The next day Mum walks into my bedroom, on the way out to work. Dad has already left. I sit up, she sits down. There is going to be talking. First though there must be silence. She stares at me, like a doctor stares at a patient.
‘How are you?’
‘Okay.’
‘We’re worried,’ she tells me.
I nod.
‘I know.’
‘Dad’s worried. I haven’t seem him like this, Pete.’
‘So what can I do?’
‘Well, have you thought about enrolling in a course? You can’t spend all your time around here by yourself, on that computer. It isn’t good for you.’
‘It hasn’t even been a week.’
‘But you are thinking of doing something? I could get you some information. What about something with computers? You like computers.’
‘Not really. I just play games on them. I thought you said I shouldn’t spend all my time on them anyway.’
‘Not by yourself. At a course there’d be other people. You can have people round here you know, from school. You know that don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
She looks at me again. I know what this is about. I know why she’s worrying. Well I’m worrying too, but I don’t tell her that. I don’t want to worry her.
She gets up, nods, smiles reassuringly.
‘I’ll get you some pamphlets, on some courses.’
I shower without crying. The walk is the same, but takes less time. Today I feel vigorous. The sun is shining. I come across a woman in shorts, on a bike, delivering mail. We talk a while, about her job, some of the things she’s seen. She asks me what I do. I tell her I’m still working that out. She smiles, tells me to take my time.
Different video, different documentary; a school they’re closing, because it cheated its assessments. Seeing the shots of a school brings The Sadness on. But it’s the only time today. I decide to use Rob to shake it, even though there’s nothing to tell. I log on. And he’s there, waiting for me.
‘Where you been?’
‘Stuff to do.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘Sort of.’
‘Don’t want to tell me about it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Fair enough. No hurry. I’ve been doing things too.’
‘Good on you.’
‘You’re meant to ask.’
‘Ask what?’
‘What sort of things?’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Well done. I’ve been there. I got in.’
‘Where?’
‘PBs. On to their website. I got a password.’
‘How?’
‘You wouldn’t believe it.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘No, you’re meant to say ‘try me.’ You’re meant to ask.’
‘Sorry.’
‘So you want to know?’
‘If you want to tell me. And you do.’
‘Smart arse.’
‘Get on with it then.’
‘Why, got other things you need to do?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Okay. A company as big as PBs, you’d expect its computer protection to be state of the art, right?’
‘Suppose.’
‘And it is. Except for one problem. The same problem every computer system ever invented has. You know what that is?’
‘You going to keep asking these questions or you going to tell your story?’
‘Just trying to keep you involved.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You should use an icon, for sarcasm.’
‘You should get on with your story. What problem does every computer security system have?’
‘People. The users. No point having smart systems if you’ve got dumb users. And every system has dumb users. At least one or two. Wanna know what I did?’
‘We’re not clear on this?’
‘I got their staff email, off a standard directory, just for the head office. That was easy. Okay, then I sent them all a personalised email offering free access to a porn site. If you use the right language you get through the filters. And all they had to do was log on, and give their name and make up a password. Obviously they’re not going to do it from work, because there’s got to be a taster porn download, which I just dumped on from another site, but here’s the thing. Research in the industry has shown that ten per cent of all users elect the same password for everything they do. So what I’m doing is collecting names and passwords. Four people respond, from their home computers. I log back on to the corporate PB site, try each password provided against the name and bingo, third try and I’m in. Clever or what?’
‘Okay, pretty clever.’
It is. And that’s the problem with Rob, and me. Rob has ideas like this. Rob does shit. I go walking in the hills. Some time soon, he’s going to realise.
‘And it gets better. Way better. You want to know what his password is?’
‘What?’
‘bigboy64. Pathetic right?’
‘Yeah. Find anything interesting?’
‘Think I’d be telling you all this if I didn’t?’
‘Never know.’
‘I went through his email, boring shit most of it, but found a file name in one of the headers that looked interesting. You ever done that? You ever broken into someone’s files?’
‘Nah, got a life.’
‘Trade it in. It’s the most righteous feeling. You know what it feels like? Like being God. A cartoon God, looking down on a cartoon world, with unrestricted 24 hour access. Anyway, found the file name, something in it just felt interesting. Intuition. Look, I won’t tell you any more. That’d ruin it. But we’ve got them, Pete. We got the bastards. You know their annual turnover is bigger than our entire GDP right? So right now, you and me – knowing what we know – might just be two of the most powerful people in the country. Doesn’t that freak you? I’m sending through a link. Go there, read it, leave. Don’t download, don’t print, don’t say a word okay? Then get back to me. We have to get together on this. We have to meet. There’s decisions we have to make now, you and me.’
So I go looking. Who wouldn’t go looking? This is more exciting than The History Channel. My stomach is churning. My mouth is dry. It’s a weird feeling. Pre-excitement excitement. There’s the PBs’ corporate header. It looks for real. Maybe. It goes like this:
MEMO
To: P. Wade
From: K. Franks
Re: Genetic weight targets
Hi Phil
Roger’s first report is with us now. There’ll be the usual delays, before it’s circulated. You know these science types, they like to get things right.
We don’t have the same hang time on this. We want to take a punt, see if we can’t get a head start. We’re using you as the trial market. I’ve talked this over with Williamson and co. We want you to run with the trial regardless of the results, that way as soon as we’re sure, we’ve got a model up and tested.
Lambert’s frightened someone’ll make the link between him and the Bocelli study. Barker’s birth weight/heart disease link has just been confirmed in another longitudinal study, and Lambert’s sure a Boston group are sitting on the genetic marker because one of the pharmaceuticals wants to patent a test for it. He’s worried it’ll go to court and that’s when our involvement might come out.
So he’s had to dick around getting the info through ‘other means’, don’t ask, and if he’s right there’s a strong environmental adolescence effect, which is what the Handsford study we bought was pointing to.
So look, you know the implications. If there’s more you need to know we’ll tell you. There’s a damage control in place if Lambert’s links come out, but until then, we need to find a new campaign for the teen market. Do what you have to. Find out what it’d take to hook them in. There’s no need to justify this one as cost recovery, so go wild. But don’t use an agency. It’s in-house till we can find a cover for the concept.
Lucy says hi, you dirty dog.
Kerry
I read it four times over. And each time the echo is a little stronger. There’s something there. The sort of something you see best when you’re not looking directly at it, like faint light from a distant star. I read it with my eyes half closed. I hear the voice in my head. It drips evil, it drips intent. But then I open my eyes up wide again, stare it down, sentence by sentence, and I don’t see a thing.
I go on the ’net. Search under the names, the research projects, teenage weight targets, genetic weight, anything I can think of. It doesn’t come together. There’s too much information out there, clouds and clouds of details, getting in the way of the truth. But I’m Pissed Off anyway. I know enough to be Pissed Off, and I like the feel of it. An old friend who’s been away too long. I say hi, invite him in, settle down beside him.
I have to get back to Rob. I’ll strip right down to my ignorance, stand naked before him, see if he still wants to talk to me. Not much of a plan, but better than none.
‘Okay Rob, got that.’
‘Amazing right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And we can do something with this, right?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘I need more information. I didn’t get it all.’
I wait for him to type back. There’s only two things he’s going to say. Either You ignorant fraud or Fair enough, let me explain. There aren’t many moments in life when you’re so exactly aware it could go either way. It’s way too long before the words start their slow procession across the screen, like he understands the importance too. The verdict’s in. My lack of understanding in these things is … forgivable.
‘It all started with a guy called Barker, who did a study showing a strong correlation between birth weight of babies and heart disease later in life. More powerful than the effect of being a smoker even, being born small. They think that when a baby is malnourished in the womb there’s a gene effect that switches on to make the body more efficient at processing calories. Basically it’s preparing the baby for famine conditions. Then when they’re born into a high-calorie world, the effect doesn’t turn off. They overeat, put on weight, pop. You following?’
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘There’s a test at the end.’
‘Okay Sir, whatever.’
‘Now what’s happening is this guy Lambert is doing work based on the Bocelli study, which suggests there’s another genetic switch that turns on during adolescence when the body is settling on its adult weight. Apparently once this target is set, the metabolism will adjust to defend it. So, from PBs’ point of view, if you can make teenagers fat, the body will do its damndest to keep them fat for life. And it’ll do that by making them inappropriately hungry. It’s like the fast food industry’s version of nicotine.
‘I think they’ve bought the study, because it was trying to identify medication that could reverse the chemical effects of the fat switches, and PBs don’t want that research to continue. I’ve found another link for Lambert, to a clinic looking into the psychology of eating disorders. It was trying to find out how distorted body images come about, but then, just like the Bocelli study, it suddenly stopped. I think PBs might have bought that too, and now they’re going to use the findings to see if it will help them with an advertising campaign.
‘And there’s one other thing. The guy who was running the Bocelli study, whose name was actually Lauda, died in a car crash just after the study finished. So maybe that’s what Lambert’s really worried about, if they had a link to him dying. What do you think?’
Nothing, is the honest answer. I’m no believer. I don’t know if it’s cynicism, or a fear of looking small when it turns out I’m wrong, but I’ve always been a hard conversion.
‘Maybe you need to get out more,’ I type, just pissing on lamp posts, trying to mark my territory.
‘Or maybe we could bring them down. If this turns out to be true, they’re screwed. It’s illegal. It’s immoral.’
‘It’s impossible to prove.’
‘That’s what they’re hoping Pete. That’s what they’re relying on. But I’ve seen you man. I’ve seen what you can do. And I’ve got the computing skills. We decide to work together on this and we can crush them. Why not? It’s only fear that can stop us. They rely on that. They rely on everybody being scared.’
‘You’re sounding like a freak now.’
‘Don’t call me a freak.’
‘Just saying what it sounds like.’
‘Take it back.’
‘Okay, whatever. I take it back.’
‘We should meet up. We need to talk about this.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. I want to check some other things out first. And there’s something you have to know, before we meet. Something I need to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘Gotta go. Later. Don’t tell anyone. This is just between you and me.’
10 APRIL
A plane takes off. Follows the line of Mt Vic out over the harbour where it is swallowed by clouds. The security light has come on outside. Reflects off the mirror into my eyes. Can’t see myself anymore. Had it all worked out. But the more you think about something the more impossible it becomes. The more the flaws become painfully obvious.
I thought we could’ve met in the park just down the road from his house. I go there sometimes, after leaving him, when the sky’s just streaking white on grey and the air still smells of cold. Pete’d be sitting on one of the swings. He’d turn, look up, eyes open a bit wider. He’d say Sophie? Only he’d already know. I’d sit on the other swing. We wouldn’t say anything. We wouldn’t have to.
Only I can’t be Sophie can I? Because I still haven’t told him. What will he think? A complete stranger off the ’net turning out to be even less of what you expect. But I’d be less threatening wouldn’t I? And more interesting? He won’t mind that I lied.
What if I didn’t tell him first? What if I went to his house instead? He’d feel like he was in control. Be more willing to talk to me. If I make a really good impression maybe he’ll invite me in. I could sit next to him in the living room with the stereo on and feel the warmth through his T-shirt. It’ll be so much easier face to face. Sophie can wait until then.
He’ll decide on the doorstep. So I have to be perfect. I have to look perfect. He can’t see Sophie from school. He has to see a girl he once talked to like she was the only one in the world who could understand. That’s got to count for something.
Systematic at first. The way it always starts. Chest of drawers. Trousers. Jeans. Too scruffy. Want to look like I’m making an effort. But effortlessly. Black is always good. But not too much, with the hair. Every shirt is somehow wrong. Too revealing. Nothing to reveal. A tendency to pop open. Too much like something you’d wear to the gym. Or to school. I have to look older than that. When he opens the door I don’t want him to recognise me.
Black pants started to make me look fat halfway through. It’s downhill from there. In skirts I looked like a brethren or a hippy or a slut or a little girl. And you always have to watch how you’re sitting. It creeps up, the desperation. Don’t realise it but the clothes come off with a bit more force than necessary. They don’t get folded. Drawers ended up on the floor, empty. Stuff from the cupboard too. Each try worse than the one before.
Colours didn’t match. Didn’t have the right shoes. Everything made me look fat. Zip stuck on the pleated skirt and the tears came and if you watch yourself crying you can’t stop. Can’t look away from the mirror. Paralysed, watching bloodshot eyes, face blotching red, eyelids puffing. On the floor, watching this body you have no control over ooze tears and mucus. Pawing at its face. Mouth stretching wide and ugly. In silence. Of course.
If Pete opened the door to me he wouldn’t see someone fascinating or intelligent or important. I will lose everything I almost had because I can’t find something to wear that will m
ake me beautiful.
6
Another day dawns. Like days do. Thousands of them so far, for me, and thousands more to come. Millions, if you’re a rock or a river or a good idea, if you don’t have to worry about dying. No two days are the same, people say. And today is the first day of the rest of your life, and Carpe Diem and no end of other shit made cheap by advertising. But back to me, in bed, knowing I’m only a single impulse away from a day like no other.
I want to believe Rob. That’s the truth of it. I want to because it’s something. Me and him against the world. Sounds naff I know, a four-year-old in a Superman cape, standing on the garden shed roof, pretending he can fly. But take that image and stand it up against the alternative, endless days of sleep-ins and cheap videos, and tell me you wouldn’t be a little bit tempted by the dress-up box. And I’m not sure he’s wrong. Truth has its own feeling inside the head; smooth and at the same time gritty, a facial scrub for the soul.
I think about PBs, about the smell of the kitchens and the smile on the face of the man who expelled me. I think about the way we eat when we aren’t even hungry, struggling to let go of the sucking reflex, and I think Rob’s right. I think it’s only fear holding me back. Fear of taking on something this big, and being useless at it. A little truth, just between you and me. I can wake up in the middle of the night sick with the fear of it. I’m scared of being useless.
Phil Wade. I have a name and I have a password, and I have to do something. I wait until the parents have left, get up and on to the computer. The PBs’ website is as slick as an oil spill. There are games and competitions and links to community sponsorship programmes. I try to use the remote employee login. It takes six goes to find the right name, P. Wade, case sensitive. bigboy64 does the rest and I’m in. And I’ve never felt more useless.
I try things. Open a few files, read some of his email, but unless there’s a big flashing folder marked ‘top secret’ I’m not about to find anything here. I imagine Rob sitting at my shoulder, watching me, wondering how I ever got to be this useless.
Deep Fried: A Novel Page 7