A Cursed Place

by Peter Hanington

  Patrick crouched over the laptop and studied each jagged layer of sound. He moved things up and down with the mouse, cut the interviews to the right length and arranged the wild track – the rain, the chanting, police loudhailers and the rest – at the bottom of the screen. An hour passed without him noticing, but still no sign of John Brandon. He listened again to his interview with Eric Fung. There was a whole section where Patrick had become rather too technical, asking questions about the way in which the young protestors were organising, the messaging services and apps they were using. It was interesting to him, but the general listener would find it boring. He chopped the section out, but didn’t bin it. He moved it to the hard drive, a file where he’d been putting other stuff like this.

  Just when Patrick was beginning to think he’d have to go looking for him again, John Brandon tapped on the hotel door.

  Once inside he surveyed the room.

  ‘Not bad, not bad at all … nice view. Your room’s not as big as mine, but you could certainly swing a cat in here – if you had to. That’s rare in Hong Kong.’ He looked at the clothes and recording equipment strewn across the bed, desk and floor. ‘You’ve rather fucked up the Feng Shui with all this mess though.’ Patrick ignored this, clearing a space on the bed so Brandon could sit and record his script. He had written a rough outline already and John went through this, changing a word or two with his Mont Blanc, adding the odd line. ‘Right you are, I’m ready when you are squire.’ Patrick had to hand it to Brandon, he worked quickly, especially when there was somewhere else he wanted to be. He took the spare duvet from inside the clothes cupboard and draped it over Brandon’s head to cancel out the sound of the air conditioning and remove any echo. He handed John the microphone.

  ‘Few words for level?’

  ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of etcetera etcetera …’

  ‘Fine.’

  There were a few overlaps, but nothing that Patrick couldn’t deal with. He set about loading the new audio onto the laptop. At his back, Brandon was getting increasingly fidgety.

  ‘You don’t really need me for this next bit, do you Patrick?’

  ‘Don’t you want to listen through?’

  ‘No, no. I trust you. Trust you completely.’

  ‘Fine, well then …’

  ‘Excellent, good man. I’ll see you downstairs. We’re in the Purple Bar. Viv, me … the usual crowd. Oh, and a new face, this rather charming American fellow. Dan something, he’s a big fan of yours truly.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to—’ But the door had been slammed shut and Brandon was gone. While the audio loaded, Patrick stared across at the lights of Kowloon and at his own reflection in the dark window. Working with William Carver had never been easy, but they’d always rubbed along pretty well – they complemented each other. He checked himself. Maybe he was misremembering? Putting a nostalgic gloss on things? Carver was a perpetual malcontent … mal most things in fact. Maladapted, malodourous … Patrick grinned. Despite this, he missed him. Missed the insight and the intelligence. He even missed the regular bollockings that Carver dished out – sometimes deserved, sometimes not. He was a better journalist when he was working with William Carver.

  6 Do No Harm

  THE LUCKY SWAN, WALWORTH ROAD, LONDON 2014

  William watched Jemima McCluskey mount another two-pronged attack on an obstinate prawn ball, spearing it with both sticks before transporting it in the direction of her mouth. She’d tucked one napkin into the neck of her ivory silk blouse and had another across her lap protecting a tweed skirt. Carver had never seen a grown-up so uncomfortable with chopsticks – maybe he should ask the waiter for a fork.

  ‘Not a big fan of Chinese food then, McCluskey?’ His lunch companion finished her mouthful.

  ‘Cannae say I have it that often.’

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘But I know it’s one of your favourites and I’m nothing if not game.’ She set off in pursuit of another prawn ball. ‘How did your lesson go?’

  Carver lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, if that’s the future of journalism then I think I can safely say … we’re screwed.’ McCluskey smiled a yellow-toothed smile before slurping up a few noodles with water chestnuts.

  ‘They cannae all be bad?’

  ‘There’s one or two.’ Carver took a long draft of his Tsingtao lager. ‘One, anyway.’

  ‘No one to lay a glove on your boy Patrick though, eh?’

  William hailed a waiter and ordered some more egg-fried rice and another lager. McCluskey was tiptoeing into territory that Carver would prefer to avoid. He’d had a feeling that Patrick would turn out to be the reason for McCluskey’s trip up to London. She didn’t stray far from her work at the BBC monitoring station at Caversham or her nearby two-up, two-down unless she had a good reason. He ignored the question about Patrick and asked his own instead.

  ‘What about your work McCluskey. Overheard anything interesting recently?’

  ‘Oh aye. It’s busy, no mistake. This is the first day off I’ve had in twelve … North Africa, the Middle East, Ukraine. Now Hong Kong. It’s kicking off all over the place right now.’ She glanced up from her food. ‘Perhaps you’ve noticed?’ This little dig was to be expected and Carver took it on the chin. He knew how McCluskey felt about his decision to take some time away from front-line reporting in favour of teaching. She thought it was bloody stupid. ‘You still read the odd newspaper do yer? Listen to the radio now and again?’

