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THE CRUCIBLE
I have a scattering of experience with chemically-induced altered states.
Everyone does. It’s just they somehow tend to forget that human bodies are functionally complex chemical factories and the majority of the good and bad feelings they experience are the result of the reaction of various inputs with the stuff they already have inside them. Inputs include, for example, the caffeine in your oat-milk flat white (increased energy and heartbeat, feelings of alertness and focus, anxiety.)
I’ve found that people often view even cautious and informed experimentation with arbitrarily deemed socially unacceptable drugs, e.g. MDMA, over socially acceptable drugs, e.g. alcohol, literally any medication, as reckless or even morally reprehensible.
Obviously, being well informed from multiple sources in both fact and fiction (Sherlock Holmes, every musician I’ve ever worshipped), that heroin and its derivatives are not experiences worth the consequences, I’m never going to touch that nasty life-ruiner with any kind of pole, barge or otherwise. Just like I don’t really need to know what carbon monoxide poisoning feels like, just before I expire from it.
But psychedelics, now - they're staging a major comeback these days. We’ve come a long way from their demonisation in the 20th, horror tales of LSD trippers slaughtering their own families because they mistook them for evil leprechauns or sawing off a foot because it started backchatting them having firmly morphed into middle-class housewives discussing the benefits of microdosing over their Wednesday jazzercise class.
Anyway, my eventual point - since the housewives have so far said nothing about hallucinating giant spiders, I suspect that might be the product of something with a little more kick to it than your average magic mushroom.
Our arachnophobic’s name is Scott Poltern. He’s twenty one, and back home for the summer after graduating from Cambridge in Economics. His father is some real estate bigwig who specialises in corporate developments, so it’s been a financially comfortable upbringing. He’s attractive, popular, and well on his way up the ladder of conventional success.
At least, this is what his social media would have us all believe. He certainly doesm’t present himself as top contender for ‘Most Likely To Be Found Screaming In A Tunnel’, but presentation often doesn’t match reality.
And what of Baseball Cap? Were they the cause of Scott’s freak out? I can’t see how - they were very definitely human shaped, just the two legs on them. More likely it was his jiggy partner, who got spooked when he started to hallucinate and did a runner. The whole sunglasses-in-the-dark-head-to-toe-in-athleisure combo doesn’t do it for me, but whatever floats your boat.
There’s just one niggling thing, though. I feel like I’ve seen Baseball Cap before. Obviously I couldn’t see their face, but something about their figure rings a bell - but try as hard as I might, I can’t place it.
Probably not important.
My laptop perches open before me, the screen’s top line filled with more internet search tabs than the human eye can take in. They include, variously, “species of spiders as big as humans”; “what can make you trip balls hard enough to see things that aren’t there”; an array of Scott’s social media posts; and several of Justin Gorhammer’s videos. I’ve been scrolling through the detritus of their online lives for hours, but the only handily obvious connection I’ve uncovered so far is that they both nurse longtime crushes on Rachel Weisz. Not exactly damning, however, because who amongst us does not? (It was Constantine for me.)
Is there Evil in Fring? Or is it a bad batch of recreational mind alterers conjuring demons that lurk in the corner of gamer’s bedrooms and mutant spiders that like to use beach caves as a birthing suite? I could go railing at the current curriculum that has every malleable young mind in a fifty mile radius studying The Crucible ad nauseam on their way up the matriculation ladder, because maybe this is nothing more than a case of burgeoning mass hysteria. Demonic visions instead of witchcraft running rife through the population of my stiflingly small town -
- wait, here’s something.
Justin’s interminable walkthrough videos have attracted some recent capital letter comment trolling. A standard internet life annoyance, of course (like seeing the same lip plumper device stalk you across a hundred sites because your eyeballs inadvertently strayed to the blasted advert one time, one time, for less than ten seconds, and only out of morbid curiosity, I swear) but one comment in particular stands out - and mostly because the exact same one appears in the comments section of at least half of his videos:
U CAN BLOK AND DELETE ME BUT U CANT DELET THE TRUTH
JUSTICE 4 VIOLA GORDON
Now there’s a name I recognise.
Everyone under the age of thirty in my town has heard of Viola Gordon. She’s an online influencer with a biiiig following. She’s no Kardashian, but she does okay.
At last there’s something tangible, an actual connection to work with, because not only is Viola Gordon famous, she and Justin Gorhammer go to the same local college. She posts so many live videos from the place I feel like I go there myself - Sutherland Hollow, my new crush Megan Lugner’s very same alma mater. I’ve even seen Justin in the background of Viola’s videos before. They definitely know each other. Coincidence one.
