Web Site Story

by Robert Rankin

  ‘You have to be kidding,’ said Ellie.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mr Pokey. ‘And it’s all there for the public to see. The Freedom of Information Act, you know. Check the Mute Corp web site. We have no secrets.’

  ‘So tell me about this Mute-chip of yours.’

  ‘The corporation’s business dealings and interests are not a secret. Obviously the technology we develop is.’

  ‘And so your files on me said that I had potential as what? A games tester?’

  ‘Absolutely. Your university career. Your access to the games library, at the university. You have a natural aptitude towards the playing of computer games. If your natural aptitude lay with mathematics we’d employ you in the accounts department. We only employ operatives according to their specialized skills. And everybody’s skills are all on file. Everything’s on file. Your whole life’s on file. I can tell you the address where you are currently lodging. You wrote out an old-fashioned paper cheque for your landlady, Mrs…’ Mr Pokey tapped keys, ‘Mrs Gormenghast, and she’s on file too, bought two pots of puce paint, serial number 10A/BC444 from Homebase in Chiswick last week. Everything is computer-linked. Everything. Surely you are aware of this?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ellie. ‘But it is a little frightening when you hear it being read out like that.’

  ‘You haven’t committed any crimes,’ said Mr Pokey. ‘You’re a model citizen. No violations of penal codes. No misdemeanours.’

  ‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘None.’

  ‘You are an ambitious young woman and we are offering you a challenging position.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ellie. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Well of course you will, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t going to. Would you? So we’ll get you all checked out…’

  ‘Checked out?’ said Ellie.

  ‘Just the standard medical.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And then you will be highly paid for doing something you enjoy. What could possibly be better than that?’

  Ellie thought about it. What could possibly be better than being highly paid for doing something you enjoy? Nothing really. And while she was doing this something, she would find out everything she needed to know about Mute Corp. Every little secret.

  Or every big secret.

  And yes, she was ambitious, and yes, she was highly competitive. And yes, not only would she beat their games, she would expose to the world whatever it was that Mute Corp had done to Big Bob Charker and those hapless souls who had apparently vanished from the face of the earth.

  She would.

  Oh yes she would.

  ‘Right,’ said Ellie. ‘I’m up for it. I’ll take the medical and get straight into your game.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Mr Pokey. ‘I knew you were perfect for the job. We never make a mistake at Mute Corp.’ And his eyes were back on her breasts once more and the smile was back on his face.

  Ellie smiled. ‘Just one thing,’ she said. ‘What is the name of this new game of yours?’

  ‘GO MANGO,’ said Mr Pokey.

  15

  ‘Yabba-dabba-dooby-dooby-do,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Yabba-dabba-dooby-dooby-do-do,’ Ellie replied.

  The doctor wore a stunning white concoction, wrought from bogus-synthecated-extro-selectroline, which had been sprayed over her body and a pair of Doveston holistic thigh boots with on-board chaos-generators, double reticulating splines and personal matrix engines, with rather spiffing Minnie Mouse bows on the toecaps.

  ‘You have a working knowledge of Runese,’ said the doctor. It was a statement rather than a question. ‘It’s only really the plebs who use it all the time. We professionals need more than forty words to get the job done. Don’t we?’

  ‘I’m sure you have accessed my file,’ said Ellie. ‘I have a degree in the Universal tongue. Did it on a night-school course six months ago on the Web. Along with Origami and Macramé. Not to mention Mantovani.’

  The doctor didn’t mention Mantovani.

  ‘Please be seated,’ said the doctor.

  Ellie seated herself.

  The doctor’s office differed from that of Mr Pokey’s, in that it wasn’t the same. The walls of this office were adorned with garish blown-up photographs of industrial injuries. The doctor’s desk was a transparent slab of plexiglas, and encased within it was a human skeleton. A two-headed human skeleton.

  On the wall behind the desk were shelves. On these shelves were numerous preserving jars containing dissected human organs, heads, limbs and assorted bits and bobs.

  Ellie was impressed by the collection. ‘An impressive array of exhibits,’ she observed. ‘All the work of Hartley Grimes?’

