Stay Mad, Sweetheart

by Heleen Kist

  11

  ME

  The office had cooled. A more customary drizzle had replaced the radiant sunshine of the last week, and the dark clouds hanging low across the horizon made it clear this was only the start. I rubbed my upper arms on the way to the front of the building; I’d been cold all morning.

  I spotted Suki outside. Her blue umbrella matched her elegant knee-length coat. Suki gave the umbrella a brisk shake and her hair a quick smooth before entering through the glass door. I watched her report to Liv. Suki spotted me staring and broke into an animated wave. ‘Hey.’

  I greeted her with, ‘Let’s go to the boardroom.’

  ‘Give me a minute. I’m sore. I walked.’ She stroked her calf and rolled her ankles in turn, her tan tights freckled with rain.

  Her office was up in the New Town, a solid twenty minutes away. The posh part of the city. How did someone become a corporate financier anyway, a deal maker?

  ‘Okay, I’m ready,’ she said, straightening up.

  I led her in silence to our room.

  ‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve not.’ I flipped on the privacy screen. ‘I’ve not been here.’

  ‘Are you all right? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, I’d offer to come back later but I’ve been trying to get this meeting with you for days. And time is ticking on. But if you’re under the weather...’

  ‘I’m not sick.’ A flush hit my cheek. Suki didn’t deserve that bark. ‘My friend died.’

  ‘Your friend?’ Suki’s shocked face revealed she’d remembered our earlier conversation. My friend, my one friend.

  I busied myself with cables; kept my eyes down. I’d run through my presentation on the wall-mounted screen and hoped that would be enough.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh Laura. I’m sorry. Was it an accident?’

  The TV sprang to life. My skin prickled. The platinum-haired talk show host who’d berated Emily for making a mountain out of a molehill was speaking into the camera with a solemn expression.

  ‘Nobody knows what goes on in someone else’s mind. Mental illness is a disability. And let me tell you this: every experience is legitimate; every pain is valid. Nobody should feel alone. On your screen is the number for the Samaritans—’

  ‘Too late for that, you soulless, slimy hypocrite,’ I hissed, fumbling with the remote to make it stop.

  Suki lifted an eyebrow. ‘That girl. That was your friend? The one with Adam Mooney?’

  ‘Yes.’ I sat and navigated the file folder on the monitor.

  ‘What they did to her.’ She shook her head. ‘It was horrible. Those Incel guys are the scum of the Earth.’

  ‘Incel guys?’

  ‘From what I’ve read. I could be wrong. It could be the technology discussion boards speculating — I have to read them to keep track of trends for prospective deals. The perceived wisdom is that she suffered from an orchestrated attack by various Incel groups.’

  What was Suki on about? Facing my blank stare, she continued, ‘You’ve not heard of them? No, of course not. You don’t do social media.’ Suki gestured for me to sit. ‘They’re called Involuntarily Celibates. It started innocently enough, with people bemoaning their sexless fate. Nowadays, it’s dominated by men who can’t get laid and who believe that it’s the woman’s fault. That women have taken the power and cut off their balls. Emasculated them.’ Suki threw her hands in the air. ‘It’s insane. They cry, “Oh, the injustice! Everybody is having sex except for me”. In their warped minds they blame everyone else. Ha! Not the fact they’re not attractive, have no prospects, no chat. They hate the handsome, successful men because they hog all the girls. And they hate the girls for being sluts... just not with them.’

  ‘They think they’re entitled to sex?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, and from the best-looking girls, too. That’s what I find so weird. They’re ugly, smelly losers who live with their mama and yet the plainer girls aren’t enough. It’s a really strange subgroup. They demand sex and woe betide any woman who denies it. That’s when the violent threats come... when the misogyny slithers out in public’ She made a snake-like gesture with her hands.

  ‘Those attacks on Emily — that wasn’t random trolling?’ My heartbeat quickened. If this was orchestrated, what could that mean?

  ‘That’s what the word on the tech street is. We can’t know for sure. Every time the Incel dudes find a new place to vent their anger, they get clamped down. The online platforms want nothing to do with their vileness; particularly since they’ve been caught inciting real-life violence. It’s led to multiple suicide attacks in the US, you know. They just blow up innocent people. At schools, on campuses. Even the Vegas shooter was one.’

  I rolled my finger in a backward circle. ‘When you say “they’ve been caught”?’

  ‘Oh, no. I meant that figuratively. They’re great at hiding. Only those idiots who came out and killed people have been identified. And they’ve been turned to saints; left behind whole manifestos. No, for the rest it’s all anonymous. Using decoy methods. They always find each other, though — online at least. Twitter still allows fake profiles, for example. I don’t know of anyone arrested for being an Incel troll. Perhaps somewhere. But they’re global. They could be anywhere, ganging up on a poor girl like your Emily thousands of miles away. A swarm of wasps that sting and disappear.’

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. My mind whirred, pursuing scenario after scenario of different routes, different entry points to the Internet to find the bastards, hitting dead ends and starting again. I sensed Suki’s worry.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It isn’t helpful for me to discuss this with you. I can see you’ve got a lot on your mind. Once we concentrate on the acquisition and get things sorted, I can leave you alone. Okay?’

