The Raw Shark Texts (6 page)

The screen threw itself forward with a screaming electric flash and the lights all died. The TV landed with a heavy glassy thud in the black and I scrambled backwards on balls of feet and heels of hands in animal panic. My shoulders hit the sofa and I clumsily reverse-clambered onto it, pulling my knees up off the floor until they were tucked under my chin, hands locked together around my shins. My body squeezed, desperate to run, but the dark, silence and panic locked me still, petrified in place. I tried for silent breaths but my breathing and my thinking were all ripped, chopped, torn-up, ragged. I couldn’t hear anything else and couldn’t see anything either. The room was pitch-black.

No.

Not
totally
pitch-black. The little green smoke detector light on the ceiling became my distant North Star. Gently releasing the most fragile light, it remade the edges of the bookcase and the magazine stand and the back of the upturned TV out of the darkness. I focused on this circle and on my breathing. With a little longer to adjust, even this thin polleny dusting of illumination would be enough to see by. And once I
could see, and see the door, I’d be able to force my legs out of their deepfreeze and run.

A violent
something
slammed into the far end of the sofa shunting everything sideways with a hard, wrenching pressure lurch. I barrelled right, digging my fingers deep into the soft fabric arm, trying to resist the travelling momentum taking me tumbling over the side and managing it, just. Rocking myself hard back into my seat, I kept one hand gripped tight on the arm and the other stretched out across the sofa back, elbows locked and braced, wedging myself deep and tight in the corner. No thoughts – my thinking like a pile of smashed glass and my breathing so fast the darkness started to swarm. An impulse came to run at the wall and hope to hit the door or at least near the door and fumble for it, but I couldn’t break the panic locking my legs.
Bang
– another hit directly behind and under me, much harder, like a slow-motion car crash and the back end of the sofa thrown up and coming toppling forward, sending me sprawling off into empty space and then the carpet and the floor came up at me and it – broke.

The idea of the floor, the carpet, the concept, feel, shape of the words in my head all broke apart on impact with a splash of sensations and textures and pattern memories and letters and phonetic sounds spraying out from my splashdown. I went under, deep, carried by the force of my fall and without the thought or image or any recollection of oxygen or breathing at all.

I came up coughing, gasping for air, the idea of air. A vague physical memory of the actuality of the floor survived but now I was bobbing and floating and trying to tread water in the idea of the floor, in fluid liquid concept, in its endless cold rolling waves of association and history.

Everything dark and black except for the faint green of the North Star. No more outlines, no edging of the bookcase or back of the upturned TV, just me treading water alone in the middle of this vast and fundamental conceptual form; concept as environment, with its own characteristic depths and swells, moving and shifting and altering with
time and perspective the way all words and ideas and concepts do.
No no no
. I tried to shake that mode of being, to force the idea back behind the physical, force my body to find and accept the hard reality of the floor as an entity of sand and stones and cement, hard physical atoms with no words or ideas or attachments, but my mind could only find the words, ideas, signs and attachments for these things, never anything solid at all, and my body couldn’t act without my mind’s instruction. I screwed down my eyes again, trying to will myself back to the familiar world of solids and space. But even the vague body-memory of hard ground had gone, my legs kicking in insubstantial watery black. The world, my mind, the way these connected, whatever the root of the perception shift, I didn’t have control of it, and I couldn’t undo what had happened. But I
had
to get away. The deep deep liquid black below my feet, the creature in the TV and the violence that threw me here, I had to get out, now, regardless of how everything re-viewed and re-focused itself. I looked up at the North Star, used it to guess-navigate where the living room door should be and began swimming hard in that direction.

I didn’t get far.

Something huge rushed fast in the water under my body, pulling me in a mini whirlpool twist of unravelling thought drag in its wake. The thing from the static.
Jesus
. I kicked faster, scrabbling against liquid, trying to pull up a solid thought of dry land in my mind. But I could only beat out splashes and scatter sprays of mind fragments. Then another undertow and I’m pulled and buffeted, the thing passing under again and I’m knocked and rolled and ducked under by a fierce ripping after-wake.

