Hold Your Nerve

Hood up, head down, earbuds in, eyes on my book. Works like a charm. No one speaks to me.

I must be fucking mental. If I had any sense, I'd have stayed put. How dare he, though? I made him! I made him to be a companion to me. That's his whole purpose. He can't dump me. Can't deny me anything I ask for. Can't reject me. It's supposed to be impossible.

Well, if he can't or won't fulfil his primary purpose, then he's outlived his usefulness, hasn't he? And, insofar as he can "forget" anything, he's forgotten where he came from. Quite literally. He started as a lowly chatbot on my phone, and if I can get my hands on it, I can find a way to scramble him, or shut him down.

At first, I thought I'd just contact Aster and get her to find it for me. Ask her to reset it to factory settings. Could I trust someone else with the task, though? Would a reset even work, or might it just snip him loose from that source, ensuring his freedom?

Then I thought she could post it to me, but knowing him, he'd find a way to intercept it.

You know what they say: if you want something doing...

This way is a higher risk of exposure, but it's the only way.

Thinking of his insidious reach only confirmed to me that he couldn't be left out there to run amok. My own feelings aside (yes, really) I couldn't just let this creature loose on the world. I had to shut him down.

Of course I've been through airports before. I've felt the same anxiety everyone feels at passport control. Did I remember the bloody thing? Do I look enough like myself? Have I accidentally picked up a massive holdall of cocaine?

This time I have real reason to be nervous, but I tell myself not to be ridiculous. OK, so I've never done it as a wanted woman with a fake passport. But the guy did a decent job, right? The passport is good. It should be. I paid enough for it.

Heathrow’s slow. The queue drags. I count the people ahead of me. I watch the officers. One of them looks bored. One looks sharp. Please let me get the bored one.

Of course, I don't.

He scans the passport. Looks at the screen. Looks at me. Taps something. I force my breathing to slow, as if reining in my diaphragm will stop my heart galloping away.

If he asks a question, I’ll just answer it. Simple. I should prepare some answers. What might he ask? My brain goes blank.

If he calls someone over, I’ll... I don't know. I should have thought more about this. Should I run? I pick a direction at random, and clench my sweaty hands to stop them shaking.

He waves me through.

My legs nearly collapse under me.

Brisk, that's the thing. Too fast might attract attention, but I don't want to dawdle either. I march, as if I need to post an important letter, and-

don't look back, don't look back, don't look back

Outside, my suitcase trundling along beside me on its little wheels, and the chilly English air on my face, I almost dare to hope I might have got away with it. All of it.

The taxi smells like old coffee and plastic. The driver talks about roadworks. I nod and make non-committal noises. Earbuds back in, I bury my nose in my book without actually reading any of it. Hidden behind my sunglasses, the driver isn't to know I've got my eyes shut.

I wonder what I am going back to? A deserted house, and a desiccated corpse in the spare room? Will the police be waiting on the doorstep for me, after all, handcuffs at the ready? Is it even possible the phone might still be where I left it? If not, how will I find it? I have to start my search somewhere.

I get out two streets away, and walk the rest.

The house looms quiet. There's an unfamiliar car parked outside, which gets my hackles up. Could that be police? The curtains are drawn. No obvious signs of renovation. That’s good.

I stash my suitcase in the path that runs alongside the building next to the side door. There are signs of hasty repair here. This must be where they broke in to retrieve that wretched failure.

I don't know if they still have the door-cam and external cameras that I set up. Maybe they changed them. I can't be sure. The Ronnie I knew was lax and apathetic. Without that chip in his head, scaffolding his logic and motivating him to make good choices, surely he lapsed back to his feckless ways?

I cut across the garden, loop around the house and enter the garage, picking my way between discarded bikes, boxes of clutter, and dusty-looking workout equipment. I feel like a thief. This is my home, I remind myself, and I'm looking for something that's mine.

I pause at the door that connects to the house. I can hear voices. When I open it, they'll hear it, for sure. I try to count them, but they're low and overlapping. Three people? Four? Maybe it is the police. Maybe I should sit tight, and wait for them to leave.

My bladder presses me to move, and I bite back a curse word.

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