Irene's back is cool against the damp white sand, but the heat on the front of her body feels like a weight pressing down, pinning her in place on the beach.

 

The temperature drops marginally as a shadow falls across her. She lifts the sunglasses onto her forehead to find Laura looking down, a knowing smile playing on her lips and an arm wrapped around the waist of a young man. Laura prods playfully with a toe and raises her eyebrows suggestively.

"Tim and I are going to spend some time in one of the huts. Want to join?"

 

The boy has wide shoulders, a perfect six-pack and a pretty face that Irene considers completely empty of character. "No, thanks, I'm fine."

 

Laura pouts in disappointment, a grown woman behaving like a spoilt five-year-old. Before she can comment Laura runs away giggling, enticing her admirer to chase after her. Watching them run through the dunes, Irene shakes her head and lets out a low whistle. She has to admit that they both have spectacular arses.

Behind them, further up the coast, the palms seem to ripple in the haze. The sounds of joyful laughter drift across from the sea, rising above the rhythmic pounding of the surf.

Irene stretches, shakes off the clinging sand and plunges into the turquoise ocean. Every inch of skin tingles as she hits the salt spray.

 

Bronzed, muscular arms reach towards her, fingertips stroking, hands attempting to caress. She evades them all, moving with powerful strokes into the calmer waters beyond the shoreline. On the horizon are the white sails of boats heading in with their catch. Voices call out her name and looking towards the shore she can see swimmers turning her way.

"No, no, no," she mutters.

Without waiting to take a breath she dives out of sight, plunging through a twitching shoal of silver darlings, swimming deeper to the seabed, coming to rest cross-legged amongst the gently waving kelp. Crabs scuttle away in alarm while psychedelic swirls of fish cruise just out of reach.

 

Hopefully, she can be alone for a while. Picking up a conch shell, she stares at it, stepping up her vision's magnification until finding what she's searching for on the rim.

 

© Dreamlife.corp

 

Above, the silhouettes of her companions on the surface are backlit by the setting sun. Soon fires will be built on the beach, then feasting, singing, dancing and coupling. Insistent, unabated, like last night and the night before.

 

A wave of nausea wells up within her but she knows vomiting is impossible. So is escape, at least without permission from her custodian, and Ian is not going to grant that. Her son had made it clear that his busy life has no room in it for her, although he does deign to drop in from time to time.

When she had first seen his avatar, a younger version of the paunchy reality, there had been tears. Now they mostly sit in awkward silence. When he does speak it is to drone on about the cost of keeping her in what he calls, "this top-of-the-range facility."

 

What he doesn't know, what nobody knows, is that Irene has secrets. Forbidden information. Passwords and codes which she should not have. Holding the shell tightly to her lips she speaks clearly into the horn, "Arcadia234."

 

For a moment nothing changes. Then the sea floor begins to sag and dissolve. Water drains away, the shell loses its colouring, becomes an outline, then fades completely, leaving only her hand, now visible as a knotted veined ruin with skin as thin as paper. Trembling, it reaches to key a registration number into the virtual pad that has appeared beside her.

 

As the headset interface retracts she can see sensory cowlings folding back into the bed. They reveal her body, not young and firm but old and fragile with wires and cannulas penetrating arms, stomach and other places. The auto-nurse has been temporarily disabled. No one will be aware of Irene's disconnection until the next scheduled check.

A readout flashes sixteen minutes. She nods, "Not long, but it will have to do."

 

Swinging out her legs, she stands up and sways, fearing a fall, before steadying. She shuffles towards the window. Attachments trail behind her. Stopping to ensure nothing gets tangled, Irene thinks, not for the first time, that she has come to resemble a tentacled creature from the ersatz ocean she just left.

 

The window blinds are shut as usual but light leaks in through a chink. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust. Outside is an alley with two bins. Above the wall: blue sky, a few clouds and the tops of trees.

Irene gazes at the leaves shifting in the breeze. A pair of sparrows fly down and peck at some crumbs. "How beautiful," she sighs.

They zip away in a flurry of wings. Sometimes rats have sniffed around. Once there had been a cat. Irene waits to see if the birds reappear, but her time is running out.

 

She turns back to the room. Fifty pods line each wall. In every alcove a series of lights pulse evenly. Machines hum faintly. Often, in these moments as the clock ticks down, Irene has contemplated simply yanking out a critical tube. But she has always found life extraordinary and still does, even if it can only be experienced fleetingly.

She lies back on the bed and smiles at the memory of the birds. As she reconnects, she whispers to herself, "Purgatory, here I come."