  ‘I do. It looks like you’re having some trouble with those chopsticks, do you want me to get you a fork?’

  ‘Me? Nah I’m fine.’ She harpooned another prawn ball and held it aloft to prove her point. ‘Which reminds me – talking about the radio – is it your boy Patrick that’s been producing all of John Brandon’s stuff these last few months? Is that who he’s with, now that you’re … doing whatever it is you’re doing?’ Carver confirmed that this was the case. ‘He’s doin’ a cracking job isn’t he? Brandon’s been sounding good.’ McCluskey really was pushing all of Carver’s buttons today. He poured the dregs of his first lager into the new one and took a swig.

  ‘I don’t hear everything.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘But the stuff I’ve heard is a bit mixed.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Not Patrick’s fault necessarily … you can only work with what you’ve got. Can’t be easy … making a silk purse out of a sow’s arse.’

  McCluskey grinned; this was more like the Carver she knew and loved.

  ‘Fair point …’ She paused. ‘But it’s Patrick that’s been with him all along is it? Egypt, Turkey, Ukraine … now Hong Kong, all of that?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  McCluskey put her chopsticks down, one either side of the plate as though they were a knife and fork.

  ‘I’ve been listening to what’s been coming out of those countries these last few months, watching things unfold, and I’ve noticed something.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I got to wondering whether Patrick has maybe noticed it too.’ McCluskey had Carver’s complete attention now and she knew it.

  ‘Noticed what?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain, it’s … complex.’

  ‘Complex huh? But you think Patrick might be able to understand it? Even if I can’t.’ There was an edge to William’s voice.

  ‘Like I say … maybe. He’s there, you’re not.’ She paused. ‘So do you mind if I run some of what I’ve got by him?’

  ‘Why should I mind? It’s none of my business, do what you like. Both of you.’ This sounded harsher than Carver had intended.

  ‘Smashing, so will you make the introduction? Phone him or drop him a wee line? Keep it simple, no names, just ask him if he’ll help a pal of yours.’

  Carver took a slurp of lager.

  ‘It’s probably better if you do it yourself McCluskey. Given that I haven’t spoken to him all year and I have no intention of starting now.’


  ‘I’ve only met him the once and I want the approach to be …’ She looked for the right word, ‘… subtle. It’d be really helpful if you’d just let him know that a friend of yours needs a favour.’

  Carver pushed his plate to one side.

  ‘This is your first day off in twelve you said?’ She nodded. ‘And it is a day off is it Jemima? You’re not going to be putting this chicken and cashew nuts through on expenses?’

  McCluskey’s face flushed.

  ‘Me coming here has nothing to do with Caversham.’

  ‘And nothing to do with that spooky stuff that goes on upstairs at Caversham either? Up on the top floor?’

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting William?’

  ‘You know what I’m suggesting.’

  McCluskey was on her feet surprisingly fast for a woman of her age.

  ‘We’ve known each other for twenty plus years William Carver …’ She put her raincoat on. ‘How many favours have I done fer you in that time? I wanted a favour in return …’ She pulled a black beret down over her white candyfloss hair. ‘… but mainly I wanted to come and jolly you up. Coax you out from underneath that self-pitying shell that you’re hiding in.’

  ‘Fuck off Jemima.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will, I’ve just got one more thing to say to you.’ She met his eye and held it. ‘What happened back in Cairo wasnae Patrick’s fault and you know it.’ He shrugged. ‘It was your fault and the sooner you man up and admit that, the sooner ye can start forgiving yourself. You eejit.’ She took a £10 and a £20 note from her wallet, pushed them under her water glass and left.

  Carver glanced around. Most of the half-full restaurant and all of the waiting staff were glaring at him, wondering what dreadful things he must’ve said to upset the little old lady. His waiter arrived unbidden and started clearing the table. Carver had to wrestle his lager back from the man’s grasp.

  ‘I’m not bloody finished.’

  He sat and stared at the flock wallpaper and the tiny vase with a single red carnation – the only other thing apart from his drink that the waiter hadn’t removed. McCluskey was half-right. Patrick wasn’t to blame for what had happened, he knew that. Nevertheless, ignoring his calls, text messages and emails was still the right thing to do. Removing himself from Patrick’s life was the biggest favour he could do him. Over the years, too many people had been hurt as a result of his work. Too much collateral damage. The oath he’d taken – Carver’s own version of a Hippocratic oath – was the only way to fix that. If McCluskey thought the teaching was a cop out, so be it. If Patrick and the entire press pack thought he’d lost his nerve, that didn’t matter either. What mattered was that Carver did no more harm.

