This story is not recommended for children.

I wake.

I’d been dreaming about Ray. In this dream I’d seen his van and chased after him. We’d met in a rainy car park and we’d talked. I can’t remember what we said, but it was a good moment. But then I felt the dream melting and I’d panicked. I tried to hold onto it but it hadn’t worked. The dream had gone and left longing in its place. I wake up crying, as usual.

But at least this time the tears and the gut wrenching despair doesn’t last quite so long. For a couple of minutes I’m aware only of the intense, bottomless misery that waking always brings. The chest bursting pain of heartbreak, the futility of another day, the tar thick blackness of grief, when I’d rather die than get out of bed.

But it passes. I let it flow, let it ease. I feel the tension drain from me with the last of my sobs, leaving me exhausted and quiet. A few minutes later I’m at least able to function. It’s getting a little easier every day. I’m sure it is.

I’m in a square room with four beds around a table and a bin in one corner far from me. This is what they call the transit building. If they decide I can stay they’ll help me get a place of my own. Even if they have to build it with me. Imagine that? Can you see me with a hammer and nails? Well, Craig seems to think I’ll have no problems being voted in, especially after last night.

Let me tell you it as it happened…

I’ve picked a good time to show up, I guess. Sunday nights are a bit special at Unity. It’s the official weekly get together when everyone comes out to share the lurve, swap chromosomes, pickle the senses and take part in a few dozen other things that will all be regretted in the morning. According to Craig It’s one of the things that bonds Unity together; the idea that everyone works and plays as one. I must admit, it all seems pretty unified from where I’m standing.

There is a stage, complete with lights and a half decent PA. We stand together on the filthy floor, listening to a couple of warm up acts. Local celebrities hacking out tunes on guitars and synth. Cover versions, mainly, but plenty good enough for a local herd.

After a few more ignorable numbers, a small guy gets up to enthusiastic applause. He’s skinny, with white teeth flashing against the deep blackness of his skin. From his figure you’d think he was no more than a child, but his skin is wrinkled, and there’s a hint of grey in his hair. He’s carrying a top hat, which he waves about, demanding our attention.

“Ladeeez… Generalmen… Cats, Dawgs, Kings and Queeenz…” There are wolf whistles and catcalls from the crowd. “And everyone in betweeeeen…. I have the greatest of trips in acquainting you with a dude who’s so straight you can’t scope his curves with a laser. A cat who’s so fresh you’d think he’d been irradiated, and so fuckin’ addictive the man slapped a pro on him before he could even spit.”

The crowd are lapping him up, but I’m struggling to understand him. His accent, his diction. Everything seems so way off beam, so unlike the usual street speak I’ve come to know. “You fortunate babes! You glücklich few! Years from now, you’ll be rapping to your ankle biters about this night. They’ll scope with their tiny peepers wide as you wax lyrical over the cat you’re about to upload into your cultural cortex. No jive, my lords and laydeez, no hussle. No tinsel, glitter or uncool jitter. This is class. This is smoking ass! Give it up, give it in, give the crazy cat a Unity welcome to shake the lid off this domicile, the flesh on the bones, the roof on the homes, the dude who made it real – I give you Shakil!”

I’m screaming with the rest of them. The euphoria is infectious; the cascade of sound sweeps us all up in its swell as our energy breaks across the stage. The spotlights burst into full beam, and he walks out from behind the curtain, smiling, waving, supremely confident. The MC is clapping him to his spot, handing him the mike before throwing his arms around him in a gesture of such genuine warmth that it brings out a fresh surge on the cheer-o-meter.

Shakil is wearing a dark olive suit with a bright orange shirt and thin leather tie. I’m surprised, such formerly smart attire seems out of place amongst the singlets and Crewberry shirts, the aviators and the dee-pees. He’s gorgeous. I mean, he couldn’t hold a candle to Ray, but he’s classically handsome, with his hair tied back to reveal high cheekbones and sparkling brown eyes on a flawless Asian complexion. Eventually the sound dies down to an expectant hush, and he lets the moment hang before almost hesitantly speaking into the mike.

