Perfidious Albion

by Sam Byers

  ‘I take it what they’re saying is basically not good.’

  ‘Oh, it’s very good. It’s just that its goodness isn’t so much a direct result of the content and more an outcome of the act of saying it. Look at this.’ He held up a line graph with an enormous spike in the middle. ‘This is you on Twitter.’

  ‘Look, Teddy, I know you think I’m very naive about all this, OK? But I’ve googled myself. I’ve looked on Twitter. I know what’s going on. That spike is just a huge upsurge in people calling me a twat the moment I appeared on television.’

  ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

  ‘How is that amazing?’

  ‘Because it’s free publicity. You can’t buy this kind of amplification, Hugo.’

  ‘But it’s negative publicity.’

  ‘No such thing. Negative publicity is like antimatter. It’s an urban myth.’

  ‘I don’t think antimatter is an urban myth, Teddy.’

  ‘Alright then, show me some antimatter.’

  ‘Well, obviously I can’t show you some antimatter, because it’s—’

  ‘Right. If you can’t show it to me, it doesn’t exist. You see what I’m saying? It might very well actually exist, but to all intents and purposes, it doesn’t.’

  Hugo felt a familiar wave of fatigue beginning somewhere around the backs of his eyes and then draining downwards through his face, neck, and shoulders. It was the consistency of honey and numbed everything it touched.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, massaging his eyeballs. ‘Condensed version. Win, loss, or draw?’

  ‘Well, I think we need to define—’

  ‘How did it go, Teddy? Just how did it go? In simple terms. How do you think, given your analysis, it went?’

  ‘I think it went very much as planned.’

  ‘You know what, Teddy? I’m going to take that. That’s great. It went as planned. Brilliant. Let’s move on.’

  ‘Although, saying that—’

  ‘Sweet mother of Christ. What? What is it?’

  ‘Well, there was one element which, although I would say it fell within the broadly defined boundary of being planned, was, within that boundary, not quite as planned as everything else.’

  ‘And what was that element?’

  ‘Right,’ said Teddy, poking around on his tablet. ‘So, basic Twitter search during the timeframe of you being on television, right? And we’re getting all the usual buzz terms. Racist is right up there. Bigot. Lunatic. Plague-bearer—’

  ‘Let’s skip to the relevant detail here, Teddy.’

  ‘I like it, Hugo. Yeah. So if we drill down through all the usual stuff, we get to this.’

  He held up his tablet for Hugo to see. There, in front of him, was a screenshot of a tweet calling for white male genocide.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ said Hugo.

  ‘It’s someone talking about white male genocide,’ said Teddy.

  ‘I can see that, Teddy. But, you know, give me details. Who is this person? Is this a death threat? Is this some kind of, I don’t know, organisation we need be paying attention to?’

  ‘Truly or hypothetically?’

  ‘I’m going to take a gamble and say both.’

  ‘Truly: er, not really. Hypothetically: I’m thinking maybe … Yes?’

  ‘OK. Explain further.’

  ‘This tweet was written by someone who is basically just some woman. Some black woman. She’s not a somebody. But she has more than the average number of followers so we can’t really say she’s a nobody. And she’s followed by some people who are sort of somebodies, in a kind of limited way. And some of those people retweeted this tweet. And so this tweet is … Well, it’s not really a thing, but what I’m saying is that it could very easily become a thing, if we wanted it to.’

  ‘Why would we want it to?’

  ‘You remember last week when I was saying that what you really needed was a death threat?’ said Teddy.

  ‘Mhmm,’ said Hugo.

  ‘Well this is even better than a death threat. This is a genocide threat.’

  ‘It says lol at the end. That doesn’t make it sound very threatening.’

  ‘Does it or does it not say white male genocide?’

  ‘It does say that, yes.’

  ‘And is that or is that not exactly the kind of thing you as an individual and England Always as a party have always feared and have always taken a very firm stance against?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘And wouldn’t you say that, given your hitherto extremely firm stance with regard to exactly this kind of thing in a very hypothetical sense, you are pretty much duty bound – and I think you should say that if anyone asks, by the way – duty bound to take an especially firm stance when this kind of thing happens in a very real way to not just anyone but in fact to you yourself?’

