Sockpuppet: Book One in the Martingale Cycle

by Matthew Blakstad

  ‘Fucking what!’ she shouts into the handset.

  The buzzer stops and she notices the video screen: the crested badge held up to the camera, the crop-headed men glaring from behind it.

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry,’ she says. ‘I mean, just – sorry. Hold on.’

  She holds down the door release then crosses to the lift and jabs the button, letting out more ‘fuck’s like a junkie flushing away her stash of pills. She pulls out her phone, swipes to the Parley app and proffers.

  ¶Nightshade:

  shit on a cracker

  police?

  what have i done NOW???

  Nobody answers her proffer – the Internet is still in bed – but her phone tags on its own silent commentary.

  )) blue hum ((

  Sparkles fill the corners of Dani’s eyes. She pushes the lift button for a second time. There’s a clank somewhere down the shaft then silence. Some muppet has left the grille door open on another floor.

  ‘Fucksticks!’ she says, and heads for the stairwell.

  In all her rich vocabulary, the strongest insult Dani can lay on anything is pointless. This has been a pointless night. And already the morning is shaping up wrong.

  ‘Hands Where I Can See Them!’

  ‘What the –?’

  Dani shrugs off the man’s grip and backs away, raising her phone on instinct to film him. On the little screen, a scrum of bodies closes in, closely followed by their larger real-world counterparts. Five – no, six – men with generic sweatshirt hoods over jacket collars.

  ‘I’m filming this!’ she shouts, still backing off. ‘Smile, dickheads, you’re on social media.’

  ‘Put your phone away, miss.’

  When she saw these douches on the entryphone she thought they were cops – else she’d never have buzzed them in. Stupid, stupid. This is some gang of Dalston crims, come to filch the Macs from the studio and rape or stab her.

  ‘I have a hundred thousand devotees,’ she says. ‘They’re watching this live. You’re going to jail.’

  But if anyone’s even watching at this hour, by the time they sound the alarm these thugs’ll have had their way with her.

  Dani’s backed up against the brushed metal of the reception desk, still breathless from running down eight flights of stairs. In the corner of her eye, off camera, two goons move to flank her. The big guy – the one who grabbed her arm just now – is almost on her. His aftershave should be banned by the Geneva Convention. He reaches for her phone.

  No, he’s holding out something for her to see. The screen res of the phone is too crappy to make it out so Dani moves it aside and looks at his real hand. In it is a plastic wallet containing a photo ID and a silver Nick Fury shield.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant R –’ he begins.

  But his name is lost as someone grabs Dani from behind. She wriggles free but two arms snake under her armpits and yank her back. Her phone drops to the floor. Goon Number Two scoops it up. As she struggles, the guys behind her start digging in her jacket pockets.

  ‘And this,’ continues the first goon, as though all of this was massively normal, ‘is Detective Constable A –’

  ‘Hey, fuck!’ Dani interrupts. ‘Tell this guy to stop touching my arse!’

  They’re feeling in her jeans pockets. She jackknifes forward against the arms then suddenly drops her weight – but the grip’s too hard. They pull her up and have a good old grope in her butt pockets while ‘Detective Sergeant R –’ calmly pockets his laminate.

  ‘Miss,’ he says, ‘if you’d simmer down my colleagues wouldn’t need to restrain you.’

  ‘Restrain this, you fucking pigs!’

  She starts to flip him the bird but the guy behind her yanks her sideways and slams her into the reception desk, pointing his finger all up in her face – like Go on, try it.

  ‘She’s clean,’ he says.

  ‘Hey, ow?’ she says back.

  They step into a ring around her. She brushes herself, panting for breath, and stares out the tall man whose name begins with ‘R’. Then she turns to his minion whose name begins with ‘A’ and holds out her hand.

  ‘Give me back my phone.’

  The minion looks at his boss, who shrugs. Minion holds it out like a piece of snotty rag and she snatches it back. She checks it for new dinks but it was already trashed so who knows? The video’s still rolling on it, though – Dani’s still livecasting. She makes a show of rotating the camera from face to face, thumb-typing captions as she goes.