“Hello.”

It’s enough to set us all off again. We’re laughing and cheering, “Hello” back at him.

“There seem to be more of us every time we do this.”

Again, a chorus of affirmation.

“Well, that’s good. It’s good to see the family growing. Especially in such hard times. It’s good to know that we’re making a difference.”

He waits for the applause to stop again, nodding to himself as he scans the tops of our heads.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately. I’ve been thinking about what it is to be at Unity. I’ve been thinking about what it represents. I’ve been thinking about what it all means.”

“They call us the underclass. The rejects. They call us dead wood. Socio-economic failures. Look around you, my friends. Check out the people you walked in with. Check out the people next to you. Do they look like dead wood to you? Do they look like failures?”

There’s a brief flurry of activity as everyone checks left and right before shouting “No” in chorus. I’m standing next to Craig, who looks like he’s escaped from a geek’s convention, and a middle aged woman with matted hair and arms so thin that she looks dangerously brittle. All the same, I add my voice to their denial.

“They need you to think that you’re not in the right place. They want you to leave this island of hope and go back to the cities. They want you to stop trying to rebuild your lives and go back to the tower blocks to wait for something to happen. They want you to stop educating yourselves and get back in front of the television where you belong, so that they can control you. They don’t want you to work your way up. They want to keep you down.”

His tone is steady and measured. Almost intimate. “There isn’t enough room for everyone at the top. There aren’t enough mansions. But they’ll always need someone to sweep the floors. They talk about social justice, and then they go home to their six bathroom houses. They talk about equality and then they drink their coffee, and wear their gold that’s been produced in work conditions not seen since the days of Moses. They talk about the need to educate the children, and then they introduce primary school tuition fees that guarantee that every single child other than their own privileged few will begin their lives with a debt burden that will keep them down in the dust. Under the yolk. Afraid. Obedient “

“And we all agree. We collectively acquiesce, and we accept our place at their feet. We wear our chains of poverty like badges of honour. We smile while they step over us. We thank them while they pile on the charges, and take away our liberties. They tell us it’s noble to be poor, and we agree. They tell us we’re lucky to live in such a fine country, and we agree. And then they tell us that prosperity is still within our reach, if we’ll only work a little harder, if we’ll only make just a few more sacrifices, and we bow down and thank them for the chance to serve.”

The hall is very quiet. His voice is barely raised, but everyone can hear him. He makes eye contact with me and I find myself nodding.

“And how do they do it? How do they get you to accept it? They sell it to you, just like they sell you credit to get you into debt. They make it cool. They turn poverty into a marketable commodity and convince us not just to accept it, but to want it. Look at the media, especially that which is aimed at our inspirational youth. Look at the imagery. Ghetto style, streetwise gangs, hip, urban culture. Listen to the talk. Boys and hombres from the ‘hood, being down with the gangs, street pride, connectivity, mentality tough, eloquently speaking, extolling the virtues of life in the slums. Check out the high-rise sisters, strong together in their mutual respect whilst remaining oblivious to their deprivation.”

“Listen to the Mass-produced music, selling the ideal of living on the edge, running from the law, an urban rebellion, shrink wrapped, packaged and presented with a deep bass soundtrack. Tune in, drop out, become street. And be proud of it.”

“Rich white kids must cry themselves to sleep at night, wishing they could be so class.”

“How many of you wanted to be Yope Nigg when you were young? Eh?”

Quite a few of the crowd whoop out. There are hands up.

“Now how many of you wanted to be Raymond Glyco?”

A ripple of laughter flutters through us. There are no takers.

“So that’s what happens. Little Jimmy leaves school and he’s ready to take on the world. However, all the plumb jobs, all the money; they’ve already been shared out amongst the elite. But Jimmy doesn’t mind. He’s been brought up on street culture. He’s seen “Jack Mile”, so he’s happy to take a job at the trash mill. He knows that sooner or later, just like Yope Nigg in the movie, somebody will come along, discover his hidden talents, and – bam!- he’ll be living the high life too.”

“It’s the myth that they perpetuate. Our grand parents used to be told that they’d get their reward in heaven. They used to believe that shit so much that they’d put up with any amount of crap here on earth. These days they’re feeding us the same fucking line, but instead of the promise of an afterlife, we have reality audition shows. We have ordinary people being catapulted to celebrity status in an all singing, all dancing, media rapture. We have lottery winners supposedly scooping more money than God, and they tell us all that this week, or maybe the week after, it could be any one of us.”

“Except that it won’t be, will it? It’s all a big lie. It’s a great big anaesthetic patch to keep you from waking up to the true futility of your life. And guess what? By the time you realise that it’s never going to happen to you, you’ll be too old. Nobody will want to listen to a fucking thing you say, because you’ll be an embarrassment to them. The next generation of sheep will just look at you and think – “Well, you didn’t make it, grandpa. But that don’t mean the same thing’s gonna happen to me, eh?” And so the cycle goes. Millions of people, dragging the cart, and waiting, waiting, waiting… Just for their chance to win a ticket out of it.”

We stand, watching him. He stands, watching us. Silence.

Talk about killing the mood.

“Except that’s not how we do things at Unity, is it?”

It’s enough to break the tension, and the silence. Noise erupts from us like water bursting out of a balloon. “No!”

“We don’t do failure here, do we?”

We’re jumping up and down in a clamour to agree.

“Unity isn’t about taking a number and waiting for your big break. It’s about taking control of your own destiny and plotting your own course. We’ve got free education, we’ve got financial capital, we’ve got a secure foundation for you to build yourselves up from, and best of all, we’ve got each other.”

Can you feel the love? We’re going crazy.

“Twenty five new businesses in the past three months. Sixteen nationally recognised diplomas awarded, over twenty credit agreements brokered, thirty one full time jobs secured, three bills sent to the government and two Kay-Eye recognised corporate takeovers finalised.”

Wow. No wonder he’s popular. It sounds like he’s building a nation.

“People of Unity, when we start being able to work together to bid for – and win – businesses that are trading on the Keeman Index, then you know we’ve arrived. As non-profit making organisation in its own right, Unity now employs twenty three full time and seventy eight part time staff. Taking the five year average, our capital expansion rate now puts us in the top thirty En-Pee-Ohs in the country. And all this, all of it; is down to one thing.”

We all know what he’s going to say. He nods at us, drinking in the moment like a seasoned showman, before pointing his finger out into the centre of out mass. “You.”

We cheer. Then somebody starts chanting, “Shak, Shak, Shak, Shak” Pretty soon we’ve all taken up the cry, clapping our hands in time, pounding it out with our feet until it feels as if the sound has become a physical presence.

It subsides eventually, reluctantly. And Shakil is smiling at us as if we were his favourite children. “There’s still a long way to go.” He announces. “But we’re heading in the right direction. Remember that the success of Unity depends on the success of you. We haven’t got room for coasters or free loaders. If you’re here, it means that you’ve made a commitment to pick yourself up and work – hard- towards becoming a success. We’ll run with you, we’ll even drag you if it’s what you need. But we won’t carry you.”

Applause punctuates his point. Craig turns to me, his face the picture of admiration. “Isn’t he incredible?”

I nod, unsure of what to say. I want to share his enthusiasm but I’m painfully aware that I still have to be voted in, and I can’t imagine what I might do if that doesn’t happen.

“Ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the rest of the evening. I gather we’ve got some great entertainment lined up for you tonight. Enjoy your headaches tomorrow and then throw yourselves back into it. Last quarter was amazing for so many of us. So let’s see if we can’t capitalise on that phenomenal success and make an even bigger difference before the end of the year. Remember – A home. A chance. A voice…”

“UNITY!” We all chorus back. Moments later a Latin band kicks off with a salsa beat and we’re all dancing. Shakil disappears, waving once or twice, as the singers take their position at the mike.

