He was definitely onto something. Babbage reached into his coat, brought out his notepad and started jotting down ideas as they came. The woman. The fear. The song. They were all linked somehow, and they all had something to do with the crash that had brought him out here in the first place.

“That’s rather old fashioned, isn’t it detective?”

Madigan was peering at him with a curious smile on his face.

“It helps me keep my thoughts in order.”

“Oh, I understand. I’m constantly forgetting things myself. I find it much easier that way.”

Babbage glanced up at him, but didn’t pocket the notebook. It was coming. Perhaps Madigan himself was the one to bring it on.

“Memory should never be trusted. We all effect our own interpretation of things – ‘Wipe your glasses with what you know’. Alan and his brothers – clones I suppose you’d call them – they don’t need to worry about memory and its tricks. There are times I’ve thought about doing away with it completely.

“That song, for instance. I’d like to forget that. I know I won’t. It was designed that way, designed to creep into your head and burrow around. The best you can do is bury it under other thoughts, try not to let it take hold and sprout. I’ve seen similar things before. Viruses. Designed to spread from mind to mind, take hold and grow, worm their way in and overload the system. I helped build the first.”

Madigan let his head drop down and rubbed the lids of his eyes. He suddenly looked much older.

“I’m constantly confused by my past actions, detective. Perhaps that’s just what age does. Someone once stated that the function of the mind is eliminative, not productive, that we have minds in order to help shut out the noise of the world, all the universes of information that we do not need. The overproduction of truth that cannot be consumed. Alan there, he doesn’t need to worry about any of it. His mind functions clearly and sharply, no emotion allowed to get in the way. No memory to smudge. I think he could teach us a lot about what it means to think.”

Babbage flipped his notebook closed and pocketed it. This was what he came for.

“You said you’ve seen this before. Where?”

Madigan raised his head, and something like a smile came back to his lips.

“Where? Why, right here of course. The great wonder that is the world off Grid. You’ve seen it too, you know, at least a part of you has. That feeling you get when you hear it play, detective, that instinct that makes you cover your ears and huddle up like a child, that terror, that dread. The inevitability of fate, detective, we all recognise it. Some more that others, perhaps.”

Babbage waited. It would come.

“I think you should see a friend of mine, detective. A very old friend. Expert in the music field. She’ll be able to tell you much more about this… problem.”

Madigan held out a card to him, but flipped it back into his palm as Babbage reached for it.

“Of course, I would expect my little operation here to remain off any official reports you feel you need to make.”

Babbage looked back into those calculating eyes that seemed to see so much and merely nodded.

“Very well then.” The card flicked back out into Babbage’s hand and Madigan spun away.

“I’d come with you, but you know how it is. So much to do, so little time.”

A chuckle rose up from Madigan’s back. Babbage reached out and took the memory stick from the top of the console.

“Besides, the streets are far too dangerous for a man of my age. Watch out for yourself detective, there are those who won’t be subdued by that gun you carry.”

Madigan flicked a switch and a door appeared in the wall and swung open to reveal a dark, wet alley.

Babbage walked out and turned around to face him. “Thank you.”

“Godspeed, detective.” Madigan flashed another grin and swung the door closed on the world.