Execution Plan

by Patrick Thompson

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Copyright © Patrick Thompson 2003

  Patrick Thompson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  Source ISBN: 9780007105236

  Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780007571765

  Version: 2016-03-15

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Epilogue: Where are they Now?

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  About the Publisher

  Dedication

  For Mum & Dad

  PROLOGUE

  Where do I start? Things don’t have convenient beginnings, things overlap and collide.

  Perhaps it started like this:

  Veronica was on her way home, carrying bags of shopping. She was travelling by bus because we are back in the days when families had only one car, if they had one at all. She’d got bags of vegetables and foodstuffs we’d fail to recognize now. She was going to have to make them into something, not just empty one packet or another into the microwave. Microwaves aren’t even a rumour. Microwaves are still science fiction. We are back in the early seventies.

  The bus was crowded, and people jostled. The young people didn’t hand over their seats to young women with heavy bags anymore. Everyone was smoking.

  She’d left her son at home, but he’d be fine. He was old enough to look after himself. His father would be at work until six, and then doing office work at home until midnight. She’d be cooking for the three of them.

  That was how it was, and it wasn’t likely to change. Germaine Greer might not think so, but Germaine Greer wasn’t living on housekeeping in the West Midlands. It was easier to be radical when you had enough money to give up the day job. It was no trouble to be a free thinker if you had nothing urgent to think about.

  Sometimes she wished she’d taken after her mother, who had been in charge of her own household. The understanding had been that her father had been there to bring in money. He was subservient to the female line. They’d been emancipated before emancipation.

  She hadn’t, though, and that was all there was to it. There was too much about her mother that was too uncomfortable.

  If there was a genetic component to that – which seemed unlikely, as her mother’s brand of strangeness was unscientific and didn’t sit easily with concepts like genetics – then it might have passed, via her, to her son.

  Perhaps it had. Perhaps he’d have abilities of his own. If he had, she hoped they wouldn’t hurt him. He didn’t need hurting. It’d happen, of course. Life was like that. Damage got done. The innocent came off badly. He’d get damaged.

  Knowing that, she tried to prepare him. He wanted a pet. They’d talked about it.

  ‘We can’t have anything,’ she’d told him. ‘We haven’t the money for it.’

  ‘I could get a paper round.’

  ‘For how much? A few pence? A couple of shillings? We haven’t the room for a dog.’

  ‘We could have a cat.’

  ‘There are too many roads around here,’ she’d said, shivering. A cat would never survive.

  ‘A mouse then. In a cage.’

  She didn’t want mice, or rats, or anything else. Animals cost money. You had to feed them, and clean up after them, and he’d lose interest in it and then it’d be something else she got lumbered with. When the holidays were over and he was back at school he’d forget about it.

  The bus driver was in a good mood and stopped short of the stop so that she wouldn’t have so far to walk. She thanked him and heaved her bags out into the afternoon air. It was winter, and the air was becoming colourless and frigid. In some houses the Christmas decorations were up. She thought it was too early for that. It was still three weeks until Christmas; too early even to think about it. She wondered what he’d want this year. Everything, probably, and a cat thrown in too.

  You couldn’t have everything. Not even her mother had everything. Visiting her now, in her dusty old house with the cobwebs clustered wherever she could no longer reach, that was clear. You couldn’t have everything. Her father had died, worn out looking after her mother, and her mother lived on in a house she could no longer keep clean. The neighbour’s cats popped in for food and a chat. In her mother’s trade – if it was a trade – cats were a given. When she dragged her son to visit his grandmother he’d be half afraid, half annoyed. Her husband would not go at all.

  It took her a while to rescue her door key from her coat pocket, weighed down as she was by her shopping. Entering the house she knew at once that something was wrong.

  Her son’s voice, for one thing. It was too lively, too animated, and he shouldn’t have been talking at all. There was no one to talk to.

  She put the bags on the floor inside the front door, and of course one fell down and unleashed groceries.

  Someone answered her son, and the chattering continued.

  They were in the front room. Perhaps it was the television. She didn’t think there was anything on, but they’d watch anything. Everyone said so.

  She opened the door and looked in. Her son sat on the sofa, with an orange kitten on his lap. It was sparring with his fingers.

  ‘Where’s that from?’ she asked, going in.

  ‘I wanted one,’ he said. As though that was an answer. ‘Gran always says if you want something hard enough you can get it.’

  ‘Gran says a lot of things she doesn’t mean,’ she said unconvincingly. He was young enough not to notice that. The kitten looked at her. She didn’t like the way it looked. It was perhaps too orange. It was perhaps in not quite the right dimensions.