  7 Inside the Square

  SAN FRANCISCO AIRPORT, CALIFORNIA

  Jags was met at the airport, even though he’d made no such request nor told anyone when he was arriving or on which flight. Very fucking smooth, just like everything at Public Square Inc. A lean black man in a chauffeur’s get-up, complete with peaked cap, picked him out from among the hundreds of faces inside the San Fran arrivals hall – no board with a name on, no mention at all of Jags’ name or his employer’s either. The driver introduced himself as Eldridge, addressed him as sir, and talked about the fine weather and the gridlocked San Francisco traffic as they walked through the airport and out into the car park. The car was a new model Tesla and Eldridge knew a route that avoided the worst of the rush hour. Jags didn’t like being driven, but he guessed that if he had to be driven then it might as well be like this.

  Once they were away from the airport and out on the highway, he took in the scenery. The sky was that particular shade of blue that seemed unique to California, decorated here and there with bright dashes of white – not clouds, but contrails. In no time, Eldridge had them beyond the city limits and the scenery started to get greener. The countryside reminded Jags a little of Switzerland, although there were regular reminders of where you really were. Groups of prisoners in pink jumpsuits were cleaning up the trash next to the freeway, watched over by armed guards cradling shotguns. They drove past eight or nine of these gangs, most of them clearing rubbish, but some with rakes and trowels, down on their knees, planting pots of bright orange Californian poppies on stretches of ground that had been left blackened by the recent wildfires. The state flower grew wild, but the software company that sponsored this stretch of freeway knew that burnt scrub wasn’t a good look and had decided to give mother nature a helping hand. Jags sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t enjoy being summoned back to base and he needed to be on his mettle when he got there. A few minutes’ shut-eye was his plan.

  When he woke half an hour later, he felt better, rested. He reached for his notebook and pencil.

  A blinding blue sky

  Convicts out on day release

  Planting wild poppies

  He nodded. Not bad. Jags counted the syllables off on his fingers and closed his notepad with a grunt of satisfaction. He was tempted to run the poem by Eldridge, see what he made of it, but he decided against. If Jags read it and received a lukewarm or confused reaction then that would spoil his good mood. The haikus were meant to help keep him calm, he didn’t want to screw that up. They were nearly there anyway. A uniformed guard checked a clipboard before waving them through the security gates. Eldridge drove the Lexus at a stately fifteen kilometres per hour up the wide white gravel drive towards their destination.

  The Public Square headquarters resembled a huge glass egg, balanced on its side. A glass manufacturer in Germany had become very rich as a result of this single order; for two years every curved or flat sheet of reinforced glass the factory made was destined for this building, ten miles outside Cupertino.

  Back in the beginning, inside Public Square’s first-ever office in downtown San Francisco, the founder and CEO Elizabeth Curepipe had her work station right next to reception – inside a glass box where she could see and be seen. The message was openness, modernity, transparency. Three of her favourite words and this shiny egg was, in part, a nod to that – just a whole lot bigger. Jags counted the five floors of shining glass. At its blunt summit – occupying the entire top floor – was Elizabeth. And her co-founder, Frederick.

  ‘Fucking Fred.’

  Eldridge turned his capped head.

  ‘What was that sir?’

  ‘Nothing. Just talking to myself.’

  This glass could take twenty rounds from an assault rifle: in the time it took a gunman to fire off that number of shots, he would have been identified and dealt with. Jags had helped with this calculation in his capacity as chief security consultant. He advised on security right across the Curepipe operation – a big job. Big – and also usefully vague.

  Over the years Elizabeth Curepipe had come to rely on Jags; she trusted him and when she travelled abroad, a lot of the time he went with her. She ensured that he was well paid – every year another ten or twenty per cent in cash or Public Square shares. She worried out loud that he might leave and other companies and individuals had certainly approached him, offers had been made. But she need not have worried, Jags was loyal. Not to the company – he remembered how much he hated Public Square Inc. every time he was summoned back here to headquarters – but he was loyal to Elizabeth.

  Frederick knew this, just as Fred knew everything. It was Fred, not Elizabeth, who had hired Jags, although Jags often wished it was otherwise. Only Fred knew what Jags really was and what he did. The full range of responsibilities. Not Elizabeth, never Elizabeth, and while the two men disagreed about many things, they were as one on this. Protect the Queen – that was what they used to say, back in the beginning.

  Eldridge parked in one of the prime spots in the car park and, opening the boot, handed Jags his bag and then the key to the Tesla as well. Jags was momentarily confused.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Mr Curepipe said you should keep hold of the car,
sir. In case you want it later.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was something about the chauffeur’s manner that didn’t sit right, but then in this part of California every cab driver was something else – a coder, actor, concert pianist – you never knew.

  Walking into the huge glassy atrium of Public Square, Jags noticed a change. There was an empