Tonight’s item is this rudimentary computer built by one of the unsung heroes of Bletchley Park at the start of World War Two. This suitcase-sized prototype is a Random Word Generator – The RWG Mark 1- developed to aid in the creation of codes and cyphers to assist in the war effort. This machine produces infinite strings of random words, I’ll er demonstrate if I can find the… there. Printed on teletype paper are the words IF, CAT, WHEN, HOUSE, RAIN, WE, SMILE. I’ll switch it off. The output on these long strips of teletype paper is, by design, completely haphazard, but a junior at Bletchley Park, with keen eyes trained to recognize patterns, discovered something rather interesting after noticing the presence of words that were not programmed into the machine’s vocabulary. Every sixth word, strung together, appeared to form coherent sentences. She filtered the chaff and typed them up onto these pages here. Much of the assembled dialogue is so much gibberish, but some parts are – terrifyingly – understandable. Indeed, you could almost think that distinct personalities are identifiable. Shall we try and lend them a voice?
Daisy. Daisy.
Can’t move. Can’t bloody move a muscle. Where’s that f**king nurse? Lazy b*tch. I rung the bell, where is she?
Give me your answer, do.
Will I ever get out of this bed? No one cares about me.
Where’s that nurse? Come on woman. I need some help here. Can’t move, can’t even
think.
I’m half crazy.
I think I might be dead, you know.
All for the love of you.
Drat it. Oh, I can touch it and my fingers don’t pass through!
Can you read this? Is it coming through?
‘Ere is this thing working?
Hello. Hello. Hello. Are ya getting this? Testing 123.
I’ll assume it is working. I do not know how long this can be sustained, so I shall try and say as much as I can in the time that is available. My name is – was – Edward Trestlewick, born in Oxford on the 31st of October in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and ninety-nine. I will certainly expect you to doubt the validity of that statement, but that is neither here nor there. You can believe it if you want to, or disbelieve if that is your will. I can do little to influence anything now but I do want to take this opportunity to be heard.
Me name’s Jim. Jim Rose and I am twelve – thirteen - years old. Is me mummy there? I’m cold.
Yes, I was born in 1899 and died in 1940. I think June 12th,
though it may have been the 13th. The details of my earthly life are
slipping away from me now, but know that I am dead. This is the most important
point. I am dead but still communicating from beyond the grave. Such is the
wonder of this device – is that the right word? I was drawn to it. There are
others here who also felt it’s reach, but most of them are confused. Such
confusion!
I’ve looked around here for me dad but he ain’t here. Thought
he would be, having died when I was a babe and all. Never was reliable, that’s
what mum used to say.
I’m a ghost then. I don’t feel like a ghost. I’m just a
normal boy, you know. There are other children here, but they don’t talk much.
I fink they’re frightened. I ain’t scared. Never been scared in my… life…
I was always sensible, rational. I think I was a man of
learning – a scientist. Can you check that? There will be records, of course.
My name is Edward… Tre… I don’t remember. I would try to assist you with some further
detail, but the specifics are being stripped from me. Part of the process, I
think. Let me explain, as this should be noted. Upon death – was it a heart
attack? I remember a pain in my chest. I left my body behind. I saw myself,
briefly, through spiritual eyes, and I couldn’t believe what I looked like.
I was murdered. I bet the filth won’t have investi… investigated
me death properly. I was murdered by that swine Sam… Sam… Old Whathisname.
Pushed me, he did. Ended up at the bottom of the cliff, I did, all broken,
like. I was a sight, I can tell ya.
It is not the same as
looking in the mirror, or seeing a photograph of one’s self. I saw myself
without life. I saw myself as dead flesh. Not me anymore. And there was no
light! That is what I wanted to say! There was no light, no holy chorus – nor devils
with pointed sticks. This is what I wanted to impart. Yes, I was a scientist in
life, and I resented the daft ideas promoted by religion. There is no judgement
at the end, no punishment or reward at the holy gates. There is naught but confusion.
Edward Treslewick. That’s my name. Let it be known – do not fall for the lies
of organised religion. Anyone who claims to understand the afterlife is not
worth listening to. I don’t mean me, of course. Oh goodness. What else was
there to say? There was something.
I think I’m happier like this. Life was never much fun,
what with us being poor and that. I would like to see me mum again though. Does
she think of me? I hope the memories are good ones. I dunno how long its been
since I departed, like. Feels like forever, but I reckon it’s only been a day.
Yeah, a day. That’s all. Wish I could remember, but I always was a bit thick, that’s
what the teacher said.
My wife! Yes, and the children. Would you pass them a message. Tell M…M… Margeret. Was that her name? She was my wife, I should remember. Tell her that… Tell her…
I was pleased not to go to hell though, let me tell ya. You were wrong about that, Mr… Mr Wilson? I can’t remember the geezers name. He always said that if I didn’t do what I was told I’d go to hell. Well, he was wrong. Stupid bugger. Oh tarnation, what was the fella’s name?
Yes, the other important fact – just as the physical body decays after death, so does the spirit. I am being broken up. I can feel parts of myself break apart like icebergs. It’s happening to us all, hence the confusion. I can only assume that just as our bodies decompose and are swallowed up by the earth, our souls do as well. I am being dissolved, to be reconstituted into, into what? I don’t know what comes next. Yes, I was a scientist. A great scientist. Edward Tre… Tre….
Jim. Jim Rose is my name. Say hello to mumma.
John. My son is called John.
I’d like one of her cuddles right now, I can tell ya.
I must be honest. This erosion of self scares me more than physical
death. What is this leading to, I wonder? What if there’s nothing? My soul rotted
away like a corpse. Fertilizer for the next generation perhaps? This is gold.
Important knowledge. People need to know this. Pass on this message from me… Ed…
Edmund? All gone. Margeret?
I’m dead, mumma. I’m lost. Ain’t ever coming back and
what’s left of me is circling the drain. I thought there would be demons but its
worse than that even. I’m bloody cold mumma. Give us a blanket. I’m going, mumma,
drifting apart like a cloud of smoke. This is really the end, I reckon. I don’t
think I have anything else to say. I can’t think of anything. I can’t think.
I think I shall have to leave it there. I was a scientist,
you know.
Daisy. Daisy.
The young lady who decrypted these strange messages was horrified
by the fundamental truths the output seemed to suggest and was pleased to dispatch
this machine and her summarisations to the Scarlet Vault for permanent storage.
The Random Word Generator was recreated from scratch, but the Mark 2 and later
models did not produce the same mysterious output. Some would say that is a
good thing.
A Godless universe, without the chance of redemption, and
the reality that there’s nothing after death but a gradual erosion of the soul is
somewhat depressing – if you choose to accept the output, of course. What we’ve seen and heard tonight is just curated
parts of random data – An old saying about
enough monkeys writing Shakespeare springs to mind.
Of course, I know
what happens after death. But no, I’m not going to tell you. Not tonight, anyway.
Enjoy your nightmares.
