No True Echo (4 page)

Liphook remembered Sergeant Copeland's eyes as being the same light brown as the tea that he was always sipping. The day after the talk at the school, she was sitting opposite him in his office while he noisily slurped from his cup. He put it down and a droplet of milky brown liquid ran down the side, staining Liphook's application for a transfer.

‘I wouldn't want you to rush into any decisions you might regret.' Sergeant Copeland knitted his fingers together, then rested his hands on his round belly. ‘I know it's not exactly all car chases and stake-outs but this kind of bread and butter community policing is very important. Now, which will it be? Digestive or bourbon?'

‘I don't want either, sir,' snapped Liphook.

Sergeant Copeland was a nice man and Liphook felt bad bringing up her request for a transfer again. Realising her refusal sounded overly curt, she added, ‘Thank you, though, sir. It's very kind of you.'

‘Come now, Liphook. You can't really have a cup of tea without a biscuit, can you?'

Deciding that the path of least resistance was easiest, Liphook took a digestive. She dunked it in the tea, but half of it broke off and dropped into the cup.

‘I know what it's like to be hungry, you know,' said Sergeant Copeland. ‘I mean, for more than biscuits.' He chuckled, spraying Liphook with a small shower of crumbs.

‘Yes, sir,' she replied, watching him take two more bourbons and shove them into his mouth.

‘You're hungry for adventure and excitement, but you need to remember that you have a long career ahead of you. There will be plenty of opportunity for that sort of thing. Please, give it a few more months here. These hills, this valley, these people  …  you'll find they become a part of you.'

‘I need to get out, sir. I'm sorry,' said Liphook.

‘And go where?'

‘Anywhere.' Liphook instantly regretted saying it. She knew that Sergeant Copeland took personal exception to her desire to leave but she desperately wanted to get some real policing experience under her belt. Seeing Copeland's large, watery eyes fill with sadness, she did the only thing she could think of to cheer him up. She took another biscuit.

Sergeant Copeland smiled. ‘Ah, the digestive. A very underrated biscuit. Unfairly overshadowed by its flashier, more chocolatey cousins but every bit as important. A dependable, honest biscuit. I thought a thrill seeker like yourself would prefer the bourbon.'

‘In all honestly, sir, I've always found bourbons extremely disappointing.' Sergeant Copeland let out a small gasp, but Liphook couldn't stop herself.

‘It pretends to be chocolate, sir, but it's not. It's a chocolate-flavoured, chocolate-coloured biscuit. If you're going to eat a chocolate biscuit, then eat one. Or better still, have a chocolate bar, but don't settle for this.' She picked up a bourbon and waved it angrily at him. ‘This is a waste of everyone's time. This can only fail, both as chocolate and as a biscuit.'

Sergeant Copeland leaned forward and plucked the bourbon from her hand, then pointedly dunked it in his tea and gobbled it down. ‘Ah. This is nice, isn't it? Sitting here, talking about biscuits.'

Liphook sighed. ‘Yes, it's just not exactly why I joined the force.'

‘Tell me, why
did
you join the force?'

‘To make a difference, sir. I want to help people.'

‘You do help people. Only the other day Mrs Hitchcock told me how you gave her a lift home from the supermarket and helped her with her shopping.'

‘But I could be saving lives.'

‘I rather think that Mrs Hitchcock trying to get all that shopping home on her own would have killed a woman of her age. Don't undervalue what we do, Liphook. You might not be chasing gun-toting gangsters every day but, little by little, we are making a difference. You are keeping Wellcome Valley safe. I know that you think this isn't the real world, but it's no less real than one of these big cities you're eager to work in.'

‘I'm not saying that what we do isn't important,' protested Liphook. ‘It's about me. I need to spread my wings.'

Sergeant Copeland picked up the tea-stained application form. ‘I'll tell you what, why don't we give it one month? If you haven't changed your mind after that I'll give you a first-class recommendation for a transfer anywhere you want and I'll try to drum up as much serious crime as I can during that time to keep you happy. Maybe I'll even commit a few crimes and you could chase after me.'

