I leaned back in my chair. This was going to be great fun. Unless Jeremy let me down, unless he couldn't do it anymore. And then it wouldn't be fun. Then it would simply be horribly and appallingly embarrassing.
"Who will you be calling?" asked Delsey's boss.
"First the demonstration, gentlemen, and then I will answer any question I can." But none that I don't want to, goes without saying.
There was a lot of harrumphing and general shuffling around in their seats and the boss asked them for suggestions but no-one wanted to make one, they preferred him to do it. And he was thinking about it.
"Persons in the plural?" he asked.
"Also," I said.
"Well, we could take a stroll toward the park for example and watch all the traffic in Piccadilly stop. For at least five minutes."
He raised his eyebrows at me.
"In which direction?" I asked. Piccadilly had reconverted to two-way traffic some years ago after the politicians had discovered that their decades-old decision to make it a one-way street had been an error. What's new?
"In both directions," he said.
"Very well, then let us take a stroll into the park," I said. We all stood up and headed through the hotel and out into the street and across into Green Park. The day was overcast, but still, warm, stuffy. Delsey took off his sweater, beer belly on full show, it didn't seem to bother him. Why should it, the word aesthetic would be as foreign to him as a novel by Oscar Wilde. They all watched as I fished out the alien mobile from my back pocket and pressed the call button. "Peter here," I whispered with a hand over the phone, "all traffic in Piccadilly to stop, also any traffic entering, both directions, for at least five minutes." "Understood," said Jeremy. Click. They had of course been trying to listen to what I was saying—success denied, not that it would have mattered much—and they watched me as I returned the phone to my back pocket.
I am not stupid. I had done some thinking about this last night. These guys were going to react like human beings and want to know whom I had called, who was capable of this telepathy and how, and they were possibly going to use force if necessary to find out. And they would start off by compelling me to hand over my mobile so that they could trace the call and go and seize the person on the receiving end.
The traffic started stopping. And they all stared. And I took hold of my own mobile and pressed the dial button for the pre-set number I had prepared. It was a non-allocated number. Not in China, not in the USA, not in any place which might trigger unfounded speculations by a Ministry of Defence—a beautiful name for a ministry, just think of all those countries defending themselves like crazy in Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan or wherever—or by any other elected idiots. It was a non-allocated number in Madeira in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I recommend Madeira if you like wild flowers and don't mind landing on a runway which has been carved out of sheer mountain cliffs (on your left) and borders the ocean (on your right) and which, following a fatal air crash some decades ago, was extended to run out further into the ocean on stilts. It has been classified as one of the world's ten most dangerous airports. Strong winds and bad visibility and you explode against a rock-face; or if you overrun the runway, you die a salty death.
Now all of the traffic had stopped. I cut off the call and put my phone into the back pocket of my trousers and transferred the alien one into my inside coin pocket. Some of the drivers had stepped out of their cars, seemingly unconcerned about anything at all. A couple of them went into the tube station and came back out again. Others just remained in their cars, some quite calmly, I saw one of them reading some ghastly Sunday tabloid. And others…well, others were suffering from varying degrees of epileptic convulsion.
My visitors turned back to stare at me one by one. And then they turned back to look at the scene in Piccadilly again. And then they looked back at me again. And at Piccadilly again.
"Unbelievable," said Delsey's boss.
"Unbelievable," said Delsey, morose does not describe it.
"Unbelievable," said the other two.
I must admit that I was enjoying it. Quite a demonstration. And scary at the same time, those are some powers that Jeremy possesses, no two ways about it. We all continued looking until suddenly there was a stirring, the cars began to move, and within a minute or so everything had returned to normal.
We walked back to the hotel and into the meeting room in silence. It was easy to imagine a copious amount of serious perusal and profound cogitation wafting its way noiselessly through the atmosphere
"I would not like to think, "said Delsey's boss after we had seated ourdelves, "what could be made to happen if this capability were to be misused. If this extraordinary power to influence others' minds were to fall into the wrong hands. Or already be in the wrong hands. It is amazing. It is almost impossible to believe."