  She noticed that there was someone else in the room, a ragged little boy in ragged little clothes. A friend of her son’s, she thought, although you’d have thought his mother might have dressed him properly before letting him out.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘Who?’ asked her son, and when she turned to look at the new boy there was no one there after all.

  She turned back to look at her son.

  ‘You don’t w
ant to listen to your Gran,’ she said carefully, because this might all be reported back and there were things in that dusty old house of her mother’s that were all the worse for being neglected for years. ‘She doesn’t know everything. You can’t have everything you want.’

  He looked doubtful at that.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘That isn’t your cat. Now just take it back where you got it from.’

  He looked at her. He looked at the strange orange cat. He did something – and she couldn’t even have said what it was – and the kitten vanished, poof, gone.

  ‘And don’t do it again,’ she said, hoping that he’d take notice. And then she unpacked the groceries and made them a nice stew for tea.

  ONE

  I

  Who is Les Herbie?

  The question seemed to answer itself. It was the headline at the top of the page of the issue of the Pensnett Chronicle I was reading over the shoulder of the man in the seat in front of me. We were on the 256k bus, Dudley to Birmingham via Christ knows where. The 256k bus has vague timetables and glum drivers.

  Les Herbie was a columnist in the Dudley Star, not to be confused with the Express & Star. Les Herbie wrote a sometimes-irreverent and often-rude column. No one knew who he was. No photograph accompanied his column. He didn’t make personal appearances. He didn’t do publicity. He’d picked up a readership of young people, bright people, not the usual Dudley Star share of the demographic. The Chronicle had nothing like him, and so they ran daily articles failing to discredit him.

  He was a reporter writing under an assumed name, they’d claim. He was a rich boy slumming it in Dudley. He was the man who wrote the horoscopes expanding his remit.

  The man in front of me turned the page. I didn’t want to read any more of his paper; I had one of my own. I was young and bright; I had a copy of the Dudley Star. I turned to Les Herbie’s column.

  They took my car away.

  Let’s quantify that. Let’s pin it down flat and dissect it.

  They took my car away. So now I have to flag taxis or walk. Let’s not talk about buses. Let’s not go near buses. Buses are not an option.

  There are some advantages to not having a car. I have time to think, while I’m waiting for the taxi.

  They say, they always say, that it’ll be there in five minutes. They’re liars. That’s the only reliable part of the business, the fact that it starts with a lie. After that it’s all fiction. Everything – the route, the fare, the language, the glumness with which they take the tip – is subject to change. Only the time the taxi turns up is not subject to change. It is change. It’s the thing itself.

  While I’m waiting I write my column, which is why it’s all about taxis. But not buses. I’m not going near buses.

  I do have a car. I’m not dependent on public transport. My car developed a noise, and it’s gone to the garage for a few days. Maybe three, maybe six, maybe August, they couldn’t narrow it down. It’s only what they do for a living. You wouldn’t expect them to know how long it’d take.

  While I’m waiting, if I’m not writing my column, I’m thinking about costs. A journey by taxi costs me too much a mile. But I save money on not buying a car, or taxing it, or handing out cash to the constables at speed checks. I don’t have to take the taxi to the garage. I can have that second drink.

  That’s not counting the gaps. Time is money. My time has gaps, now. There’s the gap between calling the taxi and the taxi turning up. There’s a space between wanting to go somewhere and setting out.

  It’d be worse if I was going by bus. On the bus, you pay less in cash, but they take the remainder out of your soul. Plus you need to buy new clothes, afterwards.

  The gaps add up. I write half a column, and then have to go, and then I don’t know where the column was going. You can’t write a column in the gaps.

  Let’s quantify that. Let’s pin it down flat and dissect it.

  I can’t write a column in the gaps. You can’t write a column at all.

  So, I can’t go from A to B at time t. I have to go at t+n. My column suffers. My life becomes gappy. The taxi is late, right now, as I write this. It’s taking its time.

  When it gets here, it’ll parp and toot. It’ll flash and honk. Suddenly there will be a need for hurrying.

  I want my car back, so that I can hurry on my own terms and in my own time. I want my own time back. I don’t like taxis, because of the gaps. I can’t use trains, because the nearest station is ten miles away and the trains only go to Coventry and who wants to go to Coventry? How would I get to the station? It’s in a bad area. I wouldn’t want to go there on foot.

  In a tank, maybe. In a Panzer. In an ambulance, more likely.

  But not on foot.

  And not in a bus.

  I don’t do buses.