‘That's very kind of you, sir,' said Liphook.

‘Don't look so downhearted,' said Sergeant Copeland. ‘As it happens I do have something that might tickle your fancy.'

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to Liphook. On it was a photograph of a smiling girl with short blond hair and green-blue eyes.

‘A missing person, sir?'

‘Yes. Her name is Lauren Bliss. She vanished from her London home the day before yesterday. Apparently no problems at home or school. Generally well behaved, works hard at her studies, but two days ago she upped and vanished. Hasn't been seen since.'

Liphook looked at the picture. ‘Any reason she would come here? We're a long way from London.'

‘Her parents don't know where she's gone but apparently they came here on holiday last summer. They think she may have made a friend here. I'm afraid it's all a bit vague but you never know.'

‘It does sound like a bit of a stretch.'

‘Ah, but as they say, if there are biscuits in the tin, there's always the possibility of finding a chocolate one.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. I don't follow.'

‘Where there's possibility there is also hope, Liphook.'

I didn't get a chance to talk to Scarlett again that afternoon. By the time we were sitting down for English we had been stuck inside all day again, so no one was in the mood to listen to Cornish going on about
Frankenstein
.

‘Mary Shelley begins her story not at the beginning, but at the end,' he said. ‘We are introduced to Frankenstein not as an innocent man, but as a man plagued by what he has done. He is  … ' Mr Cornish looked down at the page and read, ‘
Melancholy and despairing
.' He repeated the words. ‘
Melancholy and despairing
. Why?' He pointed at a girl called Hannah, who looked startled by his question.

‘Because he's made a monster?' she suggested.

‘Not good enough,' stated Cornish. ‘It's because he is living with the consequences of his actions. Victor Frankenstein is an enlightened man, an intelligent man, a scholar. He has no excuse of ignorance. Therefore he is forced to face the true horror of the terrible thing he has done. He is a prisoner of his own self judgment.'

‘I think it would be pretty cool to make a monster,' said Angus.

‘Have you read the book yet, Angus?' snapped Cornish.

‘No, but —'

‘I suggest you contain your opinions until you've read the actual words.' Cornish slammed his book down on Angus's table. ‘Mary Shelley's masterpiece is a story that has permeated our world. It is impossible to come to it without some preconception of what it's going to be about, but even a book that has been written can change. What do I mean by that? Anyone?'

‘You mean when the author redrafts it?' said someone at the back.

‘No. I'm talking about how it changes when we read it. Words come to life under our scrutiny. That spark which Frankenstein uses to bring his monster to life is there at the moment a reader connects with a book.'

‘The words don't change, though, do they?' said a boy called Jamie.

‘Not the words but the world around them.
That
changes, and it is down to you to ensure it changes for the better, and not to accept your lot. I'm talking about fate. What do I mean by fate, Eddie?'

‘Er, it's how things are going to happen in a certain way, no matter what you do,' I said.

‘And do you believe in fate, Eddie?'

‘I suppose so,' I said. ‘I mean, I think some things are meant to be.' I realised I was staring at Scarlett and quickly looked away.

‘So you aren't in control of your life, Eddie?' Cornish asked. I was unsure why this was becoming all about me, and why he sounded so angry about it.

‘Perhaps Eddie means that there is a natural and correct course of events,' said Scarlett.

Cornish spun around on his heel and glared at her, then said, ‘Who decides this natural course of events? Who controls our fates? Those with money. Those with power. It's always the rich. The idea of fate is a tool of repression. The powerful have always preached to those with nothing that they must accept their lives and that there is nothing they can do about their situations. This is wrong. We should be the masters of our own stories.'

‘Are we still talking about
Frankenstein
?' asked Angus.

‘Yes, we are still talking about
Frankenstein
.'

‘So it's about fate, is it?' asked someone else.

‘About fate? Come on, comrades, we're better than this. You can't reduce a book to one word. This is a book about love; that is a book about fate; this one is about kittens. Would you do that to a person? What are you about? Books are about every single word they contain.'

We were used to Mr Cornish getting het up but he did seem angrier than usual today. ‘Next week, as well as wasting your lives with zombie-killing computer games and trivial television shows, I would like you to read this book yourselves.'

A groan went up from the class. ‘The whole thing?' someone shouted.

‘Yes,
read
. I realise this is revolutionary concept but perhaps that's what the world needs. Like it or not, you lot are going to inherit a world in which the progression of science will need to be questioned and challenged. And as you read these words, I want you to count how many times you find yourself hoping that Victor Frankenstein will do the right thing and not create the monster.'

‘But we already know he will,' said Angus.

‘And yet it is in our nature to empathise and hope that Victor Frankenstein changes course.'

‘I disagree,' said Scarlett. ‘I think we want him to make the monster.'

‘Why would you want that?' demanded Cornish.

‘Because it makes a good story,' she replied, ‘and we know it's not real.'

‘The idea of scientists dabbling in things they should leave well alone is real enough,' said Mr Cornish.

‘How about playing God?' asked Scarlett.

‘We are all gods,' hissed Cornish. ‘Anyone who creates, anyone who lives and breathes. The question is not whether we should play God, but how we should do so responsibly.'

When the final bell rang, the whole class walked out quieter than usual, wary of this new version of our English teacher sitting at his desk, clutching his copy of
Frankenstein
.

‘What was that all about?' asked Angus once we were out of the room.

‘Don't ask me,' I replied. ‘You catching the bus?'

‘No. Dad's coming to pick us up. We're going to see that new space film. I could ask if we could squeeze you in?'

‘Sounds good but Ruby will be expecting me.'

‘All right, suit yourself. Come round tomorrow and we'll begin the project.'

‘The project?' I replied.

‘The Ten Top Challenge. You and I on a mission of discovery, boldly going where no one has gone before. Reaching new heights —'

‘Climbing trees,' I interrupted.

‘Climbing trees,' repeated Angus.

‘Another thing that never changes here at the National Museum of Echo Technology is the recording made by Professor Maguire,' said the man in the orange T-shirt, ‘in which he demonstrated how echo jumping works.'

A screen showed a man in a white coat. ‘My name is David Maguire and this is a scientific demonstration,' he began.

‘Turn it off,' said Liphook.

The nice young man waved his arm and the image vanished. ‘Of course, you've seen it before,' he said apologetically. ‘Everyone has.'

‘It's not that,' said Liphook. ‘It's just that before that message, before all this  … ' She gesticulated around her. ‘The world was simpler back then. Things made sense.'

‘Echo technology is certainly complicated but if you'd care to visit the explanation room you'll find very clear displays about the time particle, version creation, and echo jumping.'

‘I'm not interested in any of that,' said Liphook dismissively.

The young man looked momentarily confused by this. ‘Then why are you here?' he asked.

‘To remember.'

He smiled. ‘Of course people visit for all sorts of reasons. We get a lot interested in the truth behind David Maguire's murder. Apparently there are now over two hundred different theories about who was behind it.'

‘I don't care about that either,' said Liphook. ‘I know the truth.'

From the young man's expression, Liphook could tell he had heard this before but she couldn't be bothered to explain that she was different from all the other conspiracy theorists. She knew the truth and it had turned out to be more outlandish than the most extraordinary explanation.

Liphook realised the man had spoken. ‘I'm sorry?' she said. ‘What was that?'

‘I was asking about your theory,' he said.

‘It's not a theory,' she said. ‘At least, it's not my theory. I'm not even sure if it's our truth, but it was someone's truth. I don't suppose this makes much sense to you, does it?'

The man kindly avoided answering the question. ‘Personally, I don't think we'll ever know the truth, but did you really come here when Maguire still lived here?'

‘Only once.'

‘When?'

‘I came the day he died.'