2 + 2 = 5

Chapter 1

Arthur Kirkland could not explain even to himself for the sudden impulsive purchase of the paperbound diary now weighing in his bag. He had happened to be a little early in leaving for work that morning, and had seen the diary lying in a shop window. When he tried to pay for it, the shopkeeper had peered at him with what Arthur thought was suspicion, but had totted it up on an old register nonetheless – ten credits – and for the first time in years Arthur had paid in cash.

The digital age meant nobody wrote on paper anymore. Everything was done electronically. An e-reader had become the only access to books, periodicals, and newspapers, all carefully vetted by the Ministry of Truth, and almost everyone had taken to equipping themselves with smartphones, with apps for everything from note taking to accessing social networking sites. Although never expressly forbidden, paper publications had come to develop an implicit unlawfulness about them, partly because it has become the main medium for dissident propaganda.

Just being in possession of a new paperbound diary weighed Arthur with guilt and mild paranoia.

But there's no law against owning a diary, he reminded himself, and took what little comfort that knowledge offered him.

He needed a pen. Perhaps a lovely fountain pen to go with the diary's rich, creamy pages. He could buy one from the handicrafts' store on his way home in the evening.

Just then his smartphone sprang into a lively tinkling version of 'Rule Britannia'. He dug it out from a coat pocket and stabbed at the touch screen to stop the tune. It was a reminder from his calendar that today was the first Monday of the month. A frown worked its way into his brows. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and continued on his way to work.

Arthur worked for the Ministry of Truth in the Department for Quality Control of Participatory Media Outlets. He had taken to calling it 'the censorship department,' but only to himself and never out loud. It would never do to cross the Party.

He slung his coat over the back of his chair and seated himself, reaching down to boot up the computer. The CPU started up with a jerky whirr which smoothed to a hum, and he was just about to settle back into his chair when it gave out. The monitor flashed blue once then went blank. Arthur stared at it for a minute, slightly stunned. That had never happened before.

He pressed the 'on' button again, and again. Nothing. He picked up his desk phone and dialled 0.

"Minitrue assistance, how can I help you?"

"Hello. My computer is refusing to switch on."

"You'll want technical support. Hold on a minute."

Arthur waited as the receiver piped something classical into his ear. Chopin, he thinks. Then someone picked up.

"Technical support," barked the person on the other end.

"Er, hello, yes. My computer is refusing to sw-"

"Have you tried turning it off and on again?" It was delivered in a flat tone, on auto-pilot.

"No. I mean yes." Arthur felt a little indignant. "The computer is most definitely malfunctioning. Can I have someone look at it, please?"

"All right, I'll send someone up." It sounded a little grudging.

"Thank y-"

The person on the other end hung up before he could finish.

It took half an hour for someone to turn up, enough time for Arthur to read what little of the official Party news he cared to read on his smartphone. The austerity budget has succeeded in cutting the national deficit by over a half; income tax is set to rise to further speed financial recovery; unemployment has been halved; jobseekers' allowance will be scrapped and replaced with a fairer system that will usher the undeserving poor back into the workplace.

"Gilbert Weilschmidt, tech support, what's up?"

Arthur looked up. The man leaning over his cubicle wall had deep, purplish red eyes and a shock of platinum white hair. His skin was the palest Arthur had ever seen on a person. The entire sight was a little alarming and bizarre, and it took Arthur aback for a moment.

Gilbert Weilschmidt was chewing gum, and he blew a little bubble before smacking it with a loud pop. Arthur recovered himself.

"Er, yes. My computer is having trouble turning on..."

Gilbert circled around the cubicle, and Arthur rolled his chair to the side to give him more space. The technician tried clicking the power buttons on the monitor and the CPU, and when nothing happened he leaned over to poke at the mass of wires behind the monitor, inadvertently presenting Arthur with a rather pleasing view of his well-shaped rear. As he worked, Arthur's eyes wandered to take in the rest of the young man's curves. He skimmed regretfully past the red sash tied around his waist (he had taken the Party's absurd oath of celibacy, it seems), and lingered on the oversized spanner hanging from a hook on the side of his grey coveralls.

"Right, I can't tell what the problem is from here, but it looks kaput for the day," Gilbert declared as he straightened up. Arthur turned away, slightly horrified at the direction his thoughts were straying in.

