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5

Imogen in Green

Ten hours later, on the morning of the following day, I was one of 927 people watching my wife sleep.

If that seems like a very specific number to be quoting, it’s because the website had a viewer counter under every camera window, so I could always see just how many people had clicked through. If the number was a big one – and 900-plus was pretty big – I’d make a note on a Post-it.

I’d been watching Imogen sleep for most of the morning, through the fuzzy green night vision of Dorm Cam Two. All that time, she’d been lying on her side, facing out, with the duvet pulled up under her chin. That’s how she always slept, although when she slept like that at home, she’d usually do it turned away from me, facing the wall. This meant that by watching Imogen on a computer screen and from 8,383 miles away, I’d learned more about how my wife looked sleeping than I ever did from lying next to her in bed. Something about that made me think of the trouble scientists have studying very small things in laboratories.

I drained my ‘I ♥ coffee’ mug and glanced across at the answerphone on the desk.

It just sat there being quiet and unremarkable.

I set the mug down and scrubbed my fingers through my hair.

On-screen, the duvet rising and falling with my wife’s breathing and a slight digital fuzzing were the only things to give the image away as a live feed and not a flat, dead picture. And, as none of the webcams had sound, the scene was utterly silent too.

In every traditional sense, nothing at all happened.

The counter clicked up to 945 viewers.

I crossed out the old number on the Post-it, added the new one, and then pinned it up on the board.

It’s both compelling and reassuring to watch a person living in real time. The long pauses. The stillness. Sleeping, staring, thinking, reading – all played out in their vast and blank entireties. Putting those familiar little islands of talking, arguing and laughing that we always think of as what people do into wide, empty oceans of context. And then, at the other end of the scale, the opposite of those stillnesses – the rare, powerful, private things – the truthful, the revelatory, the sexual. Those one-in-a-million moments that probably won’t happen while you’re watching, but just might, just might, just might . . .

The phone rang, loud in the quiet flat.

I jumped, grabbing the handset before it could ring again.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Euston,’ said Imogen. ‘This is Eagle One.’

On the screen, my wife’s green body slept soundly. ‘Hello, stranger,’ I said. I half-expected the tremble of adrenaline to come through in my voice, so the hardness I heard there instead surprised me.

‘Don’t be like that, I haven’t got long.’

‘No, I wasn’t. I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘I did say I didn’t know if I’d be able to call.’

‘I know, that’s fine. I’m not. I wasn’t meaning anything.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yeah. It’s just the first time I’ve said anything all day. I’m . . . strange.’

‘Ah, that’d do it,’ Imogen-on-the-phone said. ‘I did want to call when I got back, but we ended up being on site longer than I thought and it would’ve been like three a.m. or something over there.’

Imogen-on-the-screen showed no signs of waking up. She just carried on taking her slow, deep breaths – in . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .

‘It’s fine, I’m just feeling a bit weird, a bit . . .’ The word I wanted to use was flat, but I didn’t. ‘. . . abstract. Hello?’

‘Hello. I’m here. Hello?’

‘Hello. I can hear you.’

‘What did you say? Abstract?’

‘Yeah, like, as in, not all here.’ I looked down at the phone. ‘It’s not seeing people, I think. I should probably go out later, walk around a bit.’

‘That sounds like a good plan. You should definitely do that. Get some sun and have some fruit.’

‘I think I will.’

‘Sun and fruit stop a person from being abstract, that’s a well-known fact.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘Oh yeah, there’s nothing better for it.’

‘I’ll take action.’

‘You should. Hey, so. Did you get your Thunderbirds off?’

‘Captain Scarlett?’

‘Yeah, that one.’

‘Yeah, all good. Script’s in and the cash should be through next week.’

Not true. The script wasn’t in. The cash wasn’t coming. I hadn’t written a single usable word of it. Still – this was my mess, and my job to fix it. Imogen didn’t need to know how bad the mess had become.

‘Good stuff, Quinn,’ she said. ‘So what’re you doing now?’

Good stuff, Quinn. A twist of guilt grabbed my stomach. I pushed it away.

‘Hello?’

‘Sorry. I’m here. What did you say?

‘What are you doing now?’

‘I’m watching you sleep.’

‘Oh God, you’re not, are you? Am I thrashing around? I’ve been having the weirdest dreams.’