They’re also both influencers in different ways. Coincidence two.
Influencers attract a fair share of digital crazies to their posts, of course, and the all caps/ seething tone of righteous anger combo is a common enough flag for strangers with nothing better to do - but my gut says the ‘JUSTICE 4 VIOLA GORDON’ commenter is someone who knows them both.
And I know someone who knows Viola Gordon.
I may never be voted “most likely to win prom queen”, but I sure as shit would rank first for “most annoyingly determined to discover the truth at any cost”. There is something going on here, and it all began with my brother. Whatever it may be - hysteria, drugs, madness - I just need to pick determinedly and diligently at its threads until the whole thing unravels and reveals itself to me. Whatever it takes to uncover the truth, I have to be ready to do it, no matter the cost to me or anyone else.
That’s a healthy response to grief, right?
THE LAST SEDUCTION
Christien Van Freesburg is an easy guy to get hold of - if you know how to play him.
Christien’s father is the Mayor of Fring, and for the apathetically elected official of a one- horse town he pulls a lot of weight across the county. Fring is strategically-placed, these days, one of the last remaining bastions of what gets diplomatically called ‘under-developed’. In other words it hasn’t yet succumbed to the relentless march of gentrification - but it won’t be long. Mayor Van Freesburg is the driver of the Money Train, and he’s tootin’ for us all to come aboard.
Christien, in stark contrast, nurses high ambitions of making just enough money to fund a constant supply of pizza, sex and weed, with the occasional surf trip to Mexico thrown in. A life of politics seems, to him, akin to a daily bathe in a pit of razorblades, but Daddy Mayor has very definite ideas regarding his only issue’s future, with more than enough ambition to make up for his heir apparent’s perceived lack.
Christien compensates for this combative state of affairs in various ways, one of which used to be Viola Gordon. They were, for a hot minute, the ultimate budding power couple. Then, a few weeks before Lucas died, they had the kind of publicly acrimonious split that people film on their camera phones and then post on their social with captions like ‘I feel so bad for both of them! Crazy embarrassing to fight in public!’
There were accusations of infidelity on both sides, apparent indiscretions at wild parties. But they still know each other, because in my tiny town the set they both belong to would all fit inside a limo. Ever since their break up, Christien has been numbing the pain with an astonishing variety of temporary female companions - including, I have to admit, yours truly.
‘That was nice,’ I say, nestling into his sheets.
‘Nice?’ echoes Christien, leaning back against his headboard, the better to display his surfer’s torso. ‘Well gosh, I admit I’m more used to rave reviews.’
‘Really nice,’ I amend. ‘Incredible. Consider my mind blown. I just didn’t want to gush due to pride.’
Christien gives out a soft laugh. The good thing about him - he takes nothing seriously. This is also the bad thing about him.
‘So how did I do?’ I ask with a teasing smile.
He considers. ‘You’re like rhubarb crumble.’
‘Er... consider me puzzled.’
He waves his hands. ‘Sweet and satisfying, right, but also tart.’
‘You’re calling me a tart?’ I riposte with mock outrage.
‘In the fruit sense. No, listen, listen, this is good.’ Christien’s eyes are lit up with inspiration. ‘So you take a bite of the crumble, right, and you’ve got all the gooey goodness of the custard and the sugary crumbly bit. But then on your next bite there’s rhubarb on the spoon, and suddenly you get this spiky sour hit. You’re a dessert with an edge, Landry.’
I’m actually flattered.
‘What kind of dessert was Viola?’ I ask casually.
It is Christien’s turn to go spiky sour. He gives me a sharp glance, and then looks away
‘A gentleman never tells. Please say you’re not here because you’re a Viola Gordon fangirl, Alec.’
‘Nope,’ I reassure him. ‘Just a curious bystander.’
‘Well you’ll not get much from me on the subject,’ he says.
I can see I’ve actually scored a hit.
‘I’m sorry,’ I reply, and I mean it. ‘I honestly wasn’t planning to open up a wound.’
‘There’s no wound,’ Christien says with a casual shrug. ‘It was ages ago. I don’t give a crap about ancient history.’
No, Christien, you don’t care at all.
I change tack.
‘I’m not interested in Viola per se, I just came across her while I was looking at Justin’s videos, and - you know Justin Gorhammer?’
Christien’s torso disappears over the edge of his bed, and then returns with rolling paraphernalia. The unmistakable smell of high grade weed wafts back along with him.
‘Of,’ he comments eventually. ‘He’s that nerdy kid who’s gone crazy, right?’
‘I mean... what even is crazy, these days?’ I hazard.
‘I think probably seeing things that aren’t there counts,’ Christien says with a laugh. ‘Guy’s a first-rate candidate for the suicide club.’
It takes him a minute to realise what he just said, and how I might reasonably take offence. His glance at me is the fastest sorry I’ve ever seen, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.
‘I mean... I don’t...’
‘Hey, don’t worry about it,’ I cut him off. ‘We’ve all got struggles, right?’
Christien shrugs, intent on his rolling. He’s not one for introspection. I’ve tried to get him to talk about his father before, up the intimacy with a little vulnerable sharing, but he just made stupid jokes until I gave up.
‘Even Viola, I’m sure,’ I continue. ‘She seems like she’s going through some stuff right now.’ I’m so good at this. That wasn’t an awkward and obvious segue at all.
And yet, the bait hooks.
Christien doesn’t look at me as he asks, very offhandedly, ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Her social. It’s all... you know.’
‘I don’t, because I don’t stalk my exes.’
‘Here,’ I say, taking my phone and bringing up Viola’s main social account. ‘Look at these pictures from the last few months.’
Christien gives them a quick once over. The brief flicker of interest I’d managed to fan snuffs out.
‘Same old, same old,’ he says. ‘Money, pouting and vacuousness.’
I scroll through the photos. Viola on the beach, Viola getting artfully splashed by the tide, Viola on a yacht with her bronzed skin flashing in the sun, Viola in her bathroom with #nomakeup tags even though she is very clearly wearing fake eyelashes. Pouting in sunglasses with captions like “haters gonna hate but I’m still smokin hot.” The only jewellery she wears is the same vintage looking necklace with some heavy, esoteric symbol hanging from the chain, flashing gold from its plunged cleavage resting place - a jarring but fashionably pagan touch.
‘She’s gone from posting a photo once a week, maybe, to posting more than once a day,’ I tell Christien as I study her. ‘Plus the constant live feeds - that’s new, too. Shop with Viola. Help Viola pick today’s outfit. Watch Viola watch a movie. Watch her take her make up off. Confessional diary entries before bed. She’s live feeding her entire life, hour by hour, every day.’
‘And making a ton with all her paid partnerships,’ Christien says with bored contempt.
Yes, it’s a sad indictment of how our generation has been conditioned to sell a fake version of themselves as the only way to make money and get those juicy dopamine hits of validation, I’ve read the same think pieces in Vice that you have, Chris.
‘Don’t you get it?’ I ask him impatiently. ‘There is hardly a minute of any day in Viola’s life without an accompanying audience.’ I glance down at her artfully blurred features. ‘It’s like she never wants to be alone.’
Christien frowns, his glance dragged back to the Viola video diary entry now playing.
‘Do any of you know what it’s like to be scared all the time?’ she murmurs to the camera - somewhat negating the emotional effect by managing to deliver the line between lips as plumped as two pig flanks.
‘So, detective,’ Christien says, sparking up his joint. ‘What does this mean?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ I reply. ‘She started posting on social like this just before you guys broke up.’
Christien just shrugs as he inhales. ‘So?’
‘Maybe she’s all heartbroken. You know. Over you.’
Christien nods to a particularly skin-heavy, clothes-light post. 'Does she look heartbroken to you?’
‘Who’s this?’ I indicate a blonde with a cute snub nose who appears often in Viola’s photos, wearing an identical pout.
‘That’s Tippi Pauletti, Viola’s bestie,’ Christien says. ‘Partner in crime in the lofty pursuit of social media followers.’
Christien, famously, doesn’t have any kind of online presence. He says when you have a father in politics, you learn early on to be hard to find. This means he doesn’t get the whole social media thing, and like a lot of people who don’t get a thing, ends up being rather dismissive about it.
‘You didn’t think maybe Viola was going through something?’ I persist.
‘Viola goes through boyfriends with yachts. That’s what she goes through. Anything deeper than that just isn’t in her DNA. The Violas of the world are nothing but spoiled divas, going around breaking toys when they get bored of them. That’s what I was to her, a toy. You know what it’s like to be used?’
‘Yes, I do.’ And I give him a meaningful look.
Christien catches my drift. His cheshire cat grin surfaces, the widest I’ve ever seen it. ‘Oh come on, Alec. You knew what you were getting into. I told you the score. If you thought anything different, that’s on you.’
