Short fiction

Charlotte

5th May 2010. It’s been two weeks now since I first met Charlotte. I use the term ‘met’ in the loosest possible sense, for lack of a better way of describing our initial encounter. It’s the same with everything to do with Charlotte.  There just aren’t enough words to describe her. An immediate obstacle is that until now I had no idea what she looked like; another is that I’d never heard her voice. Most of the time, when we were ‘together’ (again, I use the term loosely) I’d worry that I was just talking to myself. But something I was always sure of is that she’s utterly remarkable. I’ve never known anyone else like her. How many ‘probably-dead’ people can you say that about?

It was early on Monday morning, the day I met Charlotte and my life changed forever - but I’ll warn you now, it was far from love at first sight.

I like the University Library first thing in the morning. If you can get there before 9am you literally have the place to yourself. I can see why some people might not like that; how they could feel lonely or dislike the quiet, but not me. I like to climb the staircase to the fourth floor, not seeing another soul along the way. I walk in and scan the empty room, admiring the 50 or so PC’s all waiting patiently for the day to begin. And then I choose one of them, any one, on which to work for the morning. If you come later in the day, even just an hour later, it is a completely different scene; the staircase crowded with students, this room crawling with them, all but one or two monitors taken. If you’re lucky. Often there aren’t any PC’s left and you have to look elsewhere, which I always think a great shame, because I do love that room. Not because of the computers, but because of the ceiling-high windows that make up the east wall. Sat there, you can see far out into the city, and beyond.

I paused for a moment, admiring the stillness of the room, before making my way over to a PC in the corner, directly beside the window. However, as I walked over I stopped again. There was something strange about the room today. It had come over me all of a sudden, a feeling I was unsure of. At first I thought it was someone else in the room. Something made me look around. Perhaps there was another student here already, crouching down behind his computer? After scanning the room I was satisfied I was alone. But there was something else. There was something in the air. The room suddenly felt very close, as if amped up by a static charge. It reminded me of standing in my garden as a child just after a thunder storm; the clamminess of the air making it feel like the last raindrops were somehow slowed or suspended in the air. I opened a window. Perhaps that would help.

Finally I sat at my desk. Touching the mouse I was surprised to find the computer already on but in sleep mode. The screen jumped to life, prompting me to sign in. This was unusual. Ordinarily at this time the computers had yet to be turned on for the day. Someone must have been in before me, and by chance chosen the very same computer and left it on stand-by. Unusual, but to be fair, stranger things have happened. Or rather, stranger things would happen.

After sitting through the start-up routine I pulled out my notes and clicked on Word, ready to start typing up my lecture notes. However, when Word opened I found a document already waiting. This was odd because I hadn’t opened any documents yet, and I had only just signed into my computer account. There couldn’t be a document open already. I quickly read through the opening paragraph. It was something about Peter the Great, clearly not mine because I’m a medic. Intrigued, I scrolled down to the final paragraph, where I was shocked to find new letters appearing at the end of the latest line. The letters were popping into existence, quickly turning to words and gradually pushing the newly formed sentences across the page. This was weird.

I’d heard of things like this; PC technicians viewing your account from their office and communicating with you by writing on your screen. But why would a PC technician be writing to me about Peter the Great? I noticed that the words were forming independent of the cursor, so I clicked a few lines beneath them and wrote: ‘Who is this?’

The typing stopped. There was a long pause. And then it replied: ‘I’m Charlotte. Who are you?’

Charlotte? What did that mean? What good did that do me at all in understanding what was happening? I was undecided as to whether I should reveal my own name. What if ‘Charlotte’ was some kind of computer hacker after my personal details? But why would a computer hacker be writing about Peter the Great? Misdirection? She must be a clever hacker. Still, I reasoned that she wouldn’t be able to do much with just my name.

‘I’m Dean.’ There was another pause. Eventually I wrote again: ‘Why are you writing on my screen?’

‘I’m not. This is mine. Why are you writing on mine?’

I thought for a moment. Maybe this was starting to make sense. I typed out my thoughts for Charlotte.

‘I think there’s been some kind of mistake. Your work is appearing on my screen. Maybe our accounts have gotten mixed up or something.’ To be on the safe side I reasoned that it was probably best to check she was a student, but I didn’t want to sound paranoid. I decided on a simple ‘Where are you writing from?’

Pause.

‘University Library.’

I smiled. It seems I wasn’t the first person here today after all.

‘Oh really? That’s handy. I’m here too. Where are you? If we meet it might be easier to work out what’s going on?’

‘I’m in the computer room, on the fourth floor.’

My heart skipped a beat. I jumped back from the screen and sat up, looking again around the room. I was alone.

