Secret Thoughts Read online

  Crossfade to RALPH. Overlap sound of tape playback at the beginning of next scene. HELEN goes out.

  Scene Eight

  Morning. RALPH’s office. He reclines in his swivel chair with his recorder in his hand, listening to the playback of his first recording.

  ‘Apparently her husband died suddenly about a year ago … There she goes, round the corner of Biology. Wonder where she’s going, what she’s doing, at ten fifteen on a wet Sunday morning, must be lonely as hell living here on her own … I could go after her now, pretend to bump into her, or say “I just happened to see you from my office window, we didn’t really have much chance to talk yesterday evening …” Why not?’

  Click on tape as recording stops. RALPH begins new recording.

  RALPH

  It’s Thursday the 24th of February. I came in early this morning and listened to the tape I recorded last Sunday … I must say it was absolutely riveting … especially the stuff about Isabel Hennessey … Dead now, poor Isabel, breast cancer somebody told me, rotten luck … She had nice ones too, ‘lovely three-dimensional objects’, I remember saying, as I eased off her bra … I wonder what happened to that tape of us making love … I’d like to listen to it again, and masturbate in her memory, poor Isabel Hennessey … (Pause.) Full stop. Well, death is a full stop … Enough of that, enough of that … So, yes, it was fascinating, but of doubtful value to cognitive science … It’s not just that the experiment partly dictates the content of your thoughts – you can never truly record the act of thinking. When you articulate a thought in speech it always lags behind the formation of the thought itself, which is like an editorial meeting between different parts of the brain, behind closed doors … Never mind, it’s worth persevering with for a bit, something useful may emerge, perhaps about the nature of attention. Like when I was distracted by the sight of Helen Reed wandering forlornly across the campus in the rain … It turns out that she went into the faith centre … she doesn’t believe any more but still hankers after personal immortality, like so many people, even some scientists, in spite of the death of God … Incidentally, is that perhaps the second best-known sentence in the history of philosophy, Nietzsche’s ‘God is dead’? It ought to be … I thought for a moment she was going to walk away in a huff when I said her husband’s sudden death was a good way to go – on reflection, it was a little tactless – but I coaxed her back. She’s smart, good-looking too, but there’s something repressed and self-denying about her, I bet she hasn’t had sex since he died … I wonder how long I would abstain if Carrie were to die suddenly? I’d be grief-stricken, of course, and perhaps I would lose all interest in sex for a while, but I doubt it … More likely to seek relief in another woman’s arms, ‘Please stay the night, I just want somebody to hold me …’ What a line, irresistible … and of course I would inherit most of Carrie’s money, I would be rich, as well as free to fuck other women without guilt or fear of discovery … Helen Reed, for example … If Carrie could hear me now she would kill me. It’s a good example of the secrecy of consciousness … it’s the filing cabinet to which I alone have the key, and thank Christ for that …

  The telephone rings. He switches off the recorder and picks up the phone.

  RALPH

  Messenger.

  Scene Nine

  HELEN’s flat and RALPH’s office. HELEN, wearing sweatpants and an old jumper, has the contents of a large envelope in one hand and the telephone in the other.

  HELEN

  Oh, hello. This is Helen Reed.

  RALPH

  Ah. I was just thinking about you.

  HELEN

  Were you? What were you thinking?

  RALPH

  Er … I was wondering if you’ve been connected to the university network.

  HELEN

  Well, that’s it actually. I’ve received something called an Induction Pack from the IT centre with a lot of instructions, and frankly I can’t make head nor tail of it.

  RALPH

  I’ll come round and sort it out for you.

  HELEN

  Well, that’s very kind. When would be convenient?

  RALPH

  I’ll come now.

  HELEN

  Now?

  RALPH

  I’m free now.

  HELEN

  Well, thank you. But I feel I’m imposing on you.

  RALPH

  Not at all. I know the block. What number are you?

  HELEN

  Seven.

  RALPH

  I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes.

  HELEN

  Right.

  Both replace telephone receivers. HELEN, conscious of her unflattering clothes, goes into her bedroom. RALPH puts his recorder in a drawer of his desk and locks it, takes his coat, and leaves the office.

  Music.

  Scene Ten

  HELEN’s flat. Doorbell chimes. Sounds of their greetings, off. HELEN, in changed clothes, ushers RALPH, into the room. He looks round.

  RALPH

  It’s the first time I’ve been inside one of these flats. It’s quite cosy, isn’t it?

  HELEN

  I wouldn’t call it ‘cosy’, exactly. It’s convenient.

  RALPH

  Won’t you show me round? As a member of Senate I ought to know what kind of accommodation we offer our visiting faculty.

  HELEN

  There’s nothing much to show. My bedroom is in here.

  RALPH (peers in)

  Immaculate! If I were living here on my own it would be a complete tip within a week.

  HELEN

  Kitchen and bathroom off the hall. (points)

  RALPH

  And this is where you write.

  He goes over to the table with the laptop, which is open and switched on. Beside it are the envelope and papers HELEN was holding in the previous scene.

  HELEN

  Yes.

  RALPH

  May I?

  HELEN

  Please.

  RALPH (sits down, picks up the papers)

  These are the instructions they sent you?

  HELEN

  Yes. It’s very kind of you to help me out. I’m afraid I’m hopeless with computers. Martin used to do all this sort of thing for me.

  As the dialogue continues, RALPH installs the email software. He makes rapid keystrokes, pauses to wait for the next prompt, then more rapid keystrokes, and so on, occasionally using the mouse and glancing at the instructions.

  RALPH

  Are you working on a new novel?

  HELEN

  No. Since Martin died … I did start one, but it didn’t work. Making up fictitious characters and inventing things for them to do seems so futile after something like that happens.

  RALPH

  You’ve got to get over it, you know.

  HELEN

  Yes, everybody tells me that.

  RALPH

  So what are you writing?

  HELEN

  A kind of journal. Just to keep the writing muscles exercised.

  RALPH

  Your secret thoughts, eh?

  HELEN

  Well, it’s not for publication.

  RALPH (consults instructions)

  Your user name is ‘reed h t’. (types it in) Remember that.

  HELEN

  Right. ‘Reed h t’.

  RALPH

  No dots or spaces. (continues typing) What does the ‘t’ stand for?

  HELEN

  Teresa. My mother is devoted to the Little Flower.

  RALPH

  What flower is that?

  HELEN

  Saint Teresa of Lisieux. She’s called the Little Flower.

  RALPH

  Oh. (types) So your address will be: ‘h dot t dot reed at Harro dot ac dot uk.’

  HELEN

  And I can use that for email anywhere? Not just within the university?

  RALPH

  Absolutely.

  HELEN

&nb
sp; That’s wonderful. I’m fed up with my email provider.

  RALPH

  They’ve given you a password, but you’d better change it.

  HELEN

  Why?

  RALPH

  Because I’ve seen it, so I could hack into your email. (He gets up and yields the seat to her.) Not that I would, of course. Just type it into the box there. It has to have between eight and twelve characters.

  HELEN sits down, stares at the screen and thinks.

  HELEN

  Ummm …

  RALPH

  Though I would be tempted.

  HELEN

  What?

  RALPH

  To read your emails. (HELEN is surprised.) It might be grist to my mill. Data for consciousness studies.

  HELEN

  I don’t see how.

  RALPH

  Well, you might, for instance, write to your friends describing your feelings about being here much more openly than you would to me. Or perhaps the opposite, pretending to be happier than you are. Of course your journal would be even more revealing, but email would be better than nothing.

  HELEN

  Then I shall guard my password very carefully. (She types in her password with deliberation.) Shall I click on ‘Continue’ now?

  RALPH

  Yes. I’ll just finish it off.

  HELEN gets up and RALPH sits down in her place. She stands behind him and looks at the screen as he types rapidly.

  RALPH

  As soon as you boot up you’ll be connected to the university network. (moves mouse) Click on this icon for email, and this one for the Internet.

  HELEN

  Thank you so much. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?

  RALPH (glances at watch)

  Thanks, but I’ve got a supervision at ten thirty. What are you doing next Sunday?

  HELEN

  Well … nothing.

  RALPH

  We have a cottage in the country we go to most Sundays. Would you like to join us?

  HELEN

  That would be very nice, but …

  RALPH:

  What?

  HELEN

  Shouldn’t you check with your wife?

  RALPH

  It was Carrie’s idea. She enjoyed talking to you at the VC’s dinner.

  HELEN

  Then I’ll be glad to come.

  RALPH

  Good. We’ll pick you up at about ten.

  HELEN

  Thank you.

  RALPH

  Bring a swimming costume.

  HELEN

  You have a pool?

  RALPH

  A hot tub.

  HELEN

  Ah.

  RALPH

  Till Sunday, then.

  HELEN

  I look forward to it.

  RALPH goes out, escorted by HELEN. They exchange goodbyes off. Sound of front door shutting. After a pause HELEN returns carrying a faded, much-used swimming costume, and holds it out for inspection. She goes into the bedroom.