  ‘In some senses, yes. But in other, arguably more relevant senses—’

  ‘Particularly at a time when certain other people are taking, as we’ve just discussed, kind of a notable position themselves on the whole, like, white male plight—’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Teddy. OK? For once, genuinely, I know what you’re saying. But—’

  ‘You’re angry about this, right, Hugo?’

  ‘Obviously. It’s just that—’

  ‘Because I’m angry about this. I’m fucking angry about this, actually. And you know what? Alan’s angry about this too.’

  ‘Alan’s angry?’

  ‘Alan’s very angry. And he assumes you’re angry.’

  ‘Well, you can tell him from me that I’m definitely angry.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell him, Hugo. I’ve already told him. And not just him. Everyone.’

  ‘When you say everyone, Teddy—’

  ‘So first thing, I tweeted a screen grab of the tweet from your account and then retweeted that from the England Always account. OK? So everyone’s aware and everyone’s on the same page.’

  ‘Teddy, how do you—’

  ‘And then I tweeted, from your account, just to be clear …’ Teddy pulled out his phone and scrolled through until he found the relevant tweet. ‘Three angry-face emoji.’

  ‘That is at least … concise,’ said Hugo. ‘But just, if I could … I mean, let’s just press pause on that for a moment, OK, Teddy? And let’s just very momentarily divert and look at the issue of how you’re able to use my Twitter account.’

  ‘Oh, I guessed your password.’

  ‘How did you guess my password?’

  ‘Because your password is password.’

  ‘That’s … Alright, I can see how you might have been able to guess that. Let’s look at it from another angle. Why did you guess my password?’

  ‘Because I needed to send this tweet.’

  Torn between admonishing Teddy for his initiative and simply moving on so as not to get bogged down in the quicksand of manic interpretation that so often seemed to be Teddy’s speciality, Hugo decided, with reluctance, to take the path of least discussion. After all, he thought, Teddy was broadly right, even if, in his actual application of being right, he was so worryingly in the wrong.

  ‘OK,’ said Hugo. ‘But for future reference—’

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘Let me finish, Teddy.’

  ‘Totally, but at the same time—’

  ‘For future reference, don’t ever hack into any of my accounts again.’

  ‘I didn’t really hack into your account, big guy, I mean—’

  ‘I’m going to change all my passwords anyway, so the point is moot. But understand that there’s a principle, and—’

  ‘Changing your passwords was going to be the next item on the agenda, actually, given the current climate. But whatever. I haven’t told you the best bit.’

  ‘What best bit?’

  ‘With this genocide woman.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘Look at her address, Hugo.’

  Beaming, Teddy passed a piece of paper over to Hugo, on wh
ich were written the woman’s details.

  ‘Well, what do you know?’ said Hugo, peering at the piece of paper and experiencing, for the first time in far too long, the satisfying sense of things coming together in his favour.

  He dropped the piece of paper on the table and grinned.

  ‘Pat yourself on the back, Teddy, my man,’ he said, with unusual warmth. ‘Pat yourself on the back very hard.’

  And Teddy, being Teddy, reached around, over his shoulder, and did exactly that.

  *

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Geoff, walking in with two bags of shopping, putting them down on the kitchen floor and taking a moment to examine Darkin’s window, his hands on his hips, taking it all in. ‘What happened here? Kids, was it?’

  Darkin shook his head. ‘Got stuck. I asked some bloke to put the window in and come give me a hand.’

  ‘Stuck how?’

  ‘Couldn’t reach my stick.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  Darkin looked down at his jumper, onto which, he now noticed, some of the contents of the sandwich he’d had for dinner last night had dripped, leaving a dark, sticky pickle-stain which he now, with the aid of a thumbnail in need of trimming, attempted to scrape away.