Example scenario: say you’re not as genetically favoured as girls like Viola Gordon. Say your teen hormones seem like they’re actively out to make you physically repellent instead of attractive (an utterly counter-intuitive move - isn’t the point of them to get us all procreating?) Say you desperately spend what little pocket money you make from waitressing shifts on e.g. the latest in expensive hyaluronic acid serums. Say you spend hours and hours a day in front of the mirror, not to enact the myth of Narcissus but to critique every last blotchy curve, pulsating pimple and lank hair strand.
Then one day, someone like Christien starts paying you attention. One of the Blesséd. The flawlessly bronzed skin of a famed ancient greek youth, the hawkishly intense eyes of a famed ancient greek youth, and the god Pan’s famously hedonistic approach to life. If someone like him likes you enough to bed you, you might not be a twenty first century Quasimodo after all! Your self- esteem begins to haul itself hopefully out of the mire - only to sink back down further than ever before when you discover that Christien beds girls the way you eat tortilla chips - constantly, mindlessly and without much discrimination on brand.
This happened to someone else, not me.
Fine. It was me.
But I’m absolutely over it. This is about Viola’s connection to Justin’s connection to Lucas. This is about finding out what happened to my brother.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘maybe you can just get me an intro to Viola.’
Christien’s cheshire cat grin threatens to cut off the top half of his head. ‘You’re not her type.’
‘I just want to talk to her, gutter mind.’
‘Why? You don’t strike me as one to play therapist.’
‘School project.’
‘Didn’t you just graduate?’
‘It’s nothing nefarious, I promise. It’s something personal.’
He catches my wheedling look and sighs. ‘I can’t. I just can’t, okay? We’re not speaking.’ He pauses. ‘But I can tell you where she’s going to be tomorrow. It’s hush hush, otherwise she’d get mobbed by her adoring hordes, but they had to get permission from the mayor’s office to shoot at that location. I overheard my dad's PA bitching about it.’
‘What location?’
He rolls his eyes at my eager tone. ‘The waterfront.’
I give him a sceptical look. ‘It’s all half torn down and derelict.’
‘And ready for primo development,’ he nods. ‘My dad’s next multi-million pound deal. I think they’re doing post-apocalyptic Gatsby or something, an advertising shoot for some clothing brand starring everybody’s favourite influencer. The waterfront is still off-limits to the public, but Viola raised hell until they made it happen. Naturally someone like Viola Gordon gets her way.’
‘Christien,’ I say as I hand him my phone to write down the details, ‘you’re literally the Mayor’s son.’
‘But I don’t abuse it,’ he grumbles.
I shrug. ‘Can’t blame someone for exercising a little power. Apparently it’s less acceptable when it’s a woman doing it.’
‘Don’t pull the patriarchy card on me,’ he protests. ‘You just used me to get to my ex.’
‘O, sweet recalcitrance, the cornerstone of my personality!’
‘Come again?’
‘Am I supposed to feel bad, Casanova?’ I grin at him. ‘Come on, you got something out of it.’
‘Wow,’ he says with unconvincing outrage. ‘Now if I did that to a girl, I’d get crucified.’
‘You don’t strike me as one to play martyr.’ I start pulling on my clothes. ‘I’ll owe you one, if you like.’
‘I’ll take it.’ Christien settles back against his pillows, watching me get dressed. ‘Listen, when you talk to Viola, you’re not going to do that thing, are you?’
‘What thing?’ I say as I locate my shoes.
‘That... interrogation thing you do,’ Christien says. ‘She won’t take kindly to it. She can be pretty highly strung. Friendly warning.’
‘I’ll be nice.’ I flash him my most innocent face. ‘Promise.’
‘Alec.’
‘Mmm?’
His silence goes on a little too long, dragging my gaze back to his.
‘I don’t know how you’re doing,’ he says, ‘I can’t even imagine, but if you ever want to talk, you know. About what you’ve been going through...’
I wait, my heart speeding up hopefully.
‘... I’ve got this really great therapist,’ Christien finishes. ‘She’s private, and with a hell of a waiting list, but I can get you to the top of the queue, no problem. Just say the word.’
Oh well.
It’s almost sweet that he thinks I have the money for that, but everyone’s got their blind spots, and I’m not going to make him feel bad for trying to be a friend.
We live in different worlds, Christien and I. His is nice to visit, once in a while - but I don’t belong there, and we both know it.