Cold Intent

by Tony Salter

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing ordinary about it at all.’ Looking at my dad, perked up and keen to hear the story, I was filled with an urge to tease him, just like I’d done since I was in my teens. ‘But it’s late,’ I said, covering my mouth in a mock yawn. ‘I’ll tell you another time.’

  It was great to see the smile spread across his face as he realised what I was doing. Life had been much too serious for much too long.

  That's a Surprise

  Dave hadn’t been able to make the end of the trial. He’d been dragged off to a MySafe board meeting in New York. They were finalising the integration of the Pulsar legacy infrastructure into the MySafe network and they expected their Product Development Director to be there in person.

  It had been three weeks since Julie’s sentencing and I hadn’t seen him since. I was excited to catch up.

  ‘Professor Bukowski’s running a little late, Mr Blackwell,’ said Gina, his assistant. ‘Would you mind taking a seat? He won’t be long.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said, settling into the white leather sofa and picking up the Financial Times.

  I wondered if Dave had realised what moving from academia to the business world would actually entail. At twenty-nine, he’d been the youngest tenured professor at Imperial College ever and, in that strange academic bubble, he’d been the maverick American wunderkind, free to do whatever he wanted.

  Taking his unique new technology to MySafe had destroyed Pulsar and made the thirty-six-year-old Professor Bukowski very wealthy and influential overnight. The Time Magazine cover had done nothing to dampen the raging furnace of Dave’s ego and he’d even been childishly flattered when they labelled him “The Bad Boy of Tech”.

  Everything comes at a price however and, although he’d taken enormous pleasure in being the instrument of Julie Martin’s destruction, his new corporate persona came with more strings than he was used to; prima-donna behaviour tended to be frowned upon in the board rooms of listed companies.

  Dave hadn’t forgotten my role in his meteoric rise, and the share option package that came with my new role as Head of Product Marketing made me many times richer than I’d ever expected to be. The job was great fun with plenty of travel and eye-watering budgets. I was, as usual, completely out of my depth, but young and inexperienced were apparently core competencies for most positions in the tech sector and I wasn’t alone. Luckily there were plenty of experienced people in my department and I was smart enough to know when to listen.

  At ten-thirty, two men in dark suits walked out of Dave’s office, followed by Dave who stood in the doorway grinning from ear to ear. He waved me in, pulled the door closed and lifted his arm for a high-five.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, slapping my hand as hard as he could. ‘You got the bitch. I was in a very stuffy meeting when I heard the news and I had to sneak out to the bathroom for a little dance and a fist pump. They gave her life. That’s so cool.’

  I unravelled myself from the hug and stretched out on his Eames lounger. ‘She’ll probably only serve the fifteen years,’ I said. ‘But that’s much more than we’d hoped for. It’s a great result.’

  ‘She got what was coming to her,’ he said. ‘Especially after what she did to your mother.’

  Dave’s sister had been an early victim of online bullying while she was at school. After years of self-harm, she’d taken an overdose and they’d found her too late to save her. When I’d told him how Julie had driven my mum to suicide, he’d taken years of pent-up fury and channelled it in her direction.

  ‘No doubt. We just have to hope she can’t get to us from inside,’ I said. ‘You should have seen the look she gave me when she was convicted. Like a cat looking down on a trapped mouse. We know she’s not going to forgive or forget.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken on Milinsky Labs to look out for us. They’ll monitor our digital footprints for anything out of the ordinary.’

  In retrospect the way the world’s population had thrown every detail of their lives online was reckless to say the least. The mass of uncontrolled and uncontrollable data had spawned two massive industries – legal, semi-legal and downright criminal businesses which looked for every possible way to exploit all of those soft data underbellies, and an equally profitable raft of firms offering services to defend against that exploitation. Milinsky Labs were the new stars of the Data Safety industry with a client base that read like an invitation list for Davos.

  ‘Thanks, Dave. Hopefully we won’t need it,’ I said. ‘Anyway, how was New York?’

  ‘Same old. Same old,’ he said. ‘If those guys quit mouthing off so much, they’d actually get something done. It’s like they’re trying to slow us down on purpose.’

  ‘But you got the launch date agreed?’

  ‘Damn right, I did. October 24th for the US and we roll out worldwide over the following three months.’

  ‘Nice one,’ I said. ‘And you’ll be ready in time?’

  ‘If they leave me to get on with it, no problem. How about the marketing?’

  ‘All on track. I’ve got a good team.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about then.’ He stood up and moved to the door. ‘Look, I’ve got a couple more meetings. How about we meet up after work for a drink?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got my dad coming round to see the flat.’

  I’d just moved into my new flat. It wasn’t exactly Julie’s Knightsbridge palace, but it was a long, long way from the damp dump I’d shared in Acton. And I didn’t have to worry about a flatmate any more. Even though Karl was a decent enough bloke, he was a selfish git and he’d been a pain in the arse to live with.

  The flat might not have been a palace, but in many ways it was much better and definitely suited me more. And there was one unique feature which, from my perspective, made it a million times better than Julie’s over-ornate mansion.

  I met the CEO of PixelFilm, Sacha Kaspersky, at a tech conference and we spent the evening drinking caipirinhas and swapping bullshit stories. I’d given up trying to avoid talking about my time with Julie – everyone I spoke to wanted to find out more, and to share their opinions. At least my saga was more gossip-worthy than anyone else’s and I got bought a lot of drinks.

  To be fair, Sacha had his fair share of entertaining war stories and we’d had a great evening. I’d been telling him how excited I was about the flat which was in a new block overlooking the river next to Chelsea bridge. It wasn’t huge but was achingly modern and cool. Minimalist alloy and solar glass were showing no signs of going out of fashion.

  The evening was topped by the email Sacha sent me the next morning asking me if I wanted to be a beta tester for the newest PixelFilm product. The PixelWall wasn’t due to be launched until the end of the year and, although he’d tried his best to describe it to me, I hadn’t quite grasped how amazing it was. I was never going to refuse and he sent over a couple of engineers a week later. By the time they’d finished playing around, I was one of twenty trial owners of a PixelWall.

  On first look, there was nothing special about my living room – a large flush-mounted TV screen, some contemporary artwork, sharp white walls, downlighters – a mirror image of a thousand other modern flats in cities around the world. Look a bit closer or call out a few voice commands and the differences became clear. Every surface of the room except the floor was covered in PixelFilm, a smooth ultra-high-resolution video display material. The paintings, the lighting, the wall colouring, the TV screen – all of them were video images and could be configured on demand. It must have been the coolest thing I’d ever seen.

  I made a point of not telling my family and friends about my pixellated miracle. The experience was difficult to describe and there would be so many more opportunities to show off once they were actually standing in the room.

  Dad was my first guinea pig. He’d been banging on about coming up to see the new flat and, now that the trial was over and the PixelWall installed and (mostly) debugged, it was time. I wasn’t brave
enough to cook dinner at home, so we’d agreed to meet at the flat after work and go out for something simple nearby.

  After my Michelin-star-filled life with Julie, I’d lost the taste for expensive restaurants and nothing gave me greater pleasure than sweet and sour chicken or a mixed grill at our local Turkish bistro. It was partly my desire to lock that nightmare away in an airtight box and partly the sad truth that fine dining tends to disappoint when you’ve been used to very, very fine dining.

  Dad was fifteen minutes late and I was struggling to contain my excitement as I waited. Just like waiting in a darkened room at a surprise party or playing hide-and-seek as a child. My heart was in my mouth and time had slowed to a geriatric crawl.

  The PixelWall came with a bunch of presets and the ability to add personal configurations. When I eventually heard the door buzzer, I switched the room to “Acton Flat”, smiled as I watched the transformation and went to let him in.

  ‘Very posh location,’ he said, giving me a firm handshake and a hug. ‘I’m impressed.’ The handshake was more than firm and I needed to squeeze my knuckles back into shape when he eventually let go.

  ‘Are you deliberately squeezing harder when you shake hands these days?’ I said, grinning. ‘So that people don’t think you’re old and weak?’

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ he said, even as a flicker of self doubt wrinkled his smile. He closed the door and appraised the hall with his estate agent eyes. ‘Very nice indeed,’ he said. ‘Come on. Show me the rest.’

  I gave him the tour, leaving the best until last and kept my eyes glued on him as he pushed open the living room door. The surprise and confusion froze his features; he managed to squeeze out a muffled grunt before running out of steam and standing still in the doorway, head slowly turning from side to side.

  Acton Flat was probably a little extreme. I’d gone for magnolia walls, cracked paint, damp patches, cheap Athena posters and a poxy little TV, but I couldn’t hide the German bi-fold doors or the balcony giving on to the river. It looked horrible, but not realistic.

  ‘Activate: Normal.’ I said and watched as the room transformed itself. Dad even took a step backwards and lifted a hand to his mouth. There are times when childish slapstick pleasures are unbeatable and this was one of those times.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Let me get you a beer,’ I said, ‘and I’ll show you.’

  We cycled through all the preset options and even spent ten minutes playing Doom in full surround. Even though VR goggles had been frighteningly realistic for years, they still hadn’t fixed the vertigo issues. Standing in the middle of the room, however, watching as aliens scrabbled towards you from all sides was a whole different experience. The fact that some of them were coming from behind the sofa didn’t make it any less terrifying.

  However, like all gimmicks, the extreme and funky features were more amusing than entertaining and it wasn’t long before the two of us were settled on the sofa watching Wimbledon. I was pleased to note that even my cynical old-fashioned father was forced to admit that expanding the screen to cover an entire wall did enhance the tennis-watching experience.

  The match was only moderately interesting, half way through the second set and no real tension, so we were happy to chat with half an eye for the screen in case anything exciting happened. We’d caught up on family, work and the fact that I still didn’t have a girlfriend when my dad got up and walked out to the hall.

  ‘There’s something you need to see,’ he said, sitting back down and pulling a sheet of A4 paper out of a folder.

  ‘Sounds serious,’ I said.

  ‘Read this first and then we’ll talk.’

  I felt my hand shaking as I reached over to take the paper. Although I was feeling a lot better, I still had the odd panic attack, and a night without at least one nightmare was a rarity. I didn’t need any more excitement.

  I felt the warmth of my father’s hand closing over mine. ‘Don’t worry, boy,’ he said, his deep, familiar tones calm and steady. ‘It’ll come as quite a shock, but not in a bad way. Go ahead …’

  16th June 2042

  Dear Rupert,

  I am sorry to write to you out of the blue like this, but it is important and I urge you to read what I have to say carefully. I have written and re-written this letter so many times over the past few weeks – hopefully you will take it seriously.

  My name is Joe Taylor and I knew your deceased wife, Fabiola, many years ago. A long time before you met her. She was the love of my life, but I was older, already married and a father of two. I was also her schoolteacher. With the simple clarity of hindsight, the end of our sorry story was as inevitable as the setting sun, but I was still young enough and naïve enough to believe that love would conquer all.

  It was only following her tragic death – I was there at her funeral, but you wouldn’t have seen me – that I learned her most precious secret. After we were discovered, torn apart and each thrown to a different set of wolves, she left Bedford and went into hiding before going to university. I don’t know where she went, but I now know why.

  It turns out that Fabiola was pregnant with our child. Soon after her funeral, I found out that she’d given birth to a daughter, Nicki, who was eleven at the time of Fabiola’s death and living with her adopted parents.

  The way I found out, and what happened next, is so bizarre that I struggle to believe it myself, but truth can be stranger than fiction.

  It’s a truth that has been hidden until now as I was weak and allowed myself to be bribed and intimidated. I gave my word that I would never tell anyone – including Nicki – about her mother and everything that happened. I have kept that promise until now, but circumstances have changed and I need to unburden myself of this secret.

  I can’t say any more over email, but will tell you the whole story face-to-face. Please come and see me as soon as possible. I am not well enough to travel – pancreatic cancer, unfortunately – but I’m not too far from Oxford.

  I think you and I should agree on the best way to explain this to Nicki and your son and I don’t intend to tell her anything until we have spoken.

  I don’t have that much time. Please come soon.

  Best wishes,

  Joe

  Quite a shock. That was an understatement. I didn’t speak until I’d got to the end. My brain was trying to cope with dozens of simultaneous ideas and imaginings without success.

  ‘Bloody hell! You’re saying I’ve got a sister?’ I said eventually, still staring at the sheet of paper as though it would change something.

  Dad plucked it out of my hands and put it back into the folder. ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ he said. ‘That’s what Joe’s saying. We don’t actually know if he’s lying or mad. Or both.’

  ‘Why would anyone make something like that up?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know,’ he said. ‘With all that’s happened over the last year, anything’s possible. I didn’t know whether I should tell you. Joe was insistent that I didn’t.’ He stood up and turned to face me, the evening sun painting a golden aura around him. ‘The thing is that we’ve been living with so many secrets and lies and it has to stop somewhere. You and I need to trust each other completely, to know there’s nothing hidden between us.’

  ‘You know I agree,’ I said. ‘I made you a promise and I intend to keep it. Anyway, of course you had to tell me. It affects me more than anyone.’ I took a gulp of my beer as I gathered my thoughts. ‘Is he for real?’

  ‘I think so. I spoke to him this afternoon and I knew all about your mum’s schoolteacher scandal anyway – it was why she fell out with her family. You can imagine how that went down in an Italian community.’

  I’d also known about Joe Taylor for years. The news articles filled the first pages of any search for Fabiola Carlantino and there’d been a time when I’d been obsessed with finding out more about my mother. I’d never discussed it with my dad and there didn’t seem much point in c
hanging that. ‘Poor Mum,’ I said. ‘She didn’t make brilliant choices did she?’ Dad’s eyebrows raised and he shrugged. ‘Until you, that is,’ I followed up quickly and we both laughed. ‘And he wouldn’t tell you anything else over the phone?’

  ‘No,’ Dad said. ‘He was evasive, cagey, almost rude. As though he was afraid someone was listening in. He didn’t sound great either. You probably don’t remember, but your great aunt died of pancreatic cancer – very quick and very nasty.’

  ‘So. Are you going to see him?’

  ‘On Thursday.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘No, Sam. That wouldn’t be smart. It’s bad enough that I’ve told you about it, but I’ve no idea what he’ll do if we both rock up. He might refuse to say anything.’

  ‘I don’t care. I was hoping for a little peace and quiet to get my act together … and now this! I’m coming.’

  Staying Ahead

  ‘Good morning, Julie.’

  Simon sat down opposite me, his maroon velvet jacket clashing with everything else in the drab interview room. His face was round as a golf ball, shining spots of red glowing on his cheeks. He was clearly a man living the good life.

  ‘I’ve lodged the appeal, Julie,’ he said. ‘The evidence was always thin and I expect them to push us up the list.’ He shuffled the stack of papers in front of him with restless fingers. ‘It’ll be at least three months, though. Could be as long as six. I can’t make it go any faster.’

  ‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘You’re doing what you can, and it was on the cards I’d be in for a while.’

  I could never understand why people worried about things they couldn’t change. It distracted them from dealing with everything else. Did he think I was going to blame him for the inefficiencies of the system? What would be the point in that?