Dai Williams (David to his small number of friends) didn’t care much for his Welsh roots. He’d never liked leeks and couldn’t abide overweight men singing under the influence of too much cut-price beer. His dad had been a miner and perished in a coalmine disaster when Dai was just ten years old, so there was no love lost when he left Pontypridd for the bright lights of London. Unfortunately, that had turned out to be the worst move of his life, which is why he now found himself in a hermetically sealed environment away from all the toxins of the twenty-first century. Dai wasn’t exactly phobic; it was just that medical science hadn’t come across his problem yet. Anyone glancing around his apartment on the twentieth floor of the Park Estate tower block in Battersea, would have said, “Hey, Dai, nice place you’ve got here!” He’d chosen the top floor to be as far away from the pollution of the street level as possible. Higher than that and there’d be interference from the many planes and helicopters in the skies. It hadn’t been inflicted with telecommunications masts because of objections from the residents—spearheaded by Dai, of course. The décor was seriously minimalist with white on walls, ceiling, floor, and any other surface. He’d even bought a MacBook because it was white. On top of the gleaming pristineness, could be seen a further barrier to intrusions from the outside world: a ten-micron thick layer of fine copper mesh covered the walls, ceiling and floor. Often called a ‘Faraday cage’, this was what really made living bearable. Without it, or if the grounding cable became disconnected, Dai’s world became hell, with all manner of electromagnetic demons and beasties doing their best to make him mad. Even the MacBook sat enclosed in its own transparent mesh, with copper and silver filaments in the yarn. Wi-Fi was permanently disabled. A gigabit Ethernet connection to the cable modem gave Dai his essential connection to the outside world, but without compromising his sanity. So, what did Dai do all day in his perfectly insulated ivory tower? Well, the secret lay in his ability to zone out. He found that once all the crap had been cut out, his brain could focus in unusual ways and his time was spent perfecting this. Okay, to be honest, he hadn’t got too far with this and was really still at level one of the technique, but it was truly amazing what he’d discovered about the inner world of the pigeon population that perched on his balcony. He called the technique ‘hocus focus’.
Back home in his downtown loft apartment, after what had turned out to be a long and deeply disturbing day, Dale opened a beer, took a long swig straight from the can, and pondered the contents of his fridge. All the pre-packaged and processed items on offer looked very uninviting all of a sudden. He grabbed what purported to be ‘authentic lasagne’ made in Mama Rosa’s homely kitchen, but the small print showed it originated from some vast factory in Mexico. ‘Beef and other meat products’ would doubtless stretch DNA analysis to the limit. And he’d never heard of most of the supplementary ingredients. What was xanthan gum doing in lasagne, for Chrissake? So, being the well-trained momma’s boy he was, Dale dropped some linguine into a pot of boiling water and softened some chopped shallots and garlic in oil. He added a splash of white wine and some grated lemon zest, and then tossed the pasta together with a handful of parmesan and freshly ground pepper and salt. All done in five minutes and consumed just as quickly with a glass of wine by the side. Who said good food can’t be fast? So why the hell am I always buying crap? That was the reality of dependency, he decided. It’s just so much easier to do things without thinking. Switch on the autopilot and everything is taken care of. We’re hungry, so we reach for a nutritional source that’s convenient, even if it’s of dubious provenance and full of chemicals. A text message arrives on a cell phone and we have to respond to it immediately without considering its worth. Cell phones had become things to obey mindlessly: the ringtone of the phone had taken on the need to obey of the infant’s cry. Christ. I’m getting too damn philosophical in my old age. He decided he would turn in early. Well, to be honest, he’d stop off first for a refresh of his glass of wine, but then he’d turn in early. His thoughts were of tomorrow’s conference call with Quantico and attending the autopsy—the latter would be a first for him. He wasn’t betting on his stomach standing up to the task, though, and he sure wouldn’t have a Double Sausage and Egg McMuffin first thing. But it was a good thought that he’d be dressed like any other Dale rather than in his uniform. Hell, he’d even be getting an ID card with ‘Detective’ on it! Dale looked at himself in the mirror above the sink and pulled his usual face. Some folks said he looked like Harrison Ford when he was still a humble carpenter, but his face was more lived in than that—and he didn’t have as much hair. The look he made wasn’t exactly a look of disgust, more a sort of self-quizzing—like who are you really, why the hell are you doing this crazy job, and particularly significantly, why haven’t you got someone who cares for you. And that was so fucking painful. Okay, it was easy to fall back on the “I’m married to my job” crap, but the reality wasn’t so straightforward. For one, there was his sexuality, which was basically fluid—yes, he’d lied to that handsome principal at Staley High—but also boringly fucked-up. Then there was the fact that his job was just so full of shit he didn’t see how anyone could be part of his life. Really, how do you explain to someone that you saw three screaming kids looking at their parents and brother with their brains blown out? Probably you don’t, which is why everyone ends up drunk or on drugs rather than talking through their issues. It might be fiction, but Dexter really rang true sometimes. Fuck, what a life!