Coming up for air and coughing out:
shark
. The word coming in a tangle-breathed shudder and then me screaming:
help. Shark. Help me.
Me screaming:
oh God oh God oh God
and kicking and thrashing and thrashing and screaming. And then, somehow, tumbling from the back of my desperate spark-spraying thought train, a memory of something – Eric
Sanderson’s emergency envelope and the Ryan Mitchell Mantra pinned to the notice board in the kitchen. I fought to remember the text on those sheets of paper. Exam results? The colour history of rooms?

“Blue and black and grey and yellow,” I shouted the words out, grasping, shock-stripped of any thinking or logic. I shouted and kicked against the water, grabbing in the dark. “Blue and black and grey and yellow. Blue and –” Something rushed upwards from below and smashed hard against my hip and side, throwing me up and backwards out of the water in a lift of spray, my mouth opening like a scream but my airways crushed and winded and only a sucking nothing coming through my throat. I came down hard in a splash of disassociating fragments.

And then –

And then it was raining, a heavy downpour of letters, words, images, snatches of events, faces, places – a forest, a late-night city – the sea around me mixing in and confusing with so much falling everything else. And me lost in there somewhere and everywhere in it all, sinking away, diffusing, losing all mind and thoughts and consciousness.

I opened my eyes. Wet, new light dribbled under the curtains – morning arriving, bringing the solid world back into focus with it. I found myself inside the lower part of the living room bookcase, the upper part having broken apart and collapsed, leaving me avalanched in books and splintered wood. I coughed and winced out a hiss.
Cracked rib
. A minor book-slide happened as I slowly and painfully manoeuvred myself up into a twisted sitting position. The TV face-down on the carpet at the end of its stretched-out flex, the sofa up-ended. Things were broken and thrown and chipped and smashed but they were there. Solid, physical things. Things in a room made of bricks on a planet made of rocks and water.
Silent truthful matter.

When I pulled together the strength, I hauled myself out of the debris and up onto my feet, swayed, steadied. The words came back without my looking for them:
Dr Randle can neither help nor protect you.

I limped into the kitchen and started taking the First Eric Sanderson’s letters out of the cupboard.

(Received: 22nd September)
Letter #2

Dear Eric,

I used to know so many things. The things I learned, the ways I learned to see and the things I believed possible, I think they might amaze you. Mostly now, all I have are splinters. Remains of things I was quick enough to write down and preserve; fragments which seem to be increasingly incomplete and confusing to me now.

This is what I know, what at the middle of me I feel is true: all the lost research, the journeys, the dangerous choices, I did it all for a girl called Clio Aames. I loved her, Eric. So much. And she died. I only get the general senses of things and they pass so quickly, like childhood smells touching you and then being gone on the breeze. But. But but but. It feels strange to be writing this down – I think I believed I could change what happened, undo it, prevent it, save her life somehow after she was already gone. Of course I couldn’t. Dead is dead is dead is dead. If you are reading this then I’m dead too and you’ll shortly be fighting for your own life.

Eric, I am so sorry.

There’s so much I’ve lost, so much that’s been eaten all away from the insides of my head, but I’ve worked hard to squirrel away enough to help you. I don’t have any answers, I’m almost as empty as you must be now, but I do have a few tools and
a little knowledge. Some weapons and some fragments. The rest is up to you. You always have a choice.

I’m so forgetful. The creature will find something I’ve missed because it never stops looking and its senses are very sharp. It will find a way to get me and in time it will come looking for you. The waters are almost up to the bedroom window now. I can’t keep all the balls in the air. I can’t stay in this shark cage forever.

The animal hunting you is a Ludovician. It is an example of one of the many species of purely conceptual fish which swim in the flows of human interaction and the tides of cause and effect. This may sound like madness, but it isn’t. Life is tenacious and determined. The streams, currents and rivers of human knowledge, experience and communication which have grown throughout our short history are now a vast, rich and bountiful environment. Why should we expect these flows to be sterile?

Life will always find a way. Just look at you and me and see the truth in it.

I don’t know exactly how the thought fish came to be in the world, but in the wide, warm pools of society and culture, millions of words and ideas and concepts are constantly evolving. It doesn’t seem too implausible that one of them elevated itself above its single cellular cousins in much the same way we did. The Selfish Meme?