"Oh I see." It came out as a squeak. He cringed internally.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Gilbert said with a shrug of his shoulders that was, to Arthur, inexplicably suggestive. "I'll go fetch you a laptop you can borrow for a bit, and put a request for a new computer for you. All you work files should be intact on the main server."

"That sounds fine, thank you."

"No problem."

And as Gilbert Weilschmidt left, whistling tunelessly, Arthur could not help but steal a wistful glance after his rear. He immediately felt disgusted with himself.

Wang Yao was already seated at their usual table when Arthur arrived, slightly breathless and ten minutes late, at the café they had agreed to meet at once every month. He ordered a pot of Earl Grey and threaded his way through the throng of patrons to Yao.

"Good afternoon, Arthur," Yao greeted smoothly. He was impeccable as always in a sharp suit, shoulder-length hair tied in a loose but neat ponytail.

"Good afternoon. I'm sorry I ran a little late."

"It's fine." And Yao smiled the cold, little smile Arthur had grown to despise the sight of.

"I see you haven't waited," Arthur said with a pointed look at the chicken salad on the table. He squeezed himself into the seat opposite Yao just as his tea arrived.

"Six credits, sir," the waiter murmured.

Arthur handed his smartphone over to be scanned, and the payment was settled.

"Are you not having anything to eat?" Yao asked, arching one perfect eyebrow. For a moment he sounded almost genuine in his concern. Almost.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to take better care of yourself."

Yao ate the last few forkfuls of his salad with prim, delicate bites. Arthur poured his tea, added some milk, and took a sip. He had not let it steep for long enough in the teapot, so it was a little weak. He drank it anyway.

"So, how are you doing?" Yao asked as he set his cutlery down. He dabbed at his lips with a paper napkin.

"I'm fine. Nothing new to report." He pictured the paperbound diary in his bag and pushed the thought firmly away. "And you?"

"The same." There was that little smile again curving his lips, not quite reaching those brilliant golden eyes. Arthur felt suddenly irritated.

"And how's Ivan?"

The little smile disappeared instantly. He took some vindictive pleasure in that.

"These meetings are supposed to save our marriage, Arthur," Yao said coldly.

"Oh, I'm fully aware."

"Really? I'm not sure you are."

The waiter arrived again, cutting short the beginning of any argument, and set down a small cup of espresso on the table. Eight credits. Yao allowed the waiter to scan his smartphone, and the waiter left with his empty plate. An uncomfortable silence fell over the unhappy couple as they sipped their respective beverages and cast around for a topic of civil conversation. The low chatter from the other tables served only to heighten their isolation.

Yao's phone gave a little ping, and Arthur could see relief lighting up those particularly expressive eyes of his. He took a sip of his tea to hide his – disappointment? No, anger. He tried not to think of whom it was who sent the message and interrupted their time together.

"I have to go now. Work."

"I know."

Yao snapped out a stylus and drew across the touch screen of his phone. Arthur took out his own phone and stylus, and added his signature to the report they were required to send off to the civil registry every time they meet. It was done, for another month. Yao packed away his phone and got to his feet.

Then, with a wary glance at the telescreen advertising Dior perfume, Yao leaned over the little table to kiss Arthur full on the lips. The kiss seared with a passion neither felt for one another any longer, but Yao was meticulous in everything, even down to this absurd little act for the benefit of whomever it was sat behind that telescreen, and Arthur met the kiss with a vigour all of his own, his hand wrapping round Yao's silk tie to tug him down, swallowing the gasp that escaped his lips.

When they finally separated, panting slightly, Yao's eyes were firmly averted and Arthur cast his own down in shame.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

"Until next month."

He watched Yao leave the café, and cursed inwardly at himself.

He stared down at the smooth page before, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a handsome fountain pen in the other. He took a swallow of the whiskey to steel himself, and brought the pen slowly to paper.

Met Y for lunch. First Monday of the month. The same as every other month for the last year and a half.

The computer was broken at work, so technical support lent me a portable.

He hesitated then. Took another swallow of whiskey. Continued.

Met G. Technician who looked at my computer. He is quite interesting.

He stared at the words in stark black on white, there for everyone see. He waited for the ink to dry, and closed the diary.