‘Are you sure? I’m in the computer room on the fourth floor and there’s no one else here.’

Nothing. She was probably confused or mistaken. She must be on a different floor and maybe just thought it was the fourth. Then I remembered all of the computers are numbered, with a white plate beneath each monitor sporting the unique number of that particular PC. The one I was on was 1044. If I knew which PC she was on, I could probably find her.

‘What’s the reg. no of your PC? Tell me and I’ll come find you.’

Pause.

‘1044.’

I felt the blood freeze in my veins. Was this some kind of a joke? That was my PC. She was typing on my PC. There had to be something wrong going on. Either this was a joke or a con. Whichever it was, I wasn’t too keen to find out. I closed the document, signed off and left the library.

It was less than twenty minutes later when I arrived at computer services and asked to speak to a technician. I quickly explained what had just happened. At first he seemed perplexed, but then I saw the faint indication of smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He either thought I was joking, or someone had played a joke on me. Regardless, he agreed to open up my profile and have a look. We signed in using his personal computer in the workshop, and he opened up Word. It was a blank document. We waited for a few moments but nothing happened. I could feel my cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment.

‘Whatever it was it looks like it’s over now,’ he said in a mock-serious tone. He turned to me, and I must have looked shaken because he softened slightly. ‘You know, if it makes you feel better I can run a full diagnostic on your profile? Just to check you’re free of spyware or anything like that?’

I nodded gratefully.

‘I’ll check the computer in the library too. Which one did you say it was?’

‘1044,’ I confirmed. He scribbled it down, gave me a hearty pat on the shoulder and told me to check in next week to see what he’d found.

After that I just forgot about it all for a few days. It’s funny how easily the mind can normalise the abnormal.

Admittedly, I was uneasy for the rest of the morning, and I told my housemates the whole story that night, but that’s all it was. A story. An amusing anecdote that might as well have happened to someone else. That was, until I was in the library again.

I needed to check my emails at about midday. I knew the library would be filling up by now, but I also knew that the computers on the lower floors go first. An unspoken law dictates that the so-called lazy students only go as far as they have too, and in this instance the logic proved right. If there was to be a free computer it would probably be on the fourth floor.

I entered the room, and unsurprisingly found it almost full. There was one free PC though, in the corner by the window. 1044. Typical.

Despite events earlier in the week I went over anyway. I hesitantly signed in, and quickly checked and replied to my emails. Everything seemed to be running fine this time. But there again, I hadn’t opened a Word document. My eyes fell upon the desktop icon. I watched as I moved the cursor across the screen; curiosity drew me like a moth to the flame. I double-tapped, and sure enough, rather than a new document opening the same text as before flashed up on the screen. I scrolled down again, this time the last word being ‘1044’: the point at which Charlotte had revealed her alleged location.

I couldn’t resist. My fingers took charge and danced across the keyboard.

‘Charlotte? Are you still there?’

Pause.

‘Dean?’

My body took a sharp deep breath, seemingly working of its own accord.

‘Yes. This is Dean.’

Pause.

‘Are you a student here Dean?’

I felt my spine run cold. Why does she want to know about me? I could hardly resist the notion that she was some kind of hacker and that this was all a con. She probably wanted to steal my identity. But the technician hadn’t found anything. What else could be going on here?

‘Yes.’

‘I’m so lonely Dean. I know I don’t know  u, but will  u please listen? It’s so long since any 1 has listened. I don’t want 2  b alone.’

My throat  went dry. Suddenly I remembered a ghost tour of the city I’d been on the previous year. At the time I thought it was nonsense. Just a bit of fun. The man who arrived to give the tour had turned up in full Victorian dress, complete with top hat and cane.  Only an idiot would take it seriously. But now, as Charlotte’s words played across my screen, one story in particular came to mind.

The guide had walked us to a phone box in the centre of town, and told us about a man who had been calling this very phone when his wife’s lover had entered their home and killed him in cold blood. No explanation was given for why he called this particular phone box, but the guide went on, explaining that the man’s dying soul had been captured in the phone lines, and every now and then the phone would ring. He said that if a passer-by answered the phone they could speak to the man, and listen as he lamented the mistakes of his life, particularly his marriage, that had led him to his death. And then, as if on cue, the phone had rung, and the guide encouraged one fearless volunteer to answer it.

One of my friends had, and he later told us it was just a guy talking about his wife. It was easy to see through the set up. The guide just had to make sure he had gotten his group to the phone box at roughly the right time, and then keep on talking until his accomplice rang the number. Or so I thought at the time. Now, as a mysterious writer who proclaimed to be sat in the very spot I was in explained to me her inability to make any friends or find anyone to hear her laments upon arrival at a strange and desolate place; I was beginning to wonder.