"Indeed," I said. "But the problem would be, would it not, which are the right hands? All kinds of people, countries, would do anything to lay their hands on this, including yourselves and whoever is running this country. A tremendous weapon is what you have to be thinking. And we would never, ever use it, not for anything, we would just keep it as a defence threat, we would just lock it away and forget about it, wouldn't we, am I right?"
There was another silence. They were all looking at me.
"Was it Mr. Parker you called?" asked Delsey.
"No it wasn't."
"Who then?" asked Delsey's boss.
"I don't know."
"But you knew the number. Know it."
"Yes."
"How?"
"Mr. Parker receives a number each time a demonstration is required. The number cannot be traced and is voided immediately after completion of the call in any case. Mr. Parker provided me with the number for today."
Just part of last night's planning. Pretty simple. But let it not be said that I am not giving full value for money to Jeremy. You will never find me being lax or lazy when fulfilling my side of a contractual agreement, well paid or not. Not my type.
"Could you show us the number, please?"
"No, I was requested not to divulge it.
"By Mr. Parker?"
"By Mr. Parker."
"Then I am afraid we will have to request the loan of your mobile for a while," said Delsey's boss.
"No, I'm afraid not," I replied. "For that, you would require authorization. I have done nothing wrong. In fact, if you want to get official about it, I have done nothing at all except make a phone call. I can't imagine you trying to justify your request as a necessary measure necessary to identify someone who has apparently stopped the traffic in Piccadilly by means of telepathy. Can you?"
Mr. O'Donoghue," he said, "you must be aware of the fact that we are not going to let this matter drop. This is an exceedingly grave situation. Monumentally grave. And well you know it. You are not stupid. We are going to have to visit Mr. Parker as well. As soon as we leave here. We know where to find him."
"Oh no, you are not," I said. "First of all, both he and I will deny everything. You will all be made to look like fools. You sir, in particular, will be suspected of coercing your colleagues here into supporting some impossibly wild idea of yours. I wouldn't stake much on your career or your standing in the force after that. And secondly, Mr. Parker won't let you get anywhere near him if he doesn’t want to. He will have you or anyone else stopped. Like the Piccadilly traffic. And what's more," I added, just to cement things up, "have you considered the possible dangers if Mr. Parker takes offence?" And to make sure the cement had set, "And have you considered, and this is the most important item of all, that you may be held personally responsible for causing your country to miss out on some incalculably valuable intelligence? Incalculably, I say?"
"Well, that may be, Mr. O’Donoghue, or it may not be. In any case, Mr. Parker would have to arrange to stop a large number of people if necessary. Now why don't we simply avoid a lot of bureaucratic trouble and unpleasantness and you just give me your mobile? We'll hav
e it back to you within twenty four hours, and that's a promise."
"Listen," I said. "You are missing the whole point. I have told you that there is a matter of huge international importance which needs to be discussed directly with your prime minister and with no-one else. And what that matter is you will never know unless the prime minister deems otherwise. Today's happening was merely to convince you of that and nothing else. The matter to be discussed with him has far wider consequences than today's mind-influencing, if you can imagine that, which I don't suppose you can. Which in fact I know you can't. And so I would be grateful if you would treat me with a little more civility. This is not a game, and certainly not a game to be played around with at your level."
I paused. I considered what I had said so far. Frankly, I might even have been convincing myself, if I hadn't known that it was all a load of trash. An extra €400,000 load of trash, mind you. Except for the mind-hacking. That was something. That was really impressive. That was awesome, scary, inconceivable, no doubt about it. I still didn't know exactly what to think about it. But I was changing my mind about poor mad Jeremy being the big danger. It seemed to me that the big danger would be if this capability were to be acquired by human beings. I mean, of course, human beings other than Jeremy.
