by Stephen Fry
‘There are thousands of magazines and photographs currently in the postal system . . .’
‘True or not true, Mr Messiter?’
‘Currently being processed by the Royal Mail, technically the property of the Queen, which you would find just as offensive and which . . .’
‘True or not true, Mr Messiter?’
‘True or not true!’ chorused the studio audience. ‘True or not true?’
‘Yes, it’s true, but as I say . . .’
‘It’s true!’ Ashley whipped the microphone away and walked towards the camera. ‘Mr Messiter’s twisted logic would have us believe that Her Majesty the Queen is somehow a pornographer, which tells us all we need to know about Mr Messiter, I think. We’ll be returning to him later, but meanwhile, let’s follow our researcher, Jamie Ross. For six months now, in the guise of twelve-year-old Lucy, Jamie has been conducting a romantic relationship with a boy of thirteen called Tom. Innocent, charming, perfectly acceptable. Nothing more than a pen friendship. Tom has now suggested they meet. Our language experts have analysed the emails and messages that Tom has been sending Lucy and they have determined that they were composed by an educated adult. Jamie.’
The Cotter Atrium watched with barely suppressed giggles as an earnest reporter stood on the corner of Argyll Street and Marlborough Street talking in a hushed whisper. A small girl stood nervously beside him.
‘Any moment now, I will be going into Wisenheimer’s, a hamburger restaurant popular with young people, just fifty yards from London’s famous Oxford Circus, for an assignation with “Tom”. He will be expecting a small girl, so I have brought along my daughter, Zoë. In my rucksack I have a hidden camera and sound recorder. The police are standing by to make an arrest if it turns out, as we strongly suspect, that “Tom” is an adult, masquerading as a child. Here goes.’
A grainy but acceptable picture came on screen as the reporter, Jamie Ross, entered the restaurant and sat at a table, pointing his wide angled briefcase at the door. His daughter Zoë came in a second or two later and sat at another table.
‘So far,’ breathed Jamie into his radio mike. ‘Nothing. Mostly young people here, tourists by the look of them, a few adults spread out at different tables. The ideal spot for this kind of rendezvous perhaps. Ah, what’s this?’
A small nervous looking boy of twelve or thirteen had entered the restaurant, taken one look at Zoë, another at the table where Jamie sat with his camera bag and then sat down at an empty table.
‘Well, perhaps, our experts were wrong,’ the disappointment in Jamie’s voice was palpable.
‘Experts? Wrong?’ The crowd gathered in the Cotter atrium were enjoying themselves hugely. ‘Surely not?’
‘Perhaps I should ask him what he’s doing there . . .’ Jamie picked up his camera bag and moved towards the young boy. ‘Hello, there,’ he said, placing the bag on the table between them. ‘Your name isn’t Tom by any chance?’
The boy made no verbal reply but stood up and pointed.
Instantly, from different tables, half a dozen men and women sprang forward and surrounded the astonished Jamie.
‘You are under arrest,’ said one, attaching handcuffs, ‘on suspicion of luring a minor . . .’
‘Wait a minute, I’m Jamie Ross from the BBC . . .’
‘You do not have to say anything in your defence, but I must warn you that silence may be interpreted . . .’
The screen went blank for a second before cutting back to the studio and a rather flustered Ashley Barson-Garland.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It looks as though . . . that is to say . . .’
In the CDC atrium, Albert and the female coder were rolling around honking with laughter like seals.
‘Sh!’ said Cotter. ‘Let’s not miss the rest of it.’
‘It seems that perhaps this was a case of two minds with but a single thought,’ Ashley continued, drawing on all his reserves of aplomb, ‘two hearts, ah, beating each to each.’
‘What?’ roared Albert, writhing with delight. ‘Has he gone completely tonto?’
‘Robert Browning,’ said Simon. ‘When the mind goes, reflex literary quotation takes over.’
‘But none the less, a lesson to be drawn there. The world of the chat room clearly arouses enough parental concern to cause a great deal of worry. We will bring you, of course, news of Jamie Ross’s release as soon as it comes.’
‘Who’s looking after Zoë?’
‘Ah, well no doubt . . .’ Ashley looked up at the bank of studio audience to identify the heckler. ‘I’m sure she’s . . .’
‘Someone has just left a twelve-year-old girl alone in a West End burger joint. I can see it on the monitor above. She’s just sitting there on her own.’
‘I’m sure Jamie will inform the police right away . . .’
‘Call that responsible?’
‘Ah, Mr Messiter. It’s you.’
‘Too right it’s me. Hoist with your own petard there, weren’t you?’
‘Mr Messiter seems very interested in the fate of unprotected children, ladies and gentlemen.’ Ashley swiftly regained his composure. ‘Yet his company continues to open the porn portals of the internet to all, without accepting responsibility. He even manages to blame the parents. It’s their fault. If they only bought expensive and complex software to guard their children’s access, then all would be well.’
‘It isn’t expensive, it’s available free on . . .’
‘Well, let me now introduce you to an expert in the field of internet security. From CotterDotCom, Cosima Kretschmer!’
The atrium fell silent and all eyes turned from the screen to Simon. He shrugged lightly. ‘You’re all free,’ he said. ‘If Cosima wants to speak and share her expertise on television, how could I possibly stand in her way?’
All heads turned back to the screen. It was rumoured that Cosima, whom Simon had brought back from the Geneva office, was more than just the head of the Secure Server Research Division. She and Simon had recently been photographed together coming out of the Ivy Restaurant. It seemed doubtful that she would consent to appear as a witness for Ashley Barson-Garland without Simon’s express wish. Albert frowned as he watched her take the microphone. He could not believe that his mentor, his hero, his god, would lend support to anything that threatened the sanctity and autonomy of the net.
Simon was watching the screen with a look of bland benevolence.
‘Fräulein Kretschmer, I’m sure only those who’ve holidayed on Mars for the last two years have failed to hear of CotterDotCom. You specialise in internet security, is that right?’
‘That is quite correct.’
‘I believe service providers can choose to make available all or only some newsgroups on their news servers, is that also correct?’
‘Certainly.’
‘So Mr Messiter’s company, the largest free provider in the United Kingdom, isn’t obliged to offer the full range of newsgroups. He could choose to filter out those which carry illegal child pornography, for example.’
‘For sure.’
‘Now, as you may know, I proposed a bill which would have allowed the monitoring of such obscene transactions and I was told by the so-called “internet community” that such a course was “impractical”. Were they right?’
‘Not at all. People may use proxy servers and firewalls, but it is usually possible to detect those who upload and download illegal materials.’
‘It is possible? Do you think the government should take steps to implement the tracking of this kind of traffic?’
‘No, I do not.’
Ashley flickered for a moment. ‘Forgive me, Fräulein Kretschmer . . .’
‘Cosima, please.’
‘You told me earlier that you did believe in such monitoring.’
‘Did I?’
‘You know you did.’
‘It is a complex matter. The question of civil liberties is important. I have been thinking more deeply on this subject lately.’
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‘Civil liberties? What about the rights of families to live free of fear and contamination. Do those count for nothing?’
A hearty round of applause interrupted the first part of Cosima’s reply.
‘Well, let us suppose,’ she said, ‘that in my research I came upon evidence of a person who had regularly used the internet for his own personal sexual gratification. Downloading illegal pornography and so forth. Do I have the right to expose such a person?’
‘Of course you do. If their computer drives contain illegal material it’s the same as possessing it in photographic form on paper. We all know that.’
‘Ah but this person is clever. He looks at the pictures on screen, but does not store them. He deletes the memory cache once he has . . . once he has satisfied himself, you understand?’
Ashley’s stern voice cut through a bubble of titters emanating from the back row of the audience. ‘All this hypothetical speculation seems to me to miss the main point of our discussion,’ he said. ‘We are addressing . . .’
‘It is at the absolute heart of our discussion,’ Brad Messiter shouted from the back, unmiked, but loud enough to be heard. ‘Tell us more about this hypothetical case, Cosima.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Cosima, who unlike Messiter had a radio microphone clipped to the lapel of her jacket, ‘it is not hypothetical. I am talking about you, Mr Barson-Garland. You. You have logged up an average of sixteen hours a week accessing sites devoted to photographs of young teenage boys.’
A gasp ran round the studio as Ashley whipped round, his face white, to face Cosima. ‘I should warn you that I am a lawyer,’ he snarled. ‘Such unsubstantiated accusations are highly actionable. You cannot have a shred of evidence to support such outrageous . . .’
‘But I have,’ said Cosima, pointing to a briefcase. ‘I have tracked your internet use for many months now and watched you accessing web-cam sites, newsgroups and youth chat rooms.’
‘I have . . . I have . . .’ beads of sweat were beginning to appear on Ashley’s brow. ‘I have naturally researched all areas of the internet during the course of my campaign. It would be absurd to attempt to legislate against pornography without investigating it first.’
‘But why only teenage boys? Why only sites with titles like “Studmuffins For You”, “Twink Heaven”, “Smooth Buns R Us” and “First Cum First Served” – why only those?’
Ashley felt he was drowning in a sea of laughter.
‘It is perfectly clear to anyone of sense,’ he hissed into his microphone, ‘that I have been made the victim of a very clever conspiracy to besmirch my name and belittle the national campaign I have set up on behalf of the family. You cannot possibly prove any one of these revolting allegations. You have only recorded the internet use on my part that suits you and deliberately chosen to ignore the thousands of other visits I may or may not have legitimately made in the name of research. These vicious and repulsive smears show how far the internet establishment is prepared to go . . .’
‘I note,’ Cosima continued remorselessly, ‘that you always delete your client-side disk and internet cache. There will be no evidence at your home whatsoever.’
‘Of course there won’t be!’ Ashley shrieked. ‘There will be no evidence at my home because everything you have said is a farrago of lies, innuendo and twisted half truths. I don’t know if your employer is aware of what you have been doing –’
‘Your employer too, don’t forget. You write a column for his newspaper –’
‘Never mind that! If I discover that you have been snooping around me on Cotter company time, the legal consequences will be such as you cannot imagine. Let me assure you of that, Fräulein!’
In the atrium, two dozen mouths had dropped open and two dozen pairs of rounded eyes were staring at the giant plasma television. A scene, Simon supposed, that was reproduced in different numbers and configurations up and down the land. Albert peeked shyly once more at the face of his hero but could read nothing behind the mirrored lenses. Mild astonishment showed in the gentle uplift of one of his eybrows, that was all.
Albert’s mother and father had watched the moon landing as children, Gordon in New York and Portia in London. Albert himself retained vague memories of O.J.’s white Bronco being followed by news helicopters as it wound along the freeways of Los Angeles, but this . . . this was a memory by which his generation would judge themselves for ever. Where were you when Cosima Kretschmer humiliated Ashley Barson-Garland on live television? I was watching television, derr-brain, the smart arses would reply, where were you?
Cosima Kretschmer appeared to be the only calm person in the studio. The director up in the gallery was deep in a telephone conversation with his channel controller who had a lawyer on the other line. ‘Keep going,’ the controller ordered. ‘We’re okay. It’s up to Barson-Garland. He can hardly sue us for defamation on his own show.’
‘It is my suggestion,’ Cosima was saying, ‘that you have consistently downloaded obscene and mostly illegal pictures of youths onto your computer. You have masturbated in front of these images and then deleted them.’
Several parents had clamped hands over the ears of their children, who writhed and wriggled in their attempts to work free.
‘You have just earned yourself one terrifying court case!’ Ashley yelled, pointing a finger at her and shaking with rage.
‘That is your privilege. I have video pictures of you doing precisely that. Yes!’ Cosima repeated as a sudden hush fell on the studio and all eyes turned to stare at Ashley. ‘I have hours of videotape showing you masturbating in front of the screen in the study of your own house in London.’
‘Such footage would be completely inadmissible in any court,’ said Ashley, a terrible weight swelling in the pit of his stomach, ‘if it existed, that is. Which they do not. You are getting yourself further and further into trouble, young lady.’
‘But we are not talking about any court. We are talking about this court,’ Cosima continued remorselessly. ‘Your court. You cannot have any objection to my showing my evidence here.’ She pulled two cassettes from her briefcase. ‘“There are no steps that should not be taken in the name of the family, in the name of decency.” Your own words. True or not, Mr Barson-Garland?’
Ashley stood frozen in the centre of the studio. Brad Messiter led a baying chorus of ‘True or not? True or not?’ The voices fused and swelled in his head. His mouth opened and closed, but his eyes followed the video cassettes that Cosima was brandishing above her head, never leaving them for a second.
‘I have printouts of your diary too, Mr Barson-Garland,’ Cosima’s free hand dipped into her briefcase and brought out sheaves of paper. ‘What extraordinary reading they make.’
Ashley screeched in rage and made a half lunge towards her. At the last minute he veered away from her and ran from the studio, dropping his microphone on the floor. Blindly, he butted his way past security officers too startled and confused to know what to do. He tore down the corridors and into reception, barely noticing the cluster of BBC employees staring at the screens set into the wall. He pushed his way out of the glass doors and hurtled madly through the horse-shoe forecourt and out onto Wood Lane. He heard voices raised behind him but he charged through the security gate and into the street. Cabs were lined up on the rank and he hurled himself at the first, scrabbling at the door.
‘All right mate, all right. Calm down.’ The driver released his central locking switch and Ashley threw himself onto the seat.
‘St James’s!’
‘I know you! You’re that Barson-Garland bloke.’
‘Never mind,’ Ashley’s breath came in huge gulping sobs. ‘Duke Street, as fast as you can.’
‘Righto. Shame that Bill of yours was never passed. It’s about time those perverts were brought to book. Got kids myself.’
Ashley felt in his pocket and almost wept with relief when his fingers closed around his leather Smythson key wallet. He had left the keys in his dressin
g-room the previous week and had been forced to return to Television Centre at midnight to retrieve them. He had cursed himself at the time but had that not happened, he would never have decided to keep them in his pocket today. He looked out of the back window of the cab and saw a crowd streaming from the studio audience door at the side of the building.
‘Had that Gary Glitter in here once,’ said the cabby.
As Ashley had feared, a small crowd had already gathered in Mason’s Yard. A handheld TV light focused on his front door and was turned towards the cab as it swung into the alley from Duke Street.
‘Strewth, you’ve got a few fans, then,’ said the cabby, shielding his eyes. ‘Going to make you party leader are they?’
Ashley pushed a twenty pound note through the glass and opened the cab door, his keys ready. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Very generous, guv’nor. You’ve got my vote!’
‘Mr Barson-Garland! Mr Barson-Garland!’
‘I have no comment, no comment. No comment. No comment at all.’
He pushed his way through the press of people, head down, key outstretched towards the door.
‘Is there any truth in these allegations?’
‘No comment, I tell you! I have absolutely no comment.’ He slammed the door on them and bolted it. As soon as he was alone, the tears began to flow.
The telephone upstairs in his study was ringing. He wrenched it from its socket and stood on the carpet, tears flowing down his cheeks. All around him were displayed the symbols of his success. The Romney portrait of a Sir William Barson that he had allowed people to believe was his ancestor stared down at him, hand on hip. His first editions of Gibbon, Carlyle and Burke gleamed on the shelves. And on the desk stood his computer.
It was a lie. All a lie. They had trapped him. For some evil, terrible reason they had trapped him into revealing himself. Video cameras in his study! It was inconceivable. Who would do such a thing? Inconceivable. Yet, they must have known. They could not have guessed that it was his practice to . . .
He woke his computer and input the first password. The diary files were also password protected, security within security. No one could have penetrated them. He double-clicked the most recent entry, made yesterday, when the world was still at his feet. The system demanded a second password, which he gave. The diary pages loaded themselves and he looked at them.