  ¶Nightshade:

  in case they find me in a bloody heap

  this guy is detective sergeant Racist

  or something

  this guy is detective constable Acne

  these others are redshirts – no names

  ‘All right, enough,’ says Racist, flapping a hand at her like a celeb saying no pictures. ‘Put the phone away.’

  )) brick echo ((

  To her surprise, she offs the phone and puts it back in the arse pocket of her jeans. The men shift their feet. Seems the moment of danger has passed. If these guys say they’re police, OK, let’s say they’re police – but not because they showed Dani some hazy photo and a tin badge. It’s 30% the way they act and 70% the atmosphere they’ve brought into the room.

  Plus, Racist has a notebook out. And an actual pen.

  ‘Your name?’ he says.

  Time was Dani would have kicked off big-time at this whole thing but ever since she sort-of-punched a colleague last year she’s been working on a project of being accepting of authority. So she sets herself a goal: answer their questions then shut the fuck up.

  ‘Farr,’ she says. ‘Danielle Farr.’

  What’s with the Danielle? Only her mum calls her Danielle. And her boss, Jonquil. Oh, shit: Jonquil. She needs to message Jonquil, asap. She puts her hands in her back pockets, casual like, and touches the phone with her fingers. Racist is giving her this who are you trying to kid? look.

  ‘And that’s your only name?’ he says.

  ‘Sorry what?’

  Goon Two – Acne – for some reason flips out.

  ‘Do you have an online alias?’ he barks.

  ‘All right, all right, Jesus! I go by Nightshade. No secret.’

  She pulls out her hands to make a calm down gesture, palming her phone in the process. Racist writes in his notebook while Acne smirks at her.

  ‘Nightshade,’ he says. ‘Is that what you’d call emo?’

  ‘It’s what I’d call why is this your business?’

  Acne flares red but Racist puts out his hand, shutting the guy down. Or this is just some good cop/bad cop routine.

  ‘Only Nightshade?’ says Racist.

  ‘How do you mean, only?’

  What does this guy know? She’s sure as hell not telling him her other online identities. The cop’s eyes bore into her.

  ‘And is there anybody else in this building at this time?’ he says.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think maybe six guys just muscled in and pushed me about and tried to smash up my phone. But other than that – no.’

  There’s a long silence then Racist slowly closes his notebook and pockets it. Murmurs to Acne, who starts to chivvy the other four police, all whispers. Acne turns to Dani.

  ‘Can my men access the rest of the building from there?’ he asks, pointing to the stairwell and lift.

  ‘They – yes, but they’ll need a swipe,’ she says.

  She wiggles her card out of its lanyard and passes it to Acne, who sends the men off with it. Why is she helping them? Acne and Racist look down on her like proud parents.

  ‘Your cooperation is appreciated, Miss Farr,’ says Racist.

  He walks over to perch beside her on the reception desk, shedding his big-guy swagger like he’s shucking off a coat. The change betrays a subtlety Dani hadn’t guessed at. So far anger has kept her fuelled. Kindness could paralyse. She stands up again, folding her arms and tucking her phone by her side. Even standing, she’s only eye-t
o-eye with the seated cop.

  ‘OK?’ she says. ‘So?’

  ‘So. Are my colleagues going to find anyone upstairs? A woman perhaps?’

  His voice is soft, north-western. She stares him out until he shrugs and tries another tack.

  ‘I’m right in saying the social network called Partly is operated from these premises?’

  Dani wants to keep up the silence but she needs to correct him. People ought to name things correctly. She nods at the Parley logo on the wall behind him.

  ‘Parley,’ she reads to him. ‘Not Partly. As in talking peace.’

  Off to her side Acne flexes his fingers. He’s working out seven different ways to kill her with his hands.

  ‘Parley, then.’ Racist is unflustered. ‘It is controlled from here?’

  Dani screws up her face. Controlled? How to answer such a noobie question without swearing or taking the piss? Racist draws a long breath and exchanges a look with Acne.

  ‘Look. Miss Farr.’ Ms. ‘There’s a serious incident taking place right now on your Partly system.’ Dani prepares to interrupt but he holds up his hands. ‘Parley. And we’re here to stop it. We will stop it.’

  She blinks at his massive face. His eyes are gently grey. An incident? He takes another breath.

  ‘So,’ he says. ‘Tell me –’

  He has his little notebook out again. Something important is coming.

  ‘– is the Parley user known as Sick Girl in this building?’

  ‘Is the – excuse me? You’re asking what?’

  ‘I’m asking where I can find this user Sick Girl. We have reason to believe she’s in this building.’

  ‘You what? She bloody isn’t.’

  ‘If you’re so sure of that, how about you tell me where she is? Name, address and phone number. And while you’re at it can you shut off her Parley account, please.’

  Dani realises her jaw is hanging open. She shuts it.

  ‘You’re serious?’ she says.

  ‘Yes, Miss Farr, this is extremely serious. In the last seven hours this Sick Girl has made a series of accusations about a government minister, published a string of confidential government documents and she’s showing no sign of stopping this behaviour. We would appreciate—’

  ‘No, as in: you’re not joking? You want me to give you sic_girl’s phone number?’

  In spite of everything she starts to laugh. The furious face of the policemen only makes it crazier. She can’t stop.

  ‘I fail to see –’ says Racist.

  Dani gulps in air to get hold of herself.

  ‘That is so – ha! Would you like Super Mario’s number, too? I think I might have Lara Croft’s!’

  The policemen exchange a look.

  ‘Those,’ says Racist in the voice of a man imparting great wisdom, ‘are fictional characters, Ms Farr.’

  That shuts Dani up for just a second. Then her cheeks fill up again with lulz.

  ‘And sic_girl isn’t?’ she manages.

  Then she’s off again, with the gut-shaking laugh of the sleep-deprived.

  ¶riotbaby:

  And im telling YOU, friend. Its just another part of their agenda. They want to own us and theyre taking us one piece at a time.

  You think this is an isolated thing? This isnt isolated. Its a tiny part of a bigger plan. They won’t rest till they know everything about you. No secrets, no privacy.

  And you want to know the worst of it? They dont even care we know. Theyll lie to our faces and theyll smile and smile.

  You know what this point is?

  This is the point where we start fighting back.

  ¶bottomhalfofthepage:

  More lies from the party of you-turns and spin.

  She is called Betterny but that does not mean she is better’n me.

  LOL

  No, I know that’s not how you spell it.

  Three

  John-Rhys Pemberton’s Blackberry sounded from under a pile of policy briefs beside his Party laptop. He decided to ignore it until he completed his sentence.

  Not unusually, J-R had been up a while. Since 4:45, in fact. Perched on his sofa in boxers and socks, he bent forward over his Party laptop and tackled the previous day’s internal correspondence for Bethany Lehrer, the Minister of State for a Digital Society. A forgotten bowl of Shreddies coagulated at his feet as he deciphered Bethan’s handwritten notes and converted them into memoranda for the civil servants who ran her Private Office.

  The first note was crammed onto both sides of a Doonesbury notelet.

  1 a.m. (!!!)

  I’m still working through my box and I’m frankly peed off. Can you please tell those jobsworths to stop abbreviating my official title on their submissions? This one is addressed to ‘MoS-aDS’. Sounds like MOSSAD! Basically they can write my title out in full. It isn’t THAT long?? Ta babes. Bethx

  That was an easy one. In the memorandum, J-R had written:

  1) The Minister notes that certain forms of abbreviated address have become standard on Ministerial Submissions, perhaps not entirely through design. Whilst appreciating the drive for brevity, the Minister asks that, in future, full official titles are used on all correspondence through her Office.

  The next note was scratched out on Ministry of Technology notepaper.

  Monday.

  J-R, I’m completely caffeine starved. Can you persuade one of these brontosauruses to once in a while take a break from wiggling their mouses around and get me a skinny latte? Do they honestly expect me to down tools from running the country and wait in line with the spotty wonks in Prêt à Manger? Cheers ears. Bx

  J-R had been struggling with this one for ten minutes. He’d got as far as:

  2) The Minister is not unaware of the heavy workload of her Private Office staff, and greatly appreciates the efforts of the whole team in supporting her official duties. Nevertheless,

  The cursor blinked useless after the comma. As the minister’s communications spad – special advisor – J-R’s role was meant to include speechwriting, drafting of lines-to-take on political issues and working with the civil servants on policy statements. To be fair, he did very often get to do these things and was still in awe of the responsibility and trust so placed upon him at the age of twenty-six. The Digital Citizen initiative he was currently working on was of national importance. Bethan, for all anyone could say of her, was decent and principled, and up until recently he’d trusted her as a mother, but a great deal of his time – generally the small hours of each morning – was spent diverting the floodwaters of her consciousness into language her officials could understand and respond to.

  He’d taken to this court translator role with gusto; had picked up officialese like a native in a matter of days. If anything, he’d become too fluent. His friends, when he ever saw them these days, had begun to rag him when this new jargon crept into his pub vocabulary. They’d threatened to charge him five pounds every time he said, ‘I don’t disagree with that’ instead of ‘Yes’ – or ‘notwithstanding’ for ‘even so’ – or ‘whilst’ for ‘while’. He didn’t mind. A maturing speech denoted a new gravity. Underneath, they respected him for it, even whilst they teased him. The occasional hints he was able to drop about the business of Bethany’s office carried more import than the drudge-work most of them described, in their long days toiling at structured finance, audits or viral marketing – whatever those might be. None of them had advanced very far up their chosen food chains. J-R was at the heart of government.

  He shook his head to clear it, stretched his arms, beat a tattoo on his tummy and was about to have another crack at the latte paragraph, when the BlackBerry started to buzz again somewhere out of view. He traced it to a spill of draft White Papers and extracted it. There were now five messages. He read the first, from fifteen minutes back:

  Substance, meet fan. Dancing pigs unleashed on Teesside. How soon can you be here?

  This was confounding, but it was from Big Krish – ergo, important. J-R fiddled the c
ursor to Call contact. Before the line had rung once, Krish’s Glasgow drawl kicked in.

  ‘J-R, thank feck. You ever hear of a social network called Parley?’

  Krish was never one for pleasantries. J-R trotted to the still-dark bedroom in search of trousers.

  ‘I do occasionally venture into the twenty-first century,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, aye. I need you at Parley pronto. No, before pronto. Get there yesterday.’

  ‘Because –?’

  J-R tucked the BlackBerry between his shoulder and ear and rifled the wardrobe with the other. He prayed he had at least one ironed shirt.

  ‘Because some wee girl is on there just now, putting it about that our flagship programme has been hacked.’

  Still holding the phone with his shoulder, J-R hopped across the half-lit room, struggling his right leg into a pair of suit trousers. His foot connected with something sharp.

  ‘Yah!’ he cried into the BlackBerry.

  ‘Jesus, man, don’t take it so hard,’ said Krish.

  J-R stooped to extract the offending object from his foot. The spare nib for his cartridge pen. He’d been looking for that. He really should tidy.

  ‘No, it’s – I’m fine. What form are these accusations taking?

  ‘She’s linking to documents. Mebbe real, mebbe not.’

  J-R froze with the sharp nib in his fingers. Documents? A data hack? For the last fortnight he’d been doing a serviceable job of not thinking about the wretched email that was burning a hole in his inbox. Now it pinged straight back into his mind. What precisely had Bethany sent that man, in the small hours of the night?

  ‘But is there substance?’ he asked. ‘Have we been hacked?’

  Either Krish hadn’t heard or he chose not to answer.

  ‘OK, look,’ he said, ‘I’ve emailed you the address for Parley’s offices. Shoreditch. Take your beard wax – there be hipsters.’

  Rubbing his clean-shaven jowls, J-R took the BlackBerry away from his ear and navigated to his emails. Parley. 23 Martlet Street, London E1. Contact name: Jonquil Carter. He returned the phone to his ear.