But my neurons were a calming factor. They told me that that probably wasn't possible. Only Jeremy could do it. He was a huge exception. And he wasn't going to allow anyone to 'acquire' either himself or his skills.
"I'll make it short and sweet," I continued. "I understand your concern and interest regarding today's events. I have therefore decided to give you my mobile. As a favor. Please return it to reception here by 1 p.m. tomorrow. In return for that, you agree to arrange a meeting for me with the prime minister. He will presumably want to have others present including bodyguards. That is O.K. But they shouldn't be able to hear what we discuss for the first five minutes. That is all I ask. After that, the prime minister can decide for himself."
None of them looked very happy. Delsey's boss said, "As I have already explained, such a meeting will not be possible. All I can do is agree to make an attempt, although the outcome, in my view, is a foregone conclusion. That is all I can agree to, I'm afraid."
I took my personal mobile out of my back pocket, slowly so that everyone could see where it came from, and I handed it to Delsey's boss. I still didn't know his name, and it still didn't interest me in the slightest.
"I'll accept your offer to make an attempt," I said. "And no doubt you will contact me as soon as possible. Please bear in mind that the matter is urgent. And hopefully we can all agree that this meeting is now closed."
Hopefully.
Delsey threw a glance at his boss, who nodded. "Very well," said Delsey, "but we will need to meet with you personally again soon. Not going anywhere this week are you?"
"Not until the weekend," I said. "I'll be working, but I'll be staying at this hotel." After today's experience, I thought to myself, they would be keeping more than a close eye on me anyway.
And that was it. Off they went, taking my mobile with them. And off I went up to my room. I pressed the green button and called Jeremy, thanked him for his immaculate performance and explained to him how the meeting had finished. I plugged in my laptop and checked my messages.
And there it was, a message from Céline: Darling Peter, I have been suffering terribly these last few days. I got back to Rouen and found out that I am still very much in love with my fiancé. I prefer not to elaborate on that and I know that you will be as understanding of it as you can. You are truly a wonderful man and I wish you sincerely, sincerely, sincerely, a very wonderful and happy life. Whoever gets to share it with you will be a fortunate woman indeed. A thousand thanks for last weekend. Having met you is a memory I will cherish for the rest of my life. Your (very sad) Céline.
Well. 'Well' was the most suitable word for it. It befitted my open-mouthed reaction perfectly. Speechless I was, not that I had anyone to speak to. Total paralysis of the neurons. Shock. Sadness. Despair.
For a minute at least. I re-read the message. I re-read it a second time. And then those trusty old neurons began grinding slowly back into motion again. Why the exaggerated reaction, Peter, they asked me. Why the emotional chaos? These things happen in the world, right?
Yes, these things happen. But they cause emotional chaos if you happen to be a person with feelings. And my feelings for Céline were so spontaneous and so intense and so tender that my only sensation now was one of deep loss. Deep loss. And so, dear neurons, you can shove your philosophical thoughts about one-night stands and the sex was great right back into your metaphorical and cynical ass. I am sad. I am deeply sad. And that is all there is to say about it.
Of course, said my neurons, but life goes on. And, if you take the decision not to swipe a sharp knife across your throat, indeed it does. I went down to the street and hailed a cab to take me to the En Passant. I walked up the decrepit stairs and into the decrepit games room. The usual decrepit taxpayer-subsidized players were there as always, but also plenty of punters, businessmen or whoever else, whiling away their weekend time. I looked at a couple of them who were standing around watching other games. "Blitz?" asked one of them. "Fiver per game?" I queried. And he nodded and we took one of the two tables not in use and set the clocks.