Perhaps Charlotte had died while working on the Peter the Great document. Surely she couldn’t have died in the University Library, but if her computer was somehow linked to this computer… Maybe, if she’d been talking on Live Messenger to someone using this PC that would have provided a strong enough connection?, I couldn’t help smiling to myself, surprised by how quickly I’d accepted the idea that I was conversing with the dead.

For the next few days I would return to 1044 each morning and talk to Charlotte. Even when I wasn’t talking to her I would be thinking of things to say, questions to ask. I avoided the subject of her death. I didn’t want to bring back traumatic memories unnecessarily or force her into the light before her time. Sometimes she would ask about me. We’d talk about our childhoods, what our interests were, and our tastes in music, TV and film. She never asked what I’d been doing recently though, never asked about the last few weeks or what I’d been doing when I wasn’t in the library. It was fun. Every now and then a sadness would creep into the back of my mind. Charlotte had died. I would never actually get to meet her. She’d never get to leave the library.

After a week I was passing by computer services and I decided to drop in and see if the technician had found anything strange. Perhaps there would be some clue as to exactly what was going on.

‘Your account’s fine,’ he smiled. His smile faded, as instead of relief I had an expression of disappointment.

‘And 1044?’ I asked? He looked surprised that I was bothered about the status of a random computer in the library, but then his eyes widened as if he’d suddenly remembered that he’d left the gas on at home.

‘Actually, the computer’s fine, but I did notice something weird when I was clearing out our inbox the other day,’ he smiled, suddenly glad of a captive audience.

He swivelled in his chair and turned to his computer, bringing up the email inbox for computer services. I could see that the inbox was full of messages, scoring in the thousands.

‘We get a lot of emails,’ the technician said apologetically, looking back with an expression like that of child explaining to his mother why his bedroom is such a mess.

‘Here.’ He pointed to an email dated April 2007. He opened it up. ‘So, this girl sends us an email saying that writing had started appearing on her Word documents while she was working on them, asking who she was, where she was, kind of like what happened to you, right?’

I nodded. He continued.

‘She goes on to say it doesn’t happen on her laptop or in the Student Union, only when she’s in the library. Only when she’s using one computer in particular.’

‘1044?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Yep, 1044.’ Silence fell as we considered the implications. I leaned over to get a closer look at the email, my eyes falling to the bottom: ‘Best wishes, Charlotte Woodward.’

‘Thanks. I have to go,’ I quickly excused myself, dashing outside to get some air. What could this mean? I’d already decided Charlotte was a student here, but now I knew she was here in 2007. That kind of made sense. But how could she be talking to me in the library before she died? How could I be writing now, and it be appearing on her PC in 2007?

‘Oh God,’ I cursed, in realisation. That explained how we could be in the same place. She wasn’t dead. She just hadn’t got here yet.

I ran over to the library and up the stairs to the fourth floor. Out of breath I burst into the room, heading immediately for 1044. Someone was sat on it, checking their Facebook.

‘Excuse me, I need to use this computer,’ I asked, the urgency evident in my tone.

The guy looked up at me unapologetically.

‘Sorry pal, you should have booked it.’

‘You’re not even using it for work!’ I argued, motioning to the social networking site open on his screen.

‘Find another computer mate, I’m using this one.’ He held my stare for a second before looking back to the screen.

Frustrated, I picked up his bag and made for the stairs outside. I could hear his protests and a sudden shuffle of movement as he clambered to his feet, still reeling from the shock that I’d stood up to him. Once at the stairwell I dropped his bag into the void, watching as it fell down past each of the four floors. The guy careered onto the stairs just as his bag hit the ground floor with a dull thud.

‘Not cool, man,’ I heard him snarl as he ran off down the stairs. He’d be back, I didn’t have much time.

Sat at 1044 I quickly signed in and opened up the Word document. Sure enough our last conversation was still there.

‘What year is it?’ I typed frantically.

‘2007, why?’ She replied.

‘It’s 2010 here. You’re alive aren’t you, in 2007?’

‘Of course I’m alive. You’re the ghost aren’t you?’ I smiled at the irony.

‘I’m alive too, in 2010. I’m in the Library, on the same computer as you, but three years later.’

There was a pause as I waited for her to reply. I couldn’t help thinking of the guy on the stairs, he must have got his bag by now.

‘Sorry, I don’t have much time. Meet me, outside the University Library,’ I looked at my watch, it was 2.20pm on the 5th May, ‘Meet me at 2.30pm, on the 5th May 2010.’