  Scene Eleven

  The campus. RALPH takes out his mobile. He keys in a memorised number.

  RALPH

  Carrie? Look, I just ran into that writer, Helen what’s-her-name, you met her at the VC’s dinner … Helen Reed, that’s right. She’s having problems with email, so I offered to help her … She seems a bit lonely. I thought we might invite her out to the cottage next Sunday … yeah … OK, I’ll see to it … Yes, I’ll tell her to bring a costume … No, I won’t forget … OK, see you.

  He ends the call, pockets the phone and goes off smiling to himself.

  Music.

  Scene Twelve

  The deck of the Messengers’ country cottage. RALPH in swimming trunks, and HELEN, in a new swimming costume, recline facing each other in a hot tub. Snow is falling.

  HELEN (looking up)

  This is blissful! Lolling in a hot bath while watching snowflakes falling through the sky. And the bathwater never gets cold!

  RALPH

  It has a thermostat … I read an article once, in a cognitive science journal, called ‘What is it like to be a thermostat?’ (HELEN laughs.) This guy argued that anything that processes information, in however humble a way, could be described as conscious.

  CARRIE’S VOICE (off)

  Messenger! Lunch in fifteen minutes.

  RALPH (calls)

  OK!

  HELEN

  I should go and help.

  RALPH

  No, stay here. Carrie doesn’t like other people in her kitchen when she’s serving up a meal.

  HELEN

  So do you think this tub is conscious?

  RALPH

  Not self-conscious. Unlike us, it doesn’t know it’s having a good time.

  HELEN

  I thought there was no such thing as the self.

  RALPH

  No such ‘thing’, no. There’s no ghost in the machine.

  HELEN

  That’s such a loaded phrase. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe in selves.

  RALPH

  Of course there are selves – we invent them all the time. It’s something we humans do with our spare brain capacity.

  HELEN

  What d’you mean, ‘spare’?

  RALPH

  The cognitive power of the human brain is much, much greater than that of any other animal on the planet, for reasons we don’t yet understand – it’s not just a matter of size. This gave our primitive ancestors a huge evolutionary advantage over other species. Men gradually dominated the rest of Nature. They learned to make tools and weapons, to communicate through language, to solve problems by running various options through their mental software, instead of just reacting instinctively. They got beyond the four Fs.

  HELEN

  The four Fs?

  RALPH

  Fighting, fleeing, feeding and … mating.

  HELEN

  Oh. (She laughs.)

  RALPH

  But primitive man was like a guy who’s been given a state-of-the-art computer and just uses it to do simple arithmetic. Sooner or later he’s going to discover he can do all kinds of other things as well. That’s what we did with our brains, in due course. We developed trade, and laws, and culture. But before that, we became aware of ourselves as individuals, with a past and a future. We became self-conscious. And there’s a downside to that: we know we’re going to die. Imagine what a terrible shock it was to Neanderthal man, or Cro-Magnon man, or whoever it was that first clocked the dreadful truth: that one day he would be meat. Lions and tigers don’t know that. Apes don’t know it. We do.

  HELEN

  Elephants must know. They have graveyards.

  RALPH

  I’m afraid that’s a myth. Homo sapiens was the first and only living being to discover he was mortal. So how does he respond? He makes up stories to explain how he got into this fix, and how he might get out of it. He invents religion, he develops burial customs, he makes up stories about the afterlife, and the immortality of the soul. As time goes on, these stories get more and more elaborate. But in the most recent phase of culture, seconds ago in terms of evolutionary history, science suddenly takes off, and starts to tell a different story about how we got here, a much more powerful story that knocks the religious one for six. Really intelligent people don’t believe the religious story any more, but they still cling to some of its consoling concepts, like the soul, life after death, and so on.

  HELEN

  I think that’s what really irks you, isn’t it? That most people go on stubbornly believing that there is a ghost in the machine, a self or soul, however many times scientists and philosophers tell them there isn’t.

  RALPH

  It doesn’t ‘irk’ me, exactly.

  HELEN

  Oh yes it does. It’s as if you’re determined to eradicate the idea from the face of the earth. Like an Inquisitor trying to root out heresy.

  RALPH

  I just
think we shouldn’t confuse what we would like to be the case with what is the case.

  HELEN

  But you admit that we have thoughts that are private, secret, known only to ourselves.

  RALPH

  Oh yes.

  HELEN

  You admit that my experience of this moment, lolling here in hot water, under the open sky as the snow falls, is not exactly the same as yours?