A b

Read memories from other writers marked with an * add your own writing about life in Liverpool in 2115 by selecting images without.

Liverpool Corporate Strata

*

*

*

*

Off the Grid / at ground level

The many faces of Estelle Fischer

 

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

Technology / Dysfunctional Technology

*

*

Memory and  Memory loss

*

*

*

Shortages and unrest

*

*

*

*

Trees and green spaces

Epidemics

*

*

*

*

*

*

 

 

 User: Jules Stewart

 D.O.B 05:09:2060

 Occupation: Pattern Surveillance Officer

 Resides: Liverpool Corporate Strata 19

 Verification rating: 89%

Use this menu to continue reading about my investigation

Part 1.

Blank - for your imagination to fill...

Uncategorised

 

Investigation Number: 167

Entry 4.

Unable to sleep I take the monorail to Estelle’s cube in Everton Heights. Four o clock and dawn begins to break through, the grey morning diminishing the city’s lights. The monorail carriage is half empty, only a couple slumped giggling in a corner, on their way home and a man, unshaven, eyes glazed, staring straight ahead after a long day, wearily unzipping the high neck of a dark grey top. Two young men in GoGo Grasshopper uniforms just make it onboard at the Lime St Interchange as the doors close. Wired, all set for the day that lies ahead of them. They inject an unwanted energy and noise into the slumbering carriage.  I turn away and gaze out at the river as we go along Strand St. Choppy, the water’s surface only just visible, dark, like crumpled foil. Tankers, Crimean red, Shanghai yellow, Stockholm blue sit on the water, decks piled with crates, waiting to dock in the Super Port.

    As we pass Liverpool Ten network ads, like ghosts, hover in front of me jabbering:

   Memoriam: Enshrine A Message On This Eternal Database, guaranteed storage for one thousand years.

   Strata ten the Hen House, chicken substitute protein products like you never tasted before, and that’s a fact.

   The Arboretum, experience ten forest environments in Liverpool Twelve, features real trees.

   New natural, Feel the softness of this synthetic cashmere, you won’t want anything else next to your skin ever.

   I shudder at the tactile effect of something pulled down over my torso.

 

Five in the morning and Everton Heights is mostly as grey as the sky behind it. Except for a few cubes dotted here and there, squares of orange in the dark tower, the silhouette of a couple arguing in one, a lone figure looking out from a corner cube and parties obviously still in full flow on two floors, shouting, laughing, music, lights flashing and figures dancing.

   I enter from the monorail station at Strata two and take the elevator to Strata twenty-five and find cube 1,357. I login on the network and the door slides open.

   The space has that abandoned atmosphere, still air that nobody’s disturbed, silent and waiting, full of secrets to be deciphered. Secrets scattered all over the place. Shoes kicked off at the entrance, bags dropped in front of the doorway and jackets slumped on the floor never having made it to the empty set of pegs on the wall. It could have been ransacked but I’m guessing that this is fairly typical for Estelle.

   On the wall a frame has a scrolling cycle of images. Estelle Fischer, dark shoulder length hair, blue eyes, pale complexion, a large mouth with scarlet lips, smiling on a terrace, glass in hand. Somewhere green sat on a rug, smiling, glass in hand, in a crowded room everyone dancing, Estelle smiling, waving her arms in the air. Estelle with another young woman with purple hair, toasting each other here in this cube, and another together on the Mersey barrage, faces squashed cheek-to-cheek, hair windswept. The network tags her, Loretta Parkes, also resident of Everton Heights, Strata 5. That's a lot floors between two friends.

   From what’s visible of the cube between the heaps of stuff it’s a standard layout with regular fixtures for this Strata. A window lets in light and gives a view out over the river, a shower room, mezzanine level sleep pod.

   In the main space on a fold up table, made of a compressed recycled wood product, is a mound of junk. Perfume injections, the slow release long lasting type, synthetic scents, musk, sandalwood, jasmine. Skin dyes, hair extensions in shades of lilac, incisor gems, eye jewellery, a beaded collar with neck sensor, shade changing. A pink pleather sack open at the neck spilling out a tangle of belts, all shades. A basket woven from ancient electrical cables is an example of the tradition of upcycling, the kind of thing sold by ground level hawkers. Under the table boots and shoes, all with high stalks, like the ones strewn around the floor, spill out from a basket. Estelle was not a girl for flatties.

   The images of Estelle have cycled through the frame and now it’s a selection of odd pictures, the door of a house at ground level, a street sign, an overgrown garden, a glasshouse with jagged broken windows, a plastic bag blowing, snagged on barbed wire. Where did she get these images from and why put them in the frame?

  Suddenly hit by a wave of fatigue I sit on the only chair, a novelty item, red plastic, shaped like lips. Perched at this level I notice the corner of something that looks like paper poking out from under the basket of footwear. I go forward onto my knees and pull out a bundle of scraps of torn map, an old paper map, Aigburth, Sefton, Dingle marked with dates and times. What would Estelle be doing with these? Would she even understand a map?

  These don’t tally at all with the Estelle I’ve seen so far.

 

I have more questions than answers and so many directions to pursue. I need your help. You might hold the clue, your memory could be the key to solve this mystery.

 

 

 

Use this menu to continue reading about my investigation

Part 1.