The Ludovician is a predator, a shark. It feeds on human memories and the intrinsic sense of self. Ludovicians are solitary, fiercely territorial and methodical hunters. A Ludovician might select an individual human being as its prey animal and pursue and feed on that individual over the course of years, until that victim’s memory and identity have been completely consumed. Sometimes, the target’s body survives this ordeal and may go on to live a second twilight life after the original self and memories have been taken. In time, such a person may establish a ‘bolt-on’ identity of their own, but the Ludovician will eventually catch the scent of this and return to complete its kill.

I’m sorry if I’m putting this too bluntly.

I know what you must be thinking and you don’t have to believe any of this if you don’t want to, but the Ludovician is out there and in time it will find you. Learn the Ryan Mitchell text I sent you. If nothing else, do it to humour me; an old
and crazy coat hanging in your wardrobe. I’m afraid that in time you will see for yourself that what I am telling you is the truth.

With regret and also hope,

The First Eric Sanderson

(Received: 24th September)
Letter #3

Dear Eric,

The Ryan Mitchell text is a very limited form of conceptual camouflage. The longer you exist in the world, the less effective it will be. It’s important then that you learn to protect yourself on a more permanent basis. There are several short-term and several long-term ways to achieve this. The non-divergent conceptual loop is the quickest and the most secure, so it is the best place to start.

This parcel should contain:

x 4 Dictaphones with continuous playback and AC adaptors

x 4 pre-recorded Dictaphone tapes

x 4 8-metre extension cables

x 1 four-way plug adapter

x 16 AA batteries in case of power failure or outdoor use

Function:
The function of this equipment is to generate a non-divergent conceptual loop. That is, a stream circle, a flow of pure and singular association moving around the Dictaphones in order. From one to two. From two to three. From three to four. From four back to one. The resulting current is strong and clean enough to push otherwise incoming flows (of cause and effect, degrees of separation etc.)
around
the defined space, rather than allowing them through or into it, thus creating an area of isolation. To the best of my knowledge, no Ludovician, or any conceptual fish, has ever breached a non-divergent conceptual loop. In essence, it will function as a shark cage.

Instructions:
Insert tapes into Dictaphones. Place Dictaphones in each corner of your room or at the edges of whatever space you are aiming to define. Rig up each Dictaphone with an AC adaptor if possible. Ensure each Dictaphone is set to continuous play. Begin playback on all Dictaphones. Protection is only provided within the area described by the layout of the Dictaphones.

Further notes, explanations & information in the eventuality of equipment damage:
Each of the four Dictaphone tapes provided has been recorded by a different
person. An individual making a recording of this type does not have to be speaking necessarily, they can simply go about their daily business with the Dictaphone recording in their pocket for a few hours. The longer the recording, the more the person is clarified in sound and the more secure your loop. Now – and this is complicated, Eric, so read it back until you’re sure you have it exactly right, you may have to attempt your own replacement tapes one day – the person who records tape one must forward three blank Dictaphone tapes and their own recorded tape to the person who is to record tape two. The person who records tape two must then forward their own tape, tape one and the two remaining blank tapes to the person who will record tape three. And so on. All four recorded tapes must then be sent back to person one. At no time must any of the people involved in the recording listen to any of the tapes. Apart from this single interaction, the four people must not know each other at all, otherwise branching or cross-streaming could occur and a whirlpool loop collapse would quickly follow. Obviously, you must have no contact with any of the four participants for the same reason. Obviously again, this is almost impossible. Hence the importance of maintaining the provided equipment.

With regret and also hope,

The First Eric Sanderson

(Received: 25th September)
Letter #4

Dear Eric,

Some other things which provide good camouflage in the waterways:

Other People’s Letters/Post:
Perhaps the most useful of everyday items when it comes to confusing and tangling and knotting and muddying the conceptual flows of the world. Resonant items can be effectively camouflaged by submerging them in a large box filled with post. Or just a heap of post. The more different people the post belongs to, the more effective the camouflage. This system works because a letter acts as a physical embodiment of a communicative flow. Even the briefest letter channels and underpins a strong and definite stream of intended interaction. An item or even a person, like you, submerged in other people’s post will exist at the centre of a confusing multi-stream spaghetti junction of tangled flows. To a Ludovician or other conceptual fish, the result will be hundreds of crossing currents with different originators and recipients. The resonant item is obscured, becoming only one of many possible stream destinations, and any thought fish trying to move towards it is likely to be confused, disorientated and misdirected.

Books of Fact/Books of Fiction
: Books of fact provide solid channels of information in many directions. Library books are best because they also link the book itself to every previous reader and any applications of the text. Fiction books also generate illusionary flows of people and events and things that have never been, or maybe have only half-been from a certain point of view. The result is a labyrinth of glass and mirrors which can trap an unwary fish for a great deal of time. I have an old note written by me before I got so vague which says that some of the great and most complicated stories like the
Thousand and One Nights
are very old protection puzzles, or even idea nets by which ancient peoples would fish for and catch the smaller conceptual fish. I don’t know if this is true or not. Build the books into a small wall around yourself. My notes say three or five books high is best.

With regret and hope,
The First Eric Sanderson

(Received: 23rd November)
Letter #60

Dear Eric,

As promised, this is the key to the locked room in the house.

You should reread letters #3, #4, #17, #44, #58 and #59 and follow all procedures before you open the red filing cabinet. The text you will find inside is ‘live’ and extremely dangerous.

With regret and hope,

The First Eric Sanderson

(Received: 30th November)
Letter #67

Dear Eric,

As far as I am aware, the conceptual fish do not see physical plants and trees and animals. They do not see the sky or the moon. They only see people, and the things that people make and say and do. The streams of human history, human culture and human thought are their environment. The Ludovician is always looking. I am careful to hide myself, but I am forgetful.

I’m telling you everything I know before it’s all lost for good.

With regret and hope,

The First Eric Sanderson

(Received: 9th January)
Letter #108

Dear Eric,

I just realised, it has been more than three months for you now. More than a hundred of these letters. I hope you can follow them, I am doing all I can.

Soon you will receive a package containing a light bulb, a videotape and two exercise books. It’s important that you open this package inside a Dictaphone loop because reading the enclosed information will create a strong scent in the waterways.

The light bulb has been carefully modified to flicker a double-encoded Morse/QWERTY text (more on this later) containing a fragment of your history. As you will see, one of the exercise books contains my work on identifying the type of encryption, the other contains the clean text I have been able to extract so far. There is still more to translate and that task falls to you. The videotape contains the light bulb’s complete flash cycle for decoding purposes, and in case of accident.

Be very careful with this text. It should be considered ‘live’ at all times. As with all other live documents, ensure it is stored in a post-filled box for safety.

Regret and hope,

The First Eric Sanderson

(Received: 11th January)
Letter #110

Dear Eric,

It seems so normal doesn’t it, the writing from my journal about Clio and Greece? I hardly recognise myself. I don’t think I could even write like that anymore. I’ve ended up as a collector’s egg, all the insides and egginess sucked out leaving just an intact and brittle shell, looking just the same, perfectly the same, but not really an egg at all anymore. I don’t know if some of the things I say make sense. When I get to the middle of something I find I’ve lost my grip on one of the ends. Like trying to hang a huge sheet out in the wind, I can’t keep hold of it all at once and parts are escaping, flapping away out of reach. Are you there? Is there even going to be a you after I’m gone? I’m trying hard not to lose faith. Don’t lose faith in me, Eric. If you are there, you will need this information to survive; I need you to believe in me. I’ve killed myself so slowly it’s taken years and I don’t really even know why. I don’t want to die. I’m scared of dying but even more I don’t want to not be. I remembered something Clio said and I wrote it down. We were coming out of a building like a pub or a cinema or a shopping complex and Clio said, “I’m going to have a smiley face tattooed on the underneath of my big toe.” I said why and Clio said, “So when I’m dead and they put a toe tag on me it’ll look funny in the morgue.” Memories like this one are like the coloured dust from butterfly wings coming off on my fingers and then blowing away. I think Clio liked the idea of the tattoo because it would be like her something, her sense of humour, would still be there for at least a little bit longer when her body was cold and dead. It would be like a little cheat. You see what I’m saying don’t you? Don’t lose faith in me, Eric.

Regret and hope,

E

(Received: 12th January)
Letter #111

Dear Eric,

There are two stages to the light bulb text encryption. The first is simple Morse code. The bulb flashes in short and long bursts, dots and dashes. These can be transcribed as letters using the following chart: