Almost Dead In Suburbia

by Douglas Pearce

  ‘Fine. I’ll drive up to the plant first thing tomorrow. If either Henri or Klaus need me I can be on a plane within an hour’s notice.’

  Gordon rubbed his hands together. ‘Mister Remback, whoever you are, bless you! People, let’s fly!’

  *

  Gordon accepted all terms and conditions. As promised, full details of the Swiss bank account, including verification of the prize money, were forwarded to ISAW.

  The Times ran a story about Treasure Hunt, as did most major newspapers.

  Two months after the story first appeared in the press, and with advance orders having reached five million, Treasure Hunt was released across Europe. A further million copies were sold within five hours of its release, and a price of 10 Euros per disc was low enough to ensure that almost everyone bought their own copy.

  A week after the release of the first disc in the series, Europe was gripped with Treasure Hunt fever and a mystery was inadvertently created that almost surpassed Treasure Hunt itself

  Before long, the overriding question on the lips of everyone was, ‘Who is Teddy Remback?’

  By the time the second disc was released ISAW had gone from relative obscurity following the lawsuit, to almost iconic status.

  And nobody, not a single soul, had a clue as to the identity of the game’s designer, the mysterious and enigmatic Teddy Remback.

  The flood of money soon put ISAW back on a sound business footing, and charity organisations everywhere began to benefit to the tune of millions.

  Then one morning, eight months after the release of the first disc, a headline in a French newspaper changed the whole aspect of Treasure Hunt, especially for Gordon Hartley.

  Gordon was having morning coffee when his secretary dropped the newspaper on his desk. The headline screamed at him.

  ‘Qui est Monsieur Teddy Remback?’ (Who is Mister Teddy Remback?)

  Andy Rogers leaned over Gordon’s desk and read the headline upside down.

  ‘How’s your French?’ Gordon asked.

  ‘Good enough to understand this,’ Andy indicated the newspaper headline. ‘I’m not sure about the rest of the article. It’s been a while since I was at school.’

  Gordon, who was fluent in French, translated for him.

  ‘They’re offering the equivalent prize money for the person who discovers the identity of Teddy Remback. You realise what this is going to mean, don’t you?’ he said in an almost casual tone belying a near state of panic lurking just beneath his calm exterior.

  ‘I can guess,’ Andy replied. ‘What do you think we should do?’

  ‘Prepare ourselves for a siege,’ said Gordon. There was no humour in his voice.

  Two English newspapers reprinted the French article; one also took up on the idea of offering prize money for Remback’s identity.

  Within hours of the story being run, the siege that Andy Rogers feared had begun.

  Rampant speculation, fuelled by the media, ensured that journalists and the general public alike got it into their heads that someone at ISAW must know the identity of Teddy Remback. Anyone who looked like an ISAW employee was targeted for being harassed and harangued, until entering or leaving the ISAW building became a virtual nightmare.

  The company tightened security, but eventually they were forced to call the police to keep people at bay.

  Before the week was over, one tabloid newspaper ran the headline:

  Is Gordon Hartley The Mysterious Teddy Remback?

  By Sharon Wilson

  Gordon’s first reaction when he read the headline was anger. Where was the reporter going with this he wondered? Then he read the rest of the story . . .

  Less than twelve months ago, the computer software company ISAW was on the verge of bankruptcy.

  Company owner Gordon Hartley, having fought and lost a lengthy and very costly legal battle over the name of his computer operating system, Les Fenêtres, was struggling to put the company back on the map after re-registering the operating system under the name, Les Portes; a tongue-in-cheek attempt to get back at the man whose company had filed the copyright infringement against him.

  For those who do not understand French, Les Fenêtres means windows and Les Portes means doors.

  Then, just when it looked as if ISAW was to close its doors, the company released the now famous Treasure Hunt. Up for grabs is a prize of 5 million Euros.

  So just how does such a small company on the verge of bankruptcy come up with such a substantial amount of money, you might ask? How indeed?

  For those who find the game too difficult or not worth the effort, there is always the media’s challenge to discover the identity of the game’s designer, Teddy Remback.

  His name appears in the game’s opening credits.

  He is an enigma.

  Or maybe he is merely a figment of someone’s imagination?

  By the time Gordon had finished reading the whole story he was looking a bit ‘green around the gills’, as his late mother used to say of anyone that appeared sick.

  ‘Are these people crazy?’ he said aloud, throwing the paper on his desk. ‘Phyllis?’ Gordon addressed his secretary.

  ‘Yes, Mister Hartley?’

  ‘Get everyone in the boardroom for a general meeting please. Right away.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Within ten minutes ISAW’s senior staff sat around the boardroom table.

  ‘You’ve all seen this?’ he asked, holding up the newspaper.

  There were nods and a few grumbles.

  ‘Well?’ Gordon asked

  One or two people stared back at their boss.

  ‘Oh, no! You don’t think . . . ?’

  ‘No, we don’t, Gordon,’ insisted Rose Williams. ’But I have to ask. Just for the record. Do you know the identity of Remback?’

  ‘What? No, of course I don’t. For crying out loud, do you honestly think I’d put the company through this . . . this . . . madness if I did?’

  ‘Sorry, Gordon. No one here believes this rubbish,’ said Rose, indicating the paper, ‘but look at it from the press’s point of view?’

  ‘What the hell for? Most of the money is going to charity.’

  ‘Who knows what goes through their journalistic minds?’ Cindy Cousins shrugged. ‘Newspaper sales are up. That I know. But I’m struggling to get the press off our backs, Gordon. It’s becoming almost scary. I’ve had to unlist my home phone number, and since a few of the papers upped the reward money for Remback’s identity, a few of the more ardent members of the public are hanging around my house. And now this,’ she indicated the newspaper lying on the table in front of Gordon, with disgust. ‘It has got to stop,’ she said.

  Gordon calmed down, took a deep breath and nodded gravely.

  ‘There’ve been a few people loitering around my place too. I had a private meeting with the editor of The Times two days ago. I’ve assured him that no one here at ISAW is Teddy Remback or knows his identity. He wasn’t too convinced, but has agreed to back off. He also promised to talk to some of the other editors whom he’s friendly with, and ask for their cooperation. But on that score he couldn’t promise anything; freedom of the press and all that bull.’

  ‘That will only help for a short while. They won’t stand down for long,’ said Cousins. ‘Besides, there is another aspect to this whole nonsense; a less-than-savoury side. What if one of us is kidnapped?’

  ‘You’re not serious!’ said Andy offering a nervous smile. When Cindy didn’t respond he added. ‘You are, aren’t you? ‘Crikey, I never thought about that.’

  ‘Not everyone is normal, Andy. And I realise that under the circumstances, this depends on a given value of normal, of course.’

  Andy Rogers, who liked to wear garishly-coloured Hawaiian-style shirts irrespective of the season and sported a Salvador Dali moustache and a large gold earring, smiled thinly.

  Gordon grinned, but there was little humour in the gesture.

  ‘She’s right, Andy. This could lead to trouble. A
ctually, Cindy’s concern has been playing on my mind, too. I’m hoping that our Mister Remback is also aware of what’s happening, and will come forward and reveal his identity. In the meantime, I have an idea that I’m going to run with. It should at least make it easier for you to carry on working,’ said Gordon.

  ‘What have you in mind?’ Phil Drivers asked.

  ‘It’s best you don’t know, Phil. In fact, it’s best that none of you know,’ Gordon replied cryptically.

  ‘But we don’t know anything,’ Drivers countered.

  ‘I realise that, but you will just have to trust me on this,’ Gordon insisted.

  The next day, Gordon Hartley disappeared.

  13: Goodbye Gordon - Hello Ralph

  When Andy Rogers arrived at work the following morning, his computer alerted him that he had one new email.

  It was from Gordon.

  Dear Andy,

  I’m going to make myself scarce for a while. It will be better for everyone, especially after what Cindy said yesterday. I could not have that on my conscience. Besides, if the press and public really think I am Remback it’s better I am out of the way for a while. But don’t worry; I haven’t left you in the lurch.

  I didn’t want to say anything at the time, but I have been contacted by Remback. He wants to meet. Hopefully I will be seeing our elusive friend in the very near future, and if all goes well we will sort this mystery out before the last Treasure Hunt Disc is released.

  The attachment is a similar letter to this. I want you to forward it to the editor of the Times. Send it for the personal attention of James.

  I’ll keep in touch.

  T’raa,

  Gordon.

  For the next two weeks, Gordon holed up in a tiny bed-sit above a familiar take-away restaurant and lived mainly on pizza.

  Gordon Hartley had always looked the archetypal rebel. Not in a Marlon Brando sense, but more in the mould of a rock musician. Straight black hair that fell way past his shoulders, a thick moustache, and an ever-present three-day stubble that looked like something a Mexican bandit might sport. Blue-tinted glasses partially hid hazel-coloured eyes. As for the rest of his wardrobe, he wore T-shirts and jeans for the most part, accessorised with layers of wrist bangles and the occasional beadwork necklace.

  Contrary to the negative impression this image usually created, people soon realised that Gordon had excellent business acumen and he quickly won the respect of even the hardiest sceptic.

  Now, looking at his clean-shaven reflection in the bathroom mirror, he was confident that no one, not even his parents had they still been alive, would recognise him.

  The glasses were discarded in favour of contacts; and the hair, which was now a crew-cut, had been dyed blonde.

  On the back of the wardrobe door hung an immaculately-cut double-breasted suit. It was perfect for his new image

  On the Monday morning of the second week of his voluntary isolation, his cellphone rang. The number was new.

  ‘Mr Fenwick?’ The caller asked.

  ‘Speaking,’ Gordon replied. The persona of Ralph Fenwick had been conceived prior to Gordon’s disappearance. He had obtained, through ‘sources,’ a new driver’s license and passport; the latter in case he needed to go abroad. He had also opened a new bank account in his assumed name.

  ‘Josh Wright, Bingly and Bingly, sir.’

  ‘Morning, Josh. Got anything for me?’ the new Ralph Fenwick asked.

  ‘Think I have, sir, yes. I went down to see it yesterday. Very quiet; out in the country. A six-month lease is the minimum I could negotiate, I’m afraid. But it is available immediately.’

  Ralph had asked for something for no more than three months, but he wasn’t going to quibble. However, he did pause for effect, then mumbled a bit as if he was considering.

  ‘Okay, Josh. Six months it is, then,’ he agreed.

  ‘I’ll be honest, Mister Fenwick, I’d never heard of Wiggleswood until you contacted our office.’

  ‘Neither had I, Josh,’ Ralph replied, and hoped that few other people had either.

  ‘Anyway, I’m emailing you all the details.’

  ‘Great,’ said Ralph. ‘I’ll do an internet transfer for the full six months as soon as I receive the info.’

  ‘The next-door neighbour at number two has the house keys. Her name is Mary Robbins. Nice lady. She’s expecting you; and I’ll have the lease delivered by courier the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, fine. Thanks, Josh.’

  He ended the call, switched on his computer and downloaded the file of the property. Then he transferred the money for the lease.

  After that he opened his email and reread the letter from Teddy Remback. Reaching for a slice of pizza, he leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  *

  Gordon Hartley had vanished. Dropped off the planet, it seemed.

  Andy Rodgers had done as Gordon had requested. The email he was asked to forward to the editor of the Times had simply stated that he, Gordon, was going into hiding in order to make contact with Teddy Remback, who had apparently already been it touch with him a few days before he had disappeared.

  The paper had printed a copy of the email in which Gordon had once again emphatically denied that he or anyone else at ISAW was Teddy Remback or knew who he was, and he promised to reveal Remback’s identity within eight weeks. This would coincide with the release of the tenth and final disc in the series, and finally dispel the rumours.

  In the email he also pleaded for a measure of calm and common sense, and asked that the staff of ISAW be left alone until he revealed the identity of everyone’s most wanted person.

  It seemed to work. ISAW returned to a semblance of normality. On the surface at least. But that didn’t stop the so-called bounty hunters, as they were known.

  Although the papers echoed Gordon’s request for the public to stop harassing ISAW and its staff they didn’t retract the cash offer for the identity of Teddy Remback.

  The bounty hunters were several groups of computer hackers who were convinced they could find and identify Teddy Remback merely by sitting on the internet and accessing bank and company mainframes all over Europe. Their exploits eventually extended to include many major corporations around the globe, resulting in some high profile companies being hacked and several well-publicised prosecutions. And yet, up to the time of Gordon’s disappearance, they had come up with nothing.

  Teddy Remback was good at being invisible. Very good indeed.

  Speculation inevitably turned back to Gordon Hartley as the prime suspect. There were even a few members of ISAW who secretly believed this was a hoax; that there was no prize money in a Swiss bank account; that Gordon was, in fact, Teddy Remback and was pocketing millions.

  Stephanie, who was Mario’s daughter, had gone to Vancouver as an added precaution. Stephanie and Gordon had only been married a little over four months, having being reluctant to marry earlier. Mainly because of the dire situation ISAW had been in. Contrary to what some story-tellers would have people believe there is no romanticism in bankruptcy, which was what Gordon had been facing. He didn’t want to drag a new bride through that. Of course, things began to look a lot rosier after the release of Treasure Hunt and so he had finally popped the question. Actually, he had first asked her father’s permission. Mario was old-fashioned.

  Mario would have liked a big wedding. He was traditional in this regard too. But after Gordon explained the predicament he and his company were facing surrounding the Remback mystery, his future father-in-law agreed to a small, private ceremony. By the time dedicated snoopers had somehow unearthed the fact and tried to get on her trail, she had also vanished.

  And so, the meeting with Remback had been set.

  But Ralph never made it to the meeting. He was prevented because of an ambulance, and one Fred Johnson.

  *

  The master disc for the tenth and final Treasure Hunt had arrived at the head offices of ISAW. It had been delivered in a pizza box mark
ed for the attention of Gordon Hartley.

  The delivery person had attracted minimal attention from members of the press and public who were almost permanently ‘camped’ outside ISAW’s front door.

  The more obvious ones made things worse by trying to look inconspicuous, but they were easily spotted by security personnel at the front desk.

  Andy Rogers had ordered cups of coffee and tea sent out to them. Many had tried to look confused and refused the offers of sustenance. The ones who were prepared to admit they had been rumbled accepted the beverages, grinned at the guards, and continued with their vigil.

  Upstairs in the boardroom four people; Andy, Phil, Cindy and Rose, waited for the game to load.

  The anticipation was palpable.

  Andy rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Here he comes,’ he announced, in reference to the graphic materialising on the screen.

  Each of the discs they had tested before sending them on for mass-production had begun with Captain Cutlass reciting a piece of verse that contained hints and tips for the upcoming voyage.

  The last disc was no different . . .

  ‘Allo mateys!

  Up ahead lies treachery,

  As we sail t’ward a foreign sea,

  To a long-dead King, who was somewhat twisted,

  And an ancient curse, that must be lifted,

  Some will have floundered, some will have sank,

  But le mot juste will clear the bank.

  ‘Well thank you very much, Captain Cutlass,’ said Andy Rogers sardonically.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Cindy. ‘It has an ominous edge to it.’

  ‘I hate that pirate!’ growled Phil Drivers. ‘When we find the identity of the scurvy sod that designed this game I’m going to make him walk the plank!’

  ‘Me too, Phil,’ Andy agreed. ‘Right now though, we’ve got a game to play. Gather round people, it’s Showtime!’