‘No, you’re just lying there. All still and serene.’

‘That’s something, then.’

‘You’re really very calm. And you had a nine-four-five a minute ago.’

‘Jesus. How many?’

‘Nine hundred and forty-five.’

‘Hang on, I’ll write that one down. Nine-four-five. And I’m not doing anything?’

‘No. Nothing. You’re breathing. But, no.’

Imogen-on-the-phone thought for a moment.

‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘It only bothers me when you tell me the numbers; the rest of the time it’s like the camera thing isn’t, well, I don’t mean it bothers me really, but you know.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Actually, it is bothering me now I’m thinking about it. I’m waving at them.’

‘You should.’

‘I’m doing it right now.’

Imogen-on-the-screen lay fast asleep. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .

‘I’ll wave back when it comes up,’ I said.

‘You’re lovely.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I do miss you, you know.’

‘I miss you too. How’s it going?’

‘God. Slowly.’

Imogen had been on the other side of the world for almost six months. She was working as part of a research team looking for one small spot on a very remote island, where the single most important act in the entire history of humanity might have taken place. Because this was the twenty-first century, the research facility had webcams.

‘But you’re still getting a good general movement, right?’

‘In patches,’ she said. ‘But it’s not like they just went from east to west or something.’

‘I suppose that would’ve been – oh, hang on.’

‘What?’ Imogen-on-the-screen moved her sleeping green head as if to shake something away.

‘You’re dreaming.’

‘Told you. Very weird dreams.’

‘I think you’re going to wake up in a minute.’

‘I am. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll try to call tomorrow, but if not, I’ll call Wednesday morning.’

‘Okay.’

‘My time.’

‘Okay. And get them to sort out your video calls.’

‘I will. But Johnny says my laptop’s killed itself.’

‘Nice.’

‘I know. Shit, right. I really need to—’

‘Okay. Love you.’

‘I love you too. And go out.’

‘I will.’

‘All right, bye.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye bye bye . . .’

The line cut to a flat buzz.

I kept the handset to my ear for a moment then clicked it back into the dock.

Imogen-on-the-screen frowned in her sleep and tugged at the duvet. The viewer counter had been falling steadily, but once she started to dream it stabilised. Now it climbed back up in ones and twos towards the 900 mark.

I waited, watching, arms folded.

Imogen jolted awake, eyes flashing about in a panic before she realised where she was. She relaxed as she got her bearings, rubbed her face with her palms, propped herself up on an elbow and then looked around the dorm. Seeing she was alone, she leaned out of bed and flicked on the lights.

The greenscreen image instantly flared to a white blank, then the facility’s familiar dorm room re-emerged in full colour. Eight beds, wardrobes, tables, lamps, mess – all the signs of human habitation, of a group of people living packed in together.

My wife climbed out of bed and walked out of shot in her pyjamas.

I waited.

Almost four minutes later, she came back carrying a glass of water and an industrial-looking phone with a long cable trailing behind it. She sat down at the far side of her bed, facing away from the camera, tapped numbers into the phone and put it to her ear.

I could only see the back of Imogen’s neck and jawline, but it was enough to tell she was talking to someone, speaking into the phone and then listening. After a little while, she turned, looked straight at the camera in surprise and silently mouthed, Jesus, how many?

She listened for a second. Her mouth made all the shapes for . . . Hang on, I’ll write that one down. Cradling the phone in the crook of her neck, she reached and made a note. Nine-four-five, her lips were saying, then she turned away from the camera again so I couldn’t see what came next. Almost straight away, she turned back and I caught . . . now I’m thinking about it.

I lifted up my hand to the monitor, the palm flat.

Imogen waved at the camera. Her lips made, I’m waving at them. She listened, still waving, and replied, I’m doing it right now.

I waved at the screen.

Imogen smiled.

You’re lovely, she said to the camera without a sound; then she turned away and carried on talking into the phone.

‘I’m trying,’ I said to myself.

Not long after that, Imogen-on-the-screen finished her call. My wife took the phone from her ear and pressed a button. With only a glance towards the camera, she stood up and walked out of shot.

I’d made it half out of the desk chair when she suddenly reappeared.

Close up this time, she leaned in towards the camera, smiled and mouthed go out.

Then she was gone.