I was sad and disoriented and angry—not with Céline but with the emotional storm which had disrupted my peaceful swim on the ocean's waves—and I was in no mood to do anything but slaughter my opponent. I had the black pieces for the first game and I played the Budapest Gambit. This is when White starts off with e4 and the first three moves follow the Ruy Lopez, except that Black's third move doesn't. Black plays f5. This is not a good opening for Black and I would never play it in a tournament—although, as far I am aware, it has never been refuted. On the other hand, a good opponent is always going to obtain a positional advantage as White and maintain it long-term. But this is not a good opponent, it's a punter. And it's Blitz, five minutes per game. And he doesn't know the best moves and he spends valuable seconds trying to figure out the best one each time. Which he fails to do anyway and I slaughter him.
After about an hour I have won twenty five pounds and he has had enough. This is not money, not nowadays, but it took care of most of my early meal in that steakhouse around the corner.
Back at the hotel, Little Miss Ugly was one of the two receptionists on duty. She was overjoyed to see me, and although not in the mood, I stopped and made her day with a bit of conversation. I learned that she was doing overtime today because the Sunday moron no longer…er…works for us. Good. Serves him right. Presumably tramping the streets looking for work at whichever places interview morons.
I went up to my room and sent a message to Céline: Dear Céline, I understand. I will miss you a lot. I will always remember you. Take care of yourself. Peter. I could have written a lot more, I could have written that I would miss her forever, but no point. She wouldn't want to read a load of sickly crap. I know I wouldn't, that's for sure.
DAY 18
Today's weather suited my mood, gray and depressed. I sank some Lavazza but skipped breakfast. I smoked my first cigarette of the day—always one of the most needed ones—and drove out to Slough. I had no idea whether I was being tracked or not, but they could have had an army following me and I couldn't have cared less.
I spent a leisurely morning just checking up on things. Joe was happy, enjoying the experience with his suppliers. He was not sure we would meet our target of 8% but he was confident we wouldn't be far off. Ron was also not sure that we would meet our production target of 17,000 hours but he told me that some fascinating possibilities were being identified. He showed me some of them, and they were fascinating, and he was also happy.
Before I left, I dropped into Fred's office. He was not one of the happy ones but he was not unhappy either. The works council had held their employee meeting this morning and had presented the management message. This had res
ulted in a lot of unhappy workers but they were going to take a formal vote on Wednesday morning. To me, this was good news—if they were going to reject the proposals outright, they would have taken that decision already this morning. In my view.
And another day's fee had been earned; oh yes, a consultant’s life is hard. I drove back to town down the M4. This route was becoming boring, but who cares, it's my last week. I parked the car in the hotel garage and walked up to reception. No mobile. Instead there was a message from Delsey, sincere apologies, my phone will definitely be returned by tomorrow morning. O.K., no sweat, you can never trust a word those guys utter. They're the same as the elected birdbrains. Open their mouths and all you get is verbal diarrhea. Good enough to fool the masses, but not you and I. The problem being, as usual, that you and I do not form the majority. I walked into Piccadilly, along to the nice restaurant. No table available, many profuse apologies. I understand the problem, not only are they packed out, but I am a table for one, not an economic preference at the best of times. This place must be a goldmine, no difficulties with the Piccadilly rent.
In retrospect, it might have made me late for Jeremy anyway. I took a cab to the Strand, picked up a sandwich, smoked a cigarette, and entered the Obrix offices at precisely 2 p.m. The dream, or Jane as she now is, wasn't there. That was a good thing, I thought to myself, who wants to be looking at something like that, and what's more something like that which might actually be interested in you, at a time when no woman interests you in any way at all. A time which will of course pass, as sure as our star burns merrily away in the sky. But not today, José.
In her place was a small, blond, frail looking girl. But the important part of her body wasn't frail. You could see it was nicely rounded, very sexy in a comfortable, motherly sort of way if you know what I mean. Just the kind of girl who can be of great value when there is the need for emotional rehabilitation. And she gave me a really big smile. I have noticed that lots of small girls really go for tall men—right, and some do not—for reasons which would make a good subject for psychological research by some university or other one day. Or maybe it wouldn’t.
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