through his thick glasses.

  ‘Hello, Foggy,’ I said absently.

  ‘Hello, Hugh. I simply will not believe what I just witnessed until I review my dyary record this evening.’ he said shaking his head.

  P.S.

  Foggy grabbed my arm and lead me back towards our college, like some dazed performing bear. We had hardly reached St Magdalen Street before my watson rang. It was Omar.

  ‘Is it really true, Hugh old bean, that you’ve been kissing Selina Beri right in the middle of St Giles Street?’