‘But that’s ages away. I’ll be in my final year.’

‘That’s where I am. Sorry. You’ll have to wait, but please, do meet me.’

I could hear the angry footsteps on the stairs. Quickly I signed out and took the exit to the opposite stairwell, heading further up to the fifth floor. There I hopped in the lift and went all the way down to ground level. With any luck I’d never see that guy again; I might have to avoid the fourth floor computer room for a little while, though.

I walked briskly through the electric doors and out onto the library steps, I checked my watch, 2.28pm.

‘Dean?’ It was a soft feminine voice. I turned quickly, and stood before me was a young woman in her early twenties: about right for someone in her final year by now. She had pale skin and dark black hair. She’d applied extra make-up to her eyes to make them look even darker in contrast to her white skin. She wore a black dress which stopped short of the knee, where equally black tights carried  my eyes down to her polished black military style boots.  I wasn’t surprised that this girl would assume the person writing in her essay was a ghost.

‘Charlotte?’ I asked. She beamed a smile and hugged me tightly.

‘I can’t believe it’s you!’ I heard her say, her voice muffled as she buried her head in my sweatshirt. I think she was crying. ‘It all seems so long ago now, when you last contacted me.’

For me it had been less than five minutes. When she softened her grip I suggested we go for a coffee.

There was an awkward silence as we stood in the coffee queue. I’d know her for weeks, and she’d known me for years, but we were strangers meeting for first time. In a way, there was so much to say, it seemed easier not to talk. I caught her eye a few times, prompting her to smile shyly, and I knew I must have been smiling in the same way. We were finally seated.

‘Why didn’t you say you weren’t dead?’ She laughed.

‘I’d forgotten you thought I was dead. I thought you were dead.’

I was still amazed by this.

‘Why?’

‘Well,’ she took a sip of her coffee ‘I was only 18, and I was feeling low, and then my computer mysteriously starts writing me messages. A computer going by the name Dean.’ We both laughed. ‘I thought you were drawn to me, like some kind of guardian angel.’

There was a short silence. I rested my hand on hers and smiled.

‘I’m sorry; I’m not a guardian angel.’ She looked up, slightly raising one eyebrow.

‘Maybe not officially. But you were there for me when nobody else was. I’d just arrived at Uni, nobody in halls would speak to me, I pretty much missed the whole of freshers’ week, I was missing home—’

I couldn’t help interrupting.

‘Sorry, University is the place you’d just arrived at? You were lonely because you’d just arrived at University?’

She nodded.

‘Why, where did you think I was?’

My head fell in embarrassment.

‘Oh,’ I heard her stifle a giggle ‘You thought I was in heaven?’ She laughed.

I looked up defensively.

‘Well, we have been talking to each other through some kind of rift in time and space!’

She controlled herself, an expression that spoke of important business masking her sense of humour.

Eventually she spoke again.

‘If you thought I was dead, and I was talking to you from heaven,’ she fought off a smile ‘then, why didn’t you just ask?’

‘You thought I was dead as well, why didn’t you ask me?’

She considered.

‘I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it.’

I nodded.

‘Exactly.’

I put some more sugar in my coffee, still trying to grasp all the elements of our situation.

‘So, how come you were always on 1044? Whenever I signed in you were always there. That’s partly why I thought you were haunting it.’

Charlotte stared into her coffee a moment before speaking.

‘In first year, back when I was a fresher, I didn’t have many friends. Partly because at first I wasn’t big on the whole socialising thing. I never knew how to start a conversation, and when I did I’d scare people off by talking about the ghost boy in my computer.’

My heart sank.

‘I’m sorry,’ I offered.

‘Not your fault,’ she countered, slowly looking up ‘Anyway, the result was, I spent my whole time in the library. And after the first time you spoke to me I made sure I used that PC.’

That made sense.

‘There’s one other thing.’ I waited until I had her full attention. ‘You had to wait three years to meet me. That’s almost the entire time of your degree. How did you know it was going to work? How did you know it was worth waiting for, and you weren’t going to wait three years and then nobody turn up?’

She laughed.

‘I knew because you told me.’

I didn’t understand.

‘What?’

‘A few hours after you told me where, and when to meet you, you told me it had worked. You said you were with me, that you’d arrived outside the library a few minutes early and I’d found you straight away.’

And that’s where we are.

We just left the coffee shop and now we’re back in the Library.

That’s the story of how I met Charlotte, the remarkable probably-dead girl who isn’t dead, but just from the past. We’re together, sat in front of PC 1044, and our document is on the screen.

 Now, with a few words I’m going to ensure that we do finally meet.

Adam Smith