  Geoff left the shopping on the floor and walked over to the sofa opposite Darkin, where he took a seat, leaning forward over his knees to study Darkin intently. Geoff was the only person Darkin knew who sat on his sofa without brushing it down first.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘Bloke from Downton,’ said Darkin in a half-mumble. ‘Came round here and moved my stick.’

  ‘What?’ said Geoff, outraged. ‘Deliberately?’

  Darkin nodded. ‘Said I was vulnerable.’

  ‘Did he now,’ said Geoff. He flopped back on the sofa, this time exhaling through clenched teeth. ‘Those shits.’

  Darkin looked up from the pickle-stain.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ he said.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Geoff. ‘Code of silence, right? But still, those shits.’

  They were both quiet a moment.

  ‘Look,’ said Geoff, ‘I know I say this every time—’

  Darkin shook his head.

  ‘Why not? Seriously, chap. Why not at least consider it?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to.’

  ‘But why don’t you want to? You could do so much better than this place. You could have one of those little bungalows. They’ve got alarm systems. They’ve got wardens. They’ve got people what come and do your shopping. I mean, not that I mind doing your shopping, but … You know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t want to because I don’t want to,’ said Darkin.

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Look at me,’ said Darkin. ‘Look at this place. Look at the food I eat.’ He pointed to the ticking kitchen timer on the coffee table. ‘Look how I have to ration myself.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve got one thing left that’s how it was, how I want it,’ he said. ‘Staying here. Stopping here.’

  Geoff nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But the minute you want me to give those bastards an earful, just say the word, right?’

  Darkin nodded.

  ‘Alright then,’ said Geoff. He dug in his pocket. ‘Here’s your receipt anyway. I got all the usual. Here’s your card too.’

  ‘Ta,’ said Darkin.

  ‘Where would you be without me, eh?’ said Geoff. He’d clearly meant it as a joke, but neither of them laughed. Sometimes, there were things Darkin wanted to say to Geoff that went beyond a mere thank you, but he never knew how to say them, so he just nodded quickly, and Geoff nodded back, and that was that.

  Geoff drove a taxi for a living. He lived nearby. They’d met soon after Flo got packed off to the home. Darkin visited her twice a week until she died. Unable to manage the bus, he called himself a taxi. After a while, Geoff had given him his private number, done him a discount on the fare. Then he’d stopped asking for the fare completely. Once Flo was gone, Darkin didn’t need the taxi any more, but Geoff had come round and knocked on the door, worried about him. He’d looked at Darkin, looked around the flat, and understood. He’d popped out to get Darkin some shopping. A few days later, he’d called again.

  Geoff walked over to the kitchen area and rustled through the shopping bags, coming up with a packet of cigarettes which he tossed onto the sofa beside Darkin.

  ‘Remembered the essentials,’ he said. Then, turning to the window, ‘You are going to get this fixed, though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Darkin.

  ‘I do sort of worry, though, mate.’

  ‘I just haven’t got round to phoning,’ said Darkin.

  ‘You want me to phone for you?’

  Darkin shook his head.

  ‘This isn’t about money, is it?’ said Geoff. ‘Because there are people what do it for free if you’re, you know …’

  ‘Old,’ said Darkin.

  ‘Above a certain age,’ said Geoff.

  ‘I’ll sort it.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But if it’s still busted when I come back next week …’

  He started pulling things out of the shopping bags – a loaf of bread, a tub of margarine, some cheese, a pint of milk. When he thought Darkin wasn’t looking, he snuck a few things out of the fridge and into the bin. Darkin in turn pretended he hadn’t seen.

  ‘I can take this when I go,’ Geoff said, knotting the top of the bin bag. ‘I mean, since I’m heading that way anyway.’

  ‘If you want,’ said Darkin.

  ‘Cuppa first, though, eh?’

  Geoff picked up the kettle and took it to the sink. When he spun the tap, a phlegmy gurgle escaped. Water struck aluminium in a weak, spitting spray.

  ‘Hello,’ said Geoff. ‘How long’s it been like this?’

  ‘It was fine this morning,’ said Darkin.

  Geoff tried the other tap, with a similar result.

  ‘Maybe they’re doing some work on the pipes,’ he said, not sounding especially sure.

  Darkin said nothing. No-one, he thought, was doing any work on the pipes, and no-one was likely to either. He’d had a distinct feeling, ever since Mr Jones’s visit, that something was about to go wrong. Now, here it was.

  *

  Eschewing the awkwardness of a beanbag, Bangstrom had instead opted to stand over everyone while they looked blankly back up at him.

  ‘Here’s the download,’ he said.

  ‘Will this take long?’ said Bream.

  ‘Are you going to start?’ said Bangstrom. ‘Because let me tell you what I think about people starting: I don’t like it. So let’s stop with the starting before it even starts. Because if it starts, I will be very pissed off, and you do not want to see me pissed off.’

  ‘Are you not pissed off right now?’ said Bream.

  ‘I am nowhere near pissed off right now,’ said Bangstrom.

  ‘So this is, like, your resting state?’ said Bream.

  ‘Let’s be clear,’ said Bangstrom. ‘The Interrobang does not rest. Received?’

  ‘Noted,’ said Bream.

  ‘Maybe you should rest,’ said Holt. ‘Maybe that’s why you’re so tense.’

  ‘OK,’ said Bangstrom, ‘let’s recap. My tension: not your concern. My rest or lack of rest: not your concern. Everybody clear? Now, as I was saying. The download. Green have concerns, which I have been asked to come down here and communicate to you in language you can understand, i.e. the language of implied physical violence, that this whole Griefer situation is not just a Griefer situation, it’s actually also an MT situation, which puts you guys, i.e. you guys, and you Trina, in this room, right in the rifle sights, and I’ve been sent down here to train those rifle sights a little closer and, if necessary, take the kill shot.’

  Trina could feel the cockiness drain right out of the room. Holt looked up from his tablet. Even Bream took a deep breath.

  ‘Trina does all the MT stuff,’ said Bream.

&nb
sp; ‘Fuck you, Bream,’ said Trina.

  ‘Just stating a fact,’ said Bream.

  ‘It’s not a true fact, though, is it Bream?’ said Bangstrom. ‘Because as we all know, given the way things work around here, all of us, whether directly or indirectly, do MT stuff, because all the stuff we do is, literally, given to the MTs to do for us.’

  ‘When Green say this might be an MT thing,’ said Trina, ‘what sort of thing do they think it might be?’

  ‘I’m going to answer that,’ said Bangstrom, after a pointed panopticon glare, ‘but I’m going to make it clear that my answer is not to be communicated to anyone who is not right now sitting here, because if that happens I will know it was one of you fucks who made it happen and I will make it my personal business to make sure every remaining day of your life is a day spent with shit raining down from on high, am I clear?’

  Everyone nodded.

  ‘Green think it might be an uprising kind of thing.’

  Everyone in the room went a full ten seconds without saying anything annoying.

  ‘Trina,’ said Bangstrom. ‘You used to MT, didn’t you?’

  Trina nodded. Inside her stomach, a geyser of anxiety became active.

  ‘And then you worked your way Inside The Building and now you monitor the MTs. Have I got that right?’

  Trina nodded again.

  ‘So just confirm for me, if you can, an important point. Although the MTs don’t work together, and don’t know each other, and are all basically separate from each other, and although our operating system prevents them from ever seeing what each other is doing or collaborating in any way, they still talk to each other. Am I right?’

  ‘There are forums,’ said Trina. ‘They’re mainly places where people put the call out for work. But there’s always chatter.’

  Bangstrom nodded.

  ‘Alright,’ said Bream. ‘Say the Griefer thing is basically an MT thing. Say all the Microtaskers are pissed off. I don’t see what they’d achieve by having their little film showing in the town square. If they’ve found a way to pull data, why not just lock Green up for a few days and demand higher pay? Why cloak it in all this political mumbo jumbo?’

  ‘Well, somewhat ironically for a bunch of people we’ve trained to think very, very small,’ said Bangstrom, ‘it seems they might actually be thinking quite big.’