  Having made little progress in my mental war games, I shrugged. Being left alone was always a good thing. ‘Okay.’ I grabbed the pointer from the table and clicked on a blue cloud icon, revealing a numbered set of folders. ‘I’ve started gathering the information you mentioned and wanted to take you through how I thought we’d organise it.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Here is the folder for our core software, which we launched three years ago. All it could do at the time is use the language in emails to grade employees on a scale of happiness, or job satisfaction. I have folders named Documentation, Models and Validation. We’ve produced five upgrades. The first one—’

  ‘It’s fine, Laura, you can skip through the description of everything you’ve launched. I’m already familiar with that and I recognise the names on the folders. Can I assume they each have the same content?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great. I got time with Justin the other day and we’ve gathered the documentation from your first investment and the follow-on funding round eighteen months ago. Man, I bet the rich guys who had a punt on your company back at the start will be delighted when they cash in.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘I can add the existing info to the central files, if that’s okay?’

  I was grateful for Suki’s efficiency. I’d grown bored with giving the same presentation about our technology over and over these last few years. Suki got straight to the point. That was someone I could work with. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘Justin said you’ve got more things up your sleeve? That you’ve been reluctant to give him much of a peek. I teased him he shouldn’t be peeking up sleeves.’ Her face lit up when she heard my small chuckle. ‘Just as well he didn’t say you’d been keeping things close to your chest.’ Suki’s laugh lifted the room.

  ‘I’m guessing you haven’t succumbed to his charms yet?’ I asked.

  ‘Ha!’ Suki’s joyous roar reverberated against the glass walls. ‘I’m afraid he’s barking up the wrong tree there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m gay.’

  ‘Ah.’ Suki had th
rown it out there, as if it was nothing. And of course it was nothing. It was new, that’s all. I had to say something, though. Suki was watching me with those curious almond-shaped eyes again. ‘Yes, I guess he’d be wasting his time,’ I said, in my most casual voice.

  ‘I also don’t think a petite Thai girl is his type, judging from the blondes I see hanging off his arm at various events,’ Suki added, a sparkle in her eye.

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘And have you guys ever...?’

  ‘God, no. He’s like a brother. ‘I scrunched up my nose. ‘That would be weird.’

  ‘Good. Having lived through my share of workplace dalliances, I can confirm it’s a terrible idea. Well... Now that’s out of the way, can we return to your secret squirrel projects?’

  ‘Fine. But it’s early days. There isn’t much written up.’ I navigated through the folders and sub-folders again until I found a colourful web-like diagram.

  Suki slid her chair closer to the screen. ‘Ooh. What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a tool intended to help companies find the heroes and villains at work.’

  12

  CLAIRE

  It was only eleven o’clock and Darren had already upset three people. Claire had seen the dark clouds hanging over each of her colleagues’ heads as they exited his office. And now it was her turn.

  She knew others had put his moods down to the stress of finding Emily, and down to the company — ironically — being on the receiving end of bad PR because of her blog post. It made sense: Pure Brilliant’s reputation was sacrosanct to Darren. The pre-eminent PR and events company in Scotland. ‘If you can’t look good yourself, how will you make others look good?’ was his motto. Appearances were everything.

  But to Claire, his moods were nothing new.

  He’d always been an ass who didn’t give a shit about her. Except this time, she was in charge of Empisoft’s conference, a much more complex and high-profile event than the charity and minor fashion gigs she’d worked on these past two years. The next big thing they’d be known for. She might as well have a big bullseye on her chest. Screw up now and...

  She didn’t even fully understand what Empisoft did. What was data science anyway? She flicked her hair back. Who cares? An event was an event: people, chairs, rooms, screens, drinks, snacks, speakers, entertainment, audio and video, badges and — that which makes or breaks a conference — goodie bags.

  And Empisoft’s swag rocked.

  She had this.

  Even before the door closed, Darren barked, ‘Where are we?’ He reclined in his black leather executive chair and folded his hands behind his head, his short sleeves showing off the muscles he worked hard to maintain. A desk so empty you wondered if he did anything.

  ‘I think it’s going well. The venue has confirmed the catering requests made last week. The main logistics all seem on track.’

  He leaned forward, his beady eyes on her. ‘What’s the bad news?’

  Claire flinched. Why did there need to be bad news? Why didn’t he have confidence in her? How about a little ‘Well done, Claire’ for a change? She’d never screwed up. Ever. Yet somehow, she was never as good as the others: the boys, Emily; the ones who got to work on what they loved. She pursed her lips and took a deep breath.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘There are a few small things. I’m having a little trouble with the speaker schedule and who goes where. And interactions with the council on the parking restrictions seem to have disappeared.’

  Darren humphed. ‘Did you check Emily’s files? The parking can become a major issue — particularly with the band.’

  Claire bit her lip. ‘Yes, I’ve gone over the file folders and her email. Maybe the stuff is on paper. She was still drawing out the seating plans. Plus, you know how the council like their letters.’