We’re all swaying to the music, I even have a smile on my face. When did that last happen? Momentarily my heart lurches as I remember why, but I force the thoughts aside and manage to side-step the wave of self pity before it knocks my legs from under me. Craig watches, raising his eyebrows and grinning. He says something but I can’t hear him.

“What?”

He leans closer, shouting in my ear a little too loudly. “I said: Do you want to dance?”“

I shake my head in puzzlement. “I am dancing!”

But he shakes his head too, pointing up at the stage. “I meant that you might want to dance up there.”

I laugh, backing off, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Salsa’s not my thing! I’m a ticket dancer.”

“A what?”

“You know? Ticket?”

Light dawns on his features. “Ah.” He smiles, nodding. “Just wait here, okay?”

And then he’s gone. Leaving me dancing with an empty space that fills up very quickly with fresh bodies as the band plays on.

* * *

“Is anybody there?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“It’s dark.”

“I know.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re safe. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“But where am I?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t know. I don’t remember where I am. It’s just dark. I can’t open my eyes.”

“Relax. You’re safe.”

“But where am I?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I… I don’t think I know.”

“That’s fine. Don’t let it worry you. Perhaps you could tell me your name?”

“I… Do I have a name?”

“Think hard. Relax. Let it come.”

“I can’t… Yes.”

“Do you have it?”

”It’s there. Like it’s waiting to be said.”

“How does it feel?”

“It feels… It’s like, Ahr.. Yuhr…”

“Just let it come. When it’s ready. We don’t have any need to rush.”

“What if it doesn’t come?”

“Oh. It will. In time.”

“You sound kind.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you anhel?”

“No. I’m not an angel.”

“Perhaps prymara then?”

“Are you afraid of me?”

”No.”

“Then I’m unlikely to be a ghost. Because surely you would have been afraid of me by now.”

“But why can I not see you?”

“Can you see your own face?”

“No.”

“But you surely have one?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Yana.”

“There.”

“I remembered!”

“You did!”

“My name is Yana Malakhov!”

“I’m pleased to meet you Yana.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you remember anything else?”

“I… No.”

“That’s fine. Really. You have your name. It’s plenty for now.”

“Wait! You’re fading. Are you leaving me?”

“No. I’m still here. And so are you. Sleep now, Yana.”

* * *

My heart isn’t really in it. I’m dancing without Ray and it feels like I’m acapella. The band is good enough. Passionate numbers about sex and fiesta. But there’s not much to it. My feet are still moving but my brain is getting bored. A hand on my shoulder makes me turn and Craig is back, stepping in close and taking my hand.

“Any use?” He passes something to me with almost theatrical discretion and I look down to see a wafer-thin plastic disc. There are familiar lines radiating out like rays of sunshine from the spider’s web blob in the centre. Look at it under a microscope and you’d see that same web design replicating right down to atomic scale. It’s a fractal key linked by its own tiny network relay to a master sequencer. A tiny receiver and transmitter of electrical impulses with the power to disrupt nerve signals, or (put it another way) a ticket.

I laugh. “Craig, it’s a sweet thought, but it’s not like a pill. I can’t just take it on my own and trip out. It has to be organised. Someone has to pull the strings.”

He nods, smiling. “I know. I’m not completely without experience in such matters, you know. And I’m not entirely without influence when it comes to the entertainments committee, either.”

As if on queue, the band strikes their last chord. “Tangyew werry modge” The lead vocalist announces. “Now ees mah pleasure, ter inroduse you to deenites beeg show. Laydis an jenalmen, plees gif warm roun off applause to Teecketmasah… Pulsar!”

As the cheers go up, the lights dim down. Soon we’re in darkness. “Go on.” Craig hisses, childlike. “Take it now!”

I can feel the tiny wafer getting warm in my hand and wonder how many of the others have got them too. There doesn’t seem much point in having a ticket master if there’s only one puppet. I’ve taken dozens of these, but I can’t help feeling anxious about this one. I don’t know where it’s from. It might even be a dud.

But that isn’t it, is it? The real reason I’m so hesitant is that this is the first time I’ve ever contemplated going under a ticket without Ray. The idea of handing over the control of my body to a complete stranger is…

For a start, it’s scary. It’s not as if I have any idea how competent this Pulsar guy is. And secondly, it feels disloyal. This is something I used to share with Ray. This is what we did. It’s what we did best.

“Hi there, guys!” A woman’s voice, in the darkness.

There’s a chorus of “Hello!” And a bit of laughter.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes!” I look down at the disc again, even though it’s pitch black I think I can see the faint golden glow of the fractal web.

“Can you feel that?” The woman asks.

There isn’t much of a response. A couple of people shout. “No.”, or “Turn it up.”

“Well, can you feel that?” She asks again.

“No!” The crowd respond, getting into the game. Craig’s is watching me, his eyes sparkling, willing me to accept his offering.

“Then how about… This?” She shouts.

The reaction is explosive. Whoops, cheers, groans, yelps, but all of it appreciative. The place has lit up like a runway with everyone suddenly jumping and yelling. Bass kicks in and the whole planet is shaking with the power of it. She’s playing Brighter than a thousand suns. A good choice for an opener; Ray would have approved.

I force myself not to think about him, almost physically pushing the emotion aside. Instead I take the little ticket and place it face down onto my tongue.

Conventional drugs, by which I mean just about anything you can drink smoke or eat, are distinctly different from a ticket. They affect, disrupt or enhance brain chemistry by poisoning the system and the side effects are what you’d call the buzz, the lift, the chase, etc. Ultimately the body manages to fight off what ever’s happening to you and fixes the problem, usually resulting in the user feeling like shit after the event. But the ticket is different. The human body was never meant to encounter fractal signals and nano-scale circuitry. It has no defence mechanism against the neurological impulses received by the infinitely regressing wires that fuse into the users own molecular circuitry. Antibodies don’t recognise it as a threat. The liver can’t filter it out. A ticket user’s whole body could be shut down, organ by organ, and the defence mechanisms of the brain wouldn’t even notice.

The ticket ride doesn’t happen straight away. And the fusion takes place on such a tiny scale that you can’t even feel it. I’ve heard of people saying that they can feel something, though. Some people describe it as a tickling, others as a noticeable heat, but I think they’re just kidding themselves. The welding occurs deep down in the sub neural scale, way below the crude level that pain sensors operate at.

And there it is. It’s difficult to explain how it comes on you, because as soon as it’s there, you can’t remember what it was like before. It’s as if your sensory clock is re-started. Perhaps it’s gradual, perhaps it takes a couple of minutes, but that warm up time becomes irrelevant as soon as the ticket takes hold. There is only the pulse and the music, the light and the beat. Sensations of euphoria filling the whole body and connecting in a synchronised web with everyone around you. We’re all part of the same fractally expanding network, with thoughts, sensations, joy, ideas being transmitted and swapped and shared between every other user, remixed by the ticket master, filtered, washed, spun and fluffed up by the banks of machines at her disposal, and interwoven with music, strobes, beacons, ultra violet cannons and subsonic torches.

It’s not quite Ray. Being under this girl’s ticket feels like being in the hands of an inexperienced lover. The sensations are pleasurable, but course and a little predictable. The equipment is a little hard edged. It’s the subtlety that costs big money and sorts out the pros from the ams. But it’s still a fucking good ticket. It’s strong and it’s fresh. At some point I’m helped up onto the stage, and people start calling my name.

“Move Mistress! Move Mistress!”

I dance.

* * *