  Have you seen the people on buses? Have you? They come in three types. Bus drivers, still learning how to use the gears and the brakes and the road. People too young to drive, although they should be able to hotwire a car. What’s wrong with young people these days?

  The other type has subtypes. The dead, the doomed, the dispossessed. They wear bad clothes and don’t clean them. They live with their mothers.

  I’d hate to see their mothers.

  They look like child molesters or serial killers. They look like victims.

  So, I’m waiting for the taxi, and writing this to fill in the gap.

  If I’m lucky, it won’t be a long wait.

  If I’m really lucky, this column will cover the fare.

  It was a short column for Les. Sometimes he’d have half a page to himself, and sometimes only a paragraph. I folded the paper and looked out of the window. The view was different from the top floor. I didn’t usually travel by bus. I had an Audi. But it wasn’t well, and it had gone to the garage.

  ‘They’ll rip you off,’ said Dermot, meaning the mechanics. ‘They’ll have seen you coming a mile off. You can’t go on the bus. It’s full of scutters. They’ve all got nits. They’ve all got satchels and scabies. You want your car back.’

  II

  I did want my car back. You’d know why, if you’d ever been on the 256k bus. It goes every fifteen minutes on average, apparently managing this by running every two minutes at three in the morning, when there’s no one at the bus stops, and once an hour during daylight hours. All bus passengers have a look of despair, forlorn pale things counting their change in the petrol fumes. Women with six children occupy entire decks, men with Elvis haircuts and their hands in their pockets sit next to you and breathe like donkeys. Everyone smokes rollups. At every other stop someone gets on with the wrong change. They go from seat to seat asking if anyone can change fifty pee. No one admits that they can. Everyone looks out of the windows. Everyone puts a bag on the seat next to them.

  A boy with cropped ginger hair and an idiot expression sits in front of you, one seat to the left, with his head turned around, staring blankly at you the whole way home.

  III

  I write small computer applications, using Delphi as a front-end for Oracle databases. Databases are logical, until people get near them and put data in. Then they turn into a mess. I write small applications – applets – to allow users to get at the data and fix it. The trick is not to allow them to do anything. The trick is to give them buttons to click on and primary colours. If it beeps at them from time to time they’re delighted. I can program without working at it. It’s something that just clicks with me. I pick up computer languages. I read books about them for fun.

  ‘You fucking would, you sad git,’ Dermot would say. ‘It’s the only thing you do pick up. You don’t pick up women, that’s for bloody certain. What happened to that Julie? Where’s she gone to? Let me guess, you told her all about fucking operating systems and she went out for cigarettes and never came back? You sad man. Computers. Sad.’

  I had a PC at home, a 500 mhz Pentium III with 128 meg on board and a 32-meg TNT2 graphics card. State of the art for a couple of months.
I wrote applets on it I could have written on a 486.

  You can’t have a slow PC if you’re a programmer. You wouldn’t be able to hold your head up in company. You can have horror stories about the Amstrad you learned on, or how long it took to learn the keystrokes for Spectrum Basic. Remember the Spectrum? Little thing that had rubber keys and four colour-coded shift keys; every other key could have four meanings depending on the combination of shift keys you held down as you pressed it. You have to know about them. You need to have experienced them. But you can’t have a slow PC now unless it’s a spare, wired up as part of your own little LAN or sitting in the corner running an algorithm to find the highest prime number.

  My pretty little desktop PC was more powerful than things that filled rooms in the seventies. It could do billions of calculations a second. It could plot millions of points instantly, do four-dimensional trigonometry, produce print-quality images, connect to the Net and kick-start the revolution.

  I played games on it.

  I have played games on an old ZX Spectrum, and on a Commodore 64, and on an Atari ST and now on a PC that has none of its original components. Everything has been upgraded. Everything has been replaced at least once.

  I have also owned a couple of consoles, an old Sega Megadrive with a dodgy converter and a Nintendo 64 that was better than a PC four years ago. I have drawers full of computer games, video games, video-games magazines. I used to read science fiction, all those books about unhelpful robots and alternate universes.

  Video games are an alternate universe. Each one is a window onto a new world. They are self-referential like no other art-form, and they started that way. The first widely available game was Pong, marketed by Atari.

  Atari – the word – is from a game itself. It’s from Go, and it’s the state a group of stones is in when it has one liberty left, when it’s in imminent danger of capture.

  Games are like that. They feed on their own history.

  Pong gave you control of a bat; you had to hit a ball with it. The ball was square. Lo-rez was hi-rez at the time. Pong had one control, and three instructions. The best one was: