What’s the big story?
He lifts his phone, upon which the lock screen shows that he has an unusually high number of notifications on Twitter. He launches the app, but instead of the familiar feed, he is presented with the beginner’s sign-up screen.
‘No,’ he says, almost involuntarily. ‘Mammy, Daddy, please no.’
He is locked out of his own account, and that can only mean that Buzzkill is all up in it.
He logs in using a secondary account, from where he is able to read, with growing horror, a number of tweets ostensibly posted by himself. These are announcing an exclusive that will send shockwaves through British journalism, all accompanied by a link.
The link takes him to his own blog, where to his immediate but only temporary relief, there is mostly blank space. He reads a single line of text stating: ‘Stand by for the most career-defining exclusive I will ever file.’
Beneath that is a digital timer, counting down.
He glances at his watch and does the arithmetic. It’s an ultimatum. She’s posting at midnight. But posting what?
Now he knows why she didn’t simply send him a text with the address of the Starbucks she went to this morning. She knew he would click on the link to find out where to meet. The browser had gone blank. He thought the first link hadn’t worked, but it had, inasmuch as it caused him to download some malicious piece of code.
This was why there were no tantrums, no emotionally over-wrought demands when he turned her down and walked away. She knew this would happen, she planned for it. In her mind it was only Phase One.
He doesn’t think he’s going to enjoy Phase Two.
Already on edge, he starts with a shudder as his mobile vibrates in his hand, signalling a text.
Thought you’d like a sneak preview.
His finger pauses over the accompanying link, mindful of the first one he clicked on today, which appeared to do nothing but evidently did plenty. He reckons that section of his defences has already fallen, however. It’s the unseen damage that he is more concerned about. That phrase ‘career-defining’ has a particularly menacing resonance.
The screen fills with text and images, at the top of which is another famously mistranslated line from that same stupid early nineties game.
SOMEBODY SET UP US THE BOMB.
Parlabane feels the sweat running down inside his shirt. A bomb is what he is looking at, no mistake: counting down on his own blog page to the moment when it will put a hole in his world big enough to see from space.
It is a detailed confession of how he assisted in hacking the Clarion’s servers, from when Buzzkill first made contact by hijacking his laptop and ransoming his files. It catalogues times, dates, locations, methods, and what Parlabane ultimately got in return, which was Buzzkill’s assistance in hacking a senior civil servant’s laptop. What he thought was the scoop of his life had in fact resulted in a disaster for the newspaper that published it; a disaster for the Clarion of a magnitude that would only be eclipsed by the emergence of what was in front of him right now.
A confession on its own might be deniable, especially when he could demonstrate that his blog and phone had been hacked. But Buzzkill is also posting data from the hack itself, files and information that have never previously seen the light of day, and were never supposed to.
These were the stories you never run, the stories you hold over people in order to get the other stories. Top secret scandals the tabloid had been sitting on, sometimes for decades. There is art too: photos of royals, celebrities, politicians. And that isn’t even the worst of it. There are also details of paid sources in the police, in government, in sport, in showbiz, complete with amounts they received for specific information.
If this came out, Parlabane wouldn’t be the only one going to jail. But more damagingly, he would instantly become the most hated man in British journalism, as his actions would burn every source on that list, as well as all of the reporters dealing with them.
She is saying that if she’s going down, he’s coming with her: mutually assured destruction.
He dials the number the texts originated from.
She answers almost immediately. No sat-nav voice, no time delay.
She puts on a tone of false cheeriness, and he suspects she phrased her greeting in advance.
‘Hi, Jack.’
‘This will ruin me. It won’t just send me to jail, it will finish my career: it will burn it and salt the earth. But then you knew that.’
‘Not necessarily. Why don’t you talk to your high-up friends in the police, ask them to “bring you in”?’
He has no come-back to that, and she knows it.
‘This was your plan all along,’ he says redundantly.
‘We’re in the same boat now, Jack. So you can take your chances with the authorities like you suggested I do, or you can start helping me paddle.’
He looks down at his now useless laptop, then back at the hijacked phone he is holding. He’s been utterly out-manoeuvred. He doesn’t have a move here. Not yet, anyway.
‘Okay, you’ve made your point. But if I’m coming on board, even just to probe whether this madness is feasible, it’s on the understanding that hitting Synergis is priority number two. Priority number one is finding out who is blackmailing you, and getting some leverage on them.’
‘You’re preaching to the choir on that, mate. See, we’re already thinking along similar lines.’
‘And you can wrap the kindred spirit shite. Have no illusions: if I get you through this, we’re quits.’
‘Friends don’t keep score, Jack.’
‘We’re not fucking friends, Barb.’
PART TWO
MONITORS
‘Take a look, Samantha.’
‘Just a sec.’
‘Samantha, take a look. Samantha.’
‘In a minute, Lilly,’ I reply, struggling not to sound testy.
I am peeling spuds for some chips while Lilly is sitting at the kitchen table, colouring in a picture. I’m getting fed up with baked potatoes and I forgot to pick up a tin of something anyway. Going with chips. Means I’ll need to clean the cooker, because the fat always spits, but it’ll be worth it for the change.
‘Samanthaaaa,’ she insists, and I lean over to see what she’s working on.
It is a before and after picture of Batgirl and her secret identity.
‘That’s awesome,’ I say, but the image has twisted me up inside, because it reminds me of the mess I’m in.
I think about Jack in that Starbucks near King’s Cross. He asked for a name and I stupidly hadn’t expected it. I came this close to telling him to call me Sam. I had to pluck a name out of the air and the first thing I thought of was Lilly and the comic she was reading that morning before I took her to school. Batgirl. Barbara Gordon.
I get these merciful moments when I forget all about how the world is caving in, losing myself in a task like peeling potatoes or washing the dishes. Then something brings it back to the top like an irritating pop-up window.
All it takes is for me to think of the word Synergis and I get this horrible churned-up sensation, suddenly wired like I necked three cans of Red Bull. What’s making it worse is that the word had a nasty effect the first time I read it in one of Zodiac’s messages, like the name itself tapped into something that made me uneasy, but I can’t place why.
With that thought I dry my hands and go to my bedroom, where I open my laptop and search for Synergis on Wikipedia. It’s a long entry and I’m aware I’ve left the chip pan on the heat with Lilly in the kitchen. I could bring my laptop into the room but for various reasons I’m still reluctant to let her know I have it, in case she says anything to anyone (mainly Mum).
I scan the page impatiently, skimming through the early stuff that’s talking about ‘ambulatory monitoring’ and the inventor Jack mentioned, Aldous Syne. I had never heard of him and I don’t know what ambulatory monitoring is either. Further down it talks about the company’s decline into
manufacturing low-end electronics, like generic mobile handsets, knock-off mini hi-fis and crappy clock radios. I must have seen the name on a device somewhere: maybe inside Graythorne Young Offenders Institution, where I spent the worst three days of my life. If so I don’t remember, but then I’ve worked damn hard at blocking those seventy-two hours from my memory.
I scroll down again and read how Synergis changed hands a few times. It was most recently bought over by one of its original founders, Leo Cruz, but again the name means nothing to me.
I hear a knock at the door and I tense up, remembering the last time anyone came calling unannounced. When Lush and his gangsta-bots fronted up before, at least Lilly wasn’t home. I’m not opening my door to those bastards with her in the house.
I sneak a look out of the bedroom window, which gives me a view along the outside landing. There is a smartly dressed woman standing in front of the door, holding a briefcase.
I suddenly remember. She’s from the Social. She is due here for the home inspection to make sure Lilly’s being looked after all right. It’s not a surprise visit to catch me unawares, though it’s done that anyway. I knew it was today, but I completely forgot, with everything else that’s on my mind.
I open the door and she greets me with the thinnest, coldest smile I’ve ever seen. I never thought it was possible to turn up the corners of your mouth without giving some hint of friendliness and warmth, but she’s proved otherwise.
‘You must be Samantha. Mary Hardwick,’ she says, holding out her ID. ‘I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. You were expecting me, yes?’
‘Oh, yes. Sure.’
I smile, instinctively going into please-the-teacher mode.
‘Just getting the tea organised,’ I add, hoping it scores some points.
‘I see.’
She starts nosing around the place while asking me questions.
‘You’re at sixth form college?’
‘Yeah, well, I was. Had to give it up so I can earn some money. I’m starting a job at a sandwich place up in Ilford.’
‘Didn’t you have any plans for further education?’
This sounds like I’m being told off.
Well, yeah, course I did, but that’s gone south since you lot cancelled my Carer’s Allowance, I don’t say.
She gives the living room a thorough examination, like she’s thinking of buying the place.
‘No TV,’ she says, her tone so weirdly neutral I can’t pick up anything from it.
‘That’s right. Lilly likes to read comics. Reading’s better than TV for a child’s development.’
Even as this is spilling from my mouth I am asking myself what the hell I think I’m trying to achieve. I don’t know. It just came out from my nervousness.
She glances at the pile of DVDs under the table where it’s so laughably obvious that the telly used to sit. She knows I saw her looking at this, and now she’s got to be wondering why I barfed up that word-sick.
‘Well, Lilly does have a little laptop she uses as a portable DVD player,’ I add.
‘And where is Lilly?’
‘She’s in the kitchen.’
With the open chip pan on. Jesus.
I lead her through, trying not to rush.
Lilly looks up from her colouring.
‘Hello, Lilly. I’m Mary,’ she says.
Lilly gathers her colouring and her pens and scarpers off to her bedroom. She’s a sharp judge of character, that girl.
‘She’s shy,’ I say.
Mary doesn’t reply.
‘What’s for dinner?’
It sounds like small-talk but I’ve no idea how much might hinge on my answer.
‘I’m making some chips.’
‘With what?’
I swallow.
‘Just chips, tonight. Lilly likes chips,’ I add.
She says nothing and continues to look the place up and down, wrinkling her nose. She doesn’t like what she’s seeing, I could tell that much without any talent for reading micro-gestures.
I think of my mum asking me to promise I wouldn’t let Lilly get taken into care. I made that promise, but now I’m getting this horrible vision of things being taken out of my hands. I can see how easily the process might start, how quickly it might snowball.
That’s when it comes back.
I remember now why that name must have taken root in my subconscious, associated with a fear of losing everything.
A few years back, only months after Dad died, Mum found a lump on one of her breasts. She went for tests, and then she had to go into hospital to have the cancer removed.
I remember her telling us we hadn’t to let anybody know we were on our own at home, fending for ourselves while she got her treatment. She said the Social might come and take us away if they found out there was nobody taking care of us, especially with Lilly having special needs.
I had looked after Lilly alone when Mum was at work, but not overnight, and not several nights on the spin. Lilly was a frightened teary mess, restless and confused, but I was the one who was truly afraid, because I was the one who truly understood. If Mum had cancer, if she was going to become ill and then die, it would all be out of our hands. We wouldn’t be able to keep our situation a secret. I would lose Mum like I had lost Dad, then I would lose Lilly. We’d both end up God knows where, with God knows who.
I recall the hospital visits most vividly. We only went in a few times, but it stayed with me, and you don’t remember the hanging around the house part, because that’s normal. Mum was hardly ever lying in a bed when we went in. She didn’t like looking helpless, so she was usually on her feet, but she always had this thing attached to her: wires leading from her chest to a little plastic box on her hip. It was called a Synapse Ambulatory Monitor. SAM, like me. She even had it on for a while after she came home. It wasn’t even to do with the cancer. They made her wear it because she had developed an irregular heart rhythm and they wanted to keep an eye on it.
It didn’t seem to bother her, but the sight of it always troubled me, maybe because I could never see the cancer but I could always see it.
I can see it now, that beige plastic box, the manufacturer’s name prominent on the front.
Synergis.
REMOTE ACCESS TROJAN
Parlabane watches his destination rise into view as he comes down Monument Street. He feels a horrible burden of inevitable fate settle upon him, like a condemned man approaching Tyburn on the back of a cart and the gallows looming before him. This will be the instrument of his destruction, and yet he is compelled to proceed towards his undoing.
He had hoped the Synergis HQ would be located in some suburban science campus of eighties-built low-rises with corresponding levels of security. Then when he clocked the address, he had nonetheless comforted himself with the possibility that it might be some carbuncle-era concrete slab, unloved and neglected as it awaited the wrecking ball that would follow a sell-off and development of the site. Instead he is looking at Tricorn House: a handsome seven-storey structure that has been sneering down on the likes of him for at least two centuries, a prestigious address where the immaculate maintenance of the stonework outside speaks forebodingly of how well-equipped it is likely to be inside.
He has on occasion thought of his more vainglorious or ill-advised ventures as tilting at windmills, but there seems nothing chivalrous and quixotic about this doomed undertaking. Don Quixote never had Sancho Panza blackmailing him to saddle up and heft the lance. Nor did he have the bastard gibbering in his earpiece the whole time.
‘Are you there yet?’ Barb asks. ‘What does it look like?’
‘Like a fucking fortress. Like our doom with a postcode.’
‘Zodiac wouldn’t be leaning on me if it was easy. One does not simply walk into Synergis,’ she adds, irritatingly.
Now that she has revealed herself, she no longer seems so guarded about what lies beyond the Buzzkill persona, having previously been circumspect even in her frame of refe
rence. Instead she now seems babblingly nervous, consequently assailing Parlabane with a mix of teen argot and geek-speak that is making him feel not only old, but grateful to be so if this is youth.
He always feels like a crazy person wearing one of these Bluetooth mics, walking down a busy street talking to himself. Today, though, it represents one of the more sane and rational aspects of his behaviour. He is here to meet Synergis CEO Leo Cruz, ostensibly on an interview assignment for Broadwave, after pitching to Lee that his instincts indicated there was a story in the offing.
The true purpose of his visit to this intimidating redoubt is to case the joint.
‘Walking in the front doors now. Going off-mic.’
‘No, you’re not,’ she reminds him.
‘Yeah, but you are, thank God.’
He pulls the earpiece away but does not disconnect the call. She will be listening in throughout, and recording everything to a hard drive for analysis later. Parlabane is wired for vision also, two miniature spy cameras hidden in his jacket and the strap of his shoulder bag.
He walks into a cavernous vestibule. His shoe leather taps a cadence on the tiled floor, but the sound barely carries to his ears. Instead it is absorbed into the greater hubbub, itself swallowed by the atrium that rises around him in stone and glass. There are dozens of people thronging the concourse, greeting visitors, hastening to meetings, couriering documents and milling around the café area at one end.
He can see glass-walled elevator shafts rising behind the reception desk, access beyond the public area protected by card-operated barriers. An aluminium column displays building information, listing the occupants floor by floor. There’s an international pharmaceuticals firm, a drinks company with a portfolio of brewers and distillers spanning four continents, an internet travel firm and an electronics and communications giant.
On balance, he’s probably not going to be able to sneak in a side door and grab the prototype while everybody is on their lunch.
Parlabane approaches the desk and is greeted by one of four receptionists, each kitted out with boom-mic headsets and seated before a monitor angled so that it is impossible to see the screens from his side of the counter.
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