  ‘Not my personal choice,’ said the doctor. ‘Mute Corp employed an interior designer to give the offices a makeover. An old chap called Lawrence someone-or-other. He was very fashionable back in the 1990s. And style never dates, does it?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Ellie.

  ‘So let us get down to business, would you care to go behind the screen and remove all your clothing.’

  ‘I had a medi-check only a month ago,’ said Ellie. ‘I was declared Double A1. It will be on my medical file.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ said the doctor. ‘But company rules are company rules and rules must be enforced.’

  ‘But I am officially Double Al.’

  The doctor fluttered her eyelashes. They were fibre-optic, tiny green and blue globes glittering at their tips. ‘Everyone has to have six-monthly health checks,’ she said. ‘You and I both know this. Most illnesses have been eradicated. Disease is virtually unknown, the universal panacea chip that everyone is implanted with at birth sees to this. But there are certain specific minor ailments that I have to check for.’

  ‘Such as?’ Ellie asked.

  ‘Have you ever heard of keamerphybriosis?’

  ‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Or haemoglottism? Or Sterling’s syndrome?’

  ‘No,’ said Ellie, slowly shaking her silver head and teasing at her hair. ‘I haven’t heard of those, either.’

  ‘Nor have I,’ said the doctor. ‘Nor has anyone else. Because I just made them up. But if you don’t consent to me giving you a full body examination, they will be just three of the totally bogus incurable complaints that I shall type into your file to prevent you getting this job.’

  ‘Why?’ Ellie asked.

  The doctor sighed. ‘I would have thought that was patently obvious,’ she said. ‘I just want to see you with your kit off. It’s a doctor thing. I thought it was taken for granted.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ellie. ‘Well why didn’t you just say so?’ And she went behind the screen and got her kit off.

  ‘We seem to have got off to a rather poor start,’ said Mr Speedy to Derek. Mr Speedy was sitting in the chair of Mr Shields. The chair that Derek should have been sitting in. Mr Speedy had his feet upon Mr Shields’ desk and Mr Speedy was now sipping Scotch from the bottle Mr Shields kept in his drawer.

  Derek sat upon a boxed computer part, which somehow had been overlooked when the rest went off to the Brentford constabulary.

  ‘You see,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘Mr Shields has a job for life. It’s in that absurd contract of his. But you don’t. And you know it. Mute Corp pays your wages and Mute Corp expects each of its employees to give of his or her best. Do I make myself thoroughly understood?’

  Derek grinned painfully and made a show of rubbing his hands together. ‘So,’ said he. ‘Shall we get started on this exciting project? You were joking about the fence being put around the borough though, weren’t you?’

  Mr Speedy shook his head. And Mr Shadow shook his head. And slowly Derek shook his head as well. ‘You weren’t joking, then,’ he said.

  ‘It will benefit every Brentonian,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘Keep the riff-raff out and preserve the borough in its state of stasis. Mr Shields wanted to avoid any change here. Clearly you wish the same. We wish the very same. What co
uld be more harmonious than that?’

  ‘The locals won’t take to any fences,’ said Derek. ‘They’re all wound up at the moment as it is. People have been vanishing, the locals believe that The Rapture is in progress. They nearly killed this chap called Charker last night. Some lunatic bishop had them believing he was the Antichrist.’

  ‘Charker?’ said Mr Speedy and he looked at Mr Shadow. Mr Shadow did noddings towards Mr Speedy’s briefcase laptop jobbie and Mr Speedy keyed letters in and peered at the tiny screen.

  ‘Do you know where Charker is now?’ he asked Derek.

  Derek shook his head.

  ‘But you would say that some kind of Christian fundamentalist revival is going on in the borough?’

  Derek sadly nodded his head. ‘It will probably blow over,’ said he. ‘These things usually do.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘We wouldn’t want that. In fact I think we should positively encourage it.’

  ‘What?’ said Derek.

  ‘Is there a shrine?’ asked Mr Shadow. ‘There’s always a shrine. A place where some miracle occurred. Like Lourdes, or Fatima, or Guadalupe, or that underpass in Paris where the spirit of Diana cured the beggar of athlete’s foot.’

  ‘I thought it was scabies,’ said Mr Speedy.

  ‘No, definitely Paris,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘But there’s always a shrine. Do you have one here?’ he asked Derek.

  Derek hung his head in dismal affirmation. ‘There is,’ he said gloomily. ‘My mum told me about it this morning. The Plume Café, where the tour bus crashed. People have been piling up bunches of flowers there. They say that the first man to be Raptured, was Raptured from there after the crash.’

  ‘Malkuth,’ said Mr Speedy, and he pronounced the unpronounceable surname.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Derek. ‘But how did you know that?’

  ‘Everything is on file,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘Everyone is on file. We at Mute Corp always make a point of disclosing this fact to those we deal with in business. It reinforces trust and discourages duplicity.’

  ‘You mean that it intimidates them and that you resort to blackmail, if they don’t do what you want them to.’

  Mr Speedy looked once more at Mr Shadow. ‘Of course,’ they said. ‘It simplifies matters no end.’

  ‘Well I have nothing to hide,’ said Derek.

  Mr Speedy laughed. ‘You certainly have no secrets from us,’ he said. ‘But a bit of advice for the future. And strictly off the record. The next time you buy an old-fashioned computer game from a dodgy supplier, do it in cash. The movement of stolen goods is far harder to trace that way.’

  Derek’s jaw fell open.

  ‘So let’s not waste any more time,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘A massive marketing exercise is about to be put into motion. The Suburbia World Plc web site will be going online tomorrow and shares will be floated on the stock exchange by Monday next. We all want this to be a big success, don’t we?’

  Derek’s jaw was still hanging open.

  ‘Crad barges,’ said Mr Shadow.

  Derek’s jaw moved up and then came down again. The word ‘What?’ came out of his mouth.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘The crad barges. Part of the Brentford Waterworld experience. The crad barges used to come down the Grand Union Canal to the Thames. We’d like some. At least three. To convert into floating restaurants. They’ll go down the canal, into the Thames, around Griffin Island then back again. Serving local delicacies. One will be dedicated exclusively to sprout cuisine.’

  ‘What?’ went Derek. ‘What?’

  ‘Best get at least four crad barges,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘We can cannibalize one for spare parts.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Derek. ‘I don’t understand what you are saying?’

  Mr Speedy shook his head and a look of a certain sadness was to be seen on his face. ‘You are to organize four crad barges,’ he said. ‘Acquire them.’

  ‘Me?’ said Derek. ‘I’m a newspaperman.’

  ‘You may now consider yourself a company man,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘And company men do whatever the company requires that they do. Unquestioningly.’

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ questioned Ellie. ‘I fear that I have no more places left for you to probe.’

  She lay naked and spread-eagled upon a cold steel table. About her lay a range of hideous intrusive medical instruments.

  The doctor removed her surgical gloves and wiped away beads of sweat from her brow. ‘You must want this job very much indeed,’ she said.

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Ellie. ‘This was some kind of initiation test, was it? To see how much humiliation I would be prepared to endure?’

  ‘I’ll pass you Double Al,’ said the doctor. ‘Please get dressed and report to Mr Bashful in Training.’

  The office of Mr Bashful was hung with artworks. These were of the old school. Possibly St Trinian’s. Mr Bashful wore an eight-piece light blue suit that was cut from a man-made fabric. His desk was made of wood and very dull indeed.

  ‘Fabarooni,’ said Mr Bashful, as Ellie entered his office.

  ‘Fabarooni-do,’ said Ellie.

  ‘I’m very pleased to welcome you aboard,’ said Mr Bashful. ‘I think you’re going to love it here at Mute Corp.’

  ‘The experience thus far has been positively orgasmic,’ said Ellie.

  ‘Really?’ said Mr Bashful. ‘I was watching your medical examination on CCTV and you didn’t seem to be smiling very much.’

  Ellie chewed upon her Cupid’s bow and teased at a lock of silver hair. ‘Broadcast throughout the building, was it?’ she asked.

  ‘We have no secrets here.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll let me watch the recording of your medical later, then.’

  ‘You can watch it now if you want.’

  Ellie raised an eyebrow. ‘No thank you,’ she said.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Bashful. ‘To work. To work. If you’d be so good as to walk this way.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Ellie. ‘I’ll try.’

  Mr Bashful led Ellie from his office and through many corridors. All were hung with priceless artworks. Some led somewhere, some led back from somewhere, others led to other somewheres, others back again. Finally one led to a single door, which Mr Bashful opened, with a special plastic card. ‘You’ll be issued with one of these,’ he told Ellie. ‘It’s a Unicard, gives you access to all the areas you’re allowed access to. I’m allowed access to almost all areas, but that’s because of my status.’

  Ellie smiled at Mr Bashful. ‘Security must be a big concern here,’ she said. ‘Are all these corridors and rooms covered by CCTV?’

  ‘Gracious no,’ said Mr Bashful. ‘Only the reception area and the doctor’s office. We have no need to spy upon our own operatives.’

  ‘And this door leads to?’

  ‘To your personal games suite. Come.’ Mr Bashful ushered Ellie through the doorway. The chamber was small and had no windows. The ceiling was low. The walls were white. There was a desk with a computer terminal, there was a chair before the desk.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Mr Bashful, pointing to the chair. ‘Key in your name and then follow the instructions you are given. What could be simpler than that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Ellie. ‘But I do have a couple of questions.’

  ‘Go on then.’ Mr Bashful looked mildly irritated.

  ‘Firstly,’ said Ellie. ‘I noticed that the door closed and automatically locked behind us. How do I get out if I have to use the toilet, or something?’

  ‘Key in your request, someone will come.’

  ‘I see,’ Ellie nodded.

  ‘So if that’s all right, I’ll be off.’ Mr B. looked slightly nervous now.

  ‘Secondly,’ said Ellie. ‘This computer terminal. It’s a Mute Corp 3000 series. Surely a bit antiquated. I expected something far more state-of-the-art here.’

  ‘You get what you’re given,’ said Mr Bashful.

  ‘I see,’ said Ellie. ‘Would you mind putting it online for
me then? It’s a while since I’ve used this particular model.’

  ‘Just click the mouse,’ said Mr Bashful, in the manner known as brusque.

  ‘How?’ Ellie asked. ‘Would you mind showing me?’

  Mr Bashful’s hands shot into the pockets of his eight-piece suit. ‘All you have to do is click it,’ he said. ‘Even a woman can do that, surely.’

  Ellie fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I am only a woman,’ she said.

  ‘Just click it, go on, I’ll be back later.’ Mr Bashful turned to take his leave.

  ‘Oh, one more thing,’ said Ellie.

  Mr Bashful turned back again. ‘What is it now?’ he asked.

  Ellie smiled and said, ‘Only this,’ and then she punched his lights out.

  Derek’s lights were on, but no-one seemed at home. ‘Can I just get this straight?’ he asked. ‘You want me to acquire four crad barges?’

  ‘And some Morris Minors,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘About fifty of those should do the trick.’

  ‘Fifty Morris Minors? Why?’

  ‘The car most seen on the streets of Brentford. It’s all on file. Please let us not waste any more time.’

  ‘But you can’t expect me to do all this. I have a paper to put out. News to gather. Things of that nature generally.’

  ‘You’ll be issued with press releases,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘All will be taken care of. You have been chosen for this task on the grounds of your suitability. You know this borough. You are the local reporter.’

  ‘I’m the features editor,’ said Derek.

  ‘And you know the locals. You know where to acquire what we need.’

  ‘I suppose I do,’ said Derek.

  ‘And you will be handsomely rewarded.’

  ‘I will?’ said Derek.

  ‘Cash,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘You’ll be dealing in cash.’

  ‘I will?’ said Derek once again.

  ‘Large quantities of cash,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘Your expenses will not be questioned.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Derek.

  ‘Yes, oh,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘Which means that you fiddle your accounts and we’ll turn a blind eye to it. You scratch our backs, we put an Armani suit upon yours. If you catch my drift and I’m sure that you do.’