  He stroked his goatee, an interconnected tuft of hairs around his narrow-lipped mouth that reminded Claire of a dog’s bum. He’d not had it long and Claire reckoned he grew it to make up for losing his hair at the back of his head. It didn’t seem to put off other women, though.

  ‘Where are the papers?’ he asked.

  Claire raised her shoulders. ‘I think Emily might have left them at home.’

  An awkward silence grew. Darren’s hands fell onto the desk. He flexed his biceps as he seemed to ruminate on their options. Claire wanted to run away. After a while, he looked her straight in the eye. ‘Get them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s company property. We’re entitled to get them.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s legally true, Darren,’ she said. ‘But what the hell am I supposed to do? Bother her parents? “Hello, I’m a colleague from work. Terribly sorry about your loss. Could you let me into you dead daughter’s apartment for me to rifle through her things?” Surely you can’t expect me to do that?’

  ‘I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  He squinted. ‘Is this too much for you?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ It came out as a whine. God, she hated it when that happened. She took a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’m still doing my own job while taking over a huge conference. I’m having to juggle a real and a shadow schedule and keep the press fed with bogus information that will all be superseded on the day—’

  ‘What?’

  For a second, Claire regretted letting it slip, but it was too delicious keeping such a secret from him.

  ‘Oops.’ She feigned a guilty look. ‘The client confided in me. All I can say is there will be a last-minute announcement, which means I have to manage two schedules. And hold the press interested without even telling them something will happen. But it’s big.’

  His chest puffed up. ‘How big? Front-page news big?’ Darren was undoubtedly counting the column inches, the new clients this might attract.

  ‘It’s big-big.’

  ‘Now we’re talking.’ He grew a predatory grin. ‘Come on, spill.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Darren. The client swore me to secrecy.’ Claire pressed her lips together and swiped three pinched fingers from side to side as if zipping her lips shut, but as she turned towards the door, her mouth unzipped into the largest of smiles. The first to exit that room all morning.

  13

  ME

  Liv popped her head around the door, holding an empty tray. ‘Do you still need the room?’

  ‘Hm?’ I dragged my eyes from the dozens of squares on the screen; a collage of tweets I’d collected after Suki left, to see for myself what she’d meant. It was vile.

  ‘I wondered why you were still in here. Can I tidy up?’ Liv asked.

  ‘Oh yes. I mean, hold on.’ I flipped the monitor off, not wanting Liv to get the wrong idea. Brown concentric circles stained the table by my tea mug. I used paper to wipe them off. I pushed my chair closer to the table. ‘All yours.’

  What I’d seen on Twitter haunted me as I walked to my desk. I’d never been on it before — except for when I’d registered for an account to help Emily stay off the site.

  What was the appeal of an online window into people’s uncensored souls? I’d warned her more than once to stay away.

  I shook my head. The worst thing was it was all fake — even more fake than the so-called reality TV shows people got sucked into. At least with them, you heard proper conversations. Not these fleeting, trite snips of text. This was not language. These were not human relationships. People should stick to real life for those. Or in my case, books.

  But Emily’s fascination with the reactions to her blog post became an addiction. Because it was about her, even if no one knew that, at first. I remembered her confessing how it gave her a thrill, a voyeuristic rush in watching the hordes coming out to celebrate, to condemn, to question, to like, to share, to fight because of her statements.

  As upsetting as her experience with Adam Mooney had been, she loved the idea that she initiated a global debate on consent. She’d even joked she was today’s Joan of Arc. She could live wi
th people calling her names and making threats, because she was powering a movement. And she said it was worth it to her to enlighten a whole generation of young women and men, to give them each an insight into the other side.

  Then it got ugly. And I’d just witnessed how ugly.

  Once they lifted the veil from the actor’s mysterious female accuser, the virulence grew. I guessed it became easier to threaten a person once they had a name, a face. An ugly face, according to the nameless, faceless mass. A face that should be grateful Adam Mooney paid it any attention. A fat, flat-chested, cow who should be begging for any male attention. A cunt on legs they’d gladly show what real sexual assault felt like. Bile rose in my throat.

  Dozens of pictures of dildos had paraded in front of my eyes, tagged with Emily’s name.

  I’d worked out the women were no better, wretched jealousy inspiring insult after insult. Making her out to be a pathetic snowflake who’d just had a ‘bad date’. Adam Mooney fans had jumped to defend him. They, in turn, were attacked by those the men would call ‘feminazis’ demanding an end to the patriarchy, an end to Adam’s career.

  I’d followed the news when in the office. Adam had kept a low profile initially. He’d seemed contrite in his public statements yet maintained that this had been a matter of miscommunication. That he believed they were having a nice time. That he had her consent.

  My stomach churned. Although Emily admitted she hadn’t spoken up until she texted him later to say the experience left her disgusted, he should have noticed her discomfort. He was not innocent in this.

  Adam had been careful not to assign any blame to Emily for sharing her story. But when her name came out and she became the victim of such horrific attacks, he’d spoken out. Cynics suggested this was to keep his show running — it had another 3 weeks left.

  After her death, he issued a statement that he’d met Emily days before. He said she’d forgiven him. But how could I be certain he was speaking the truth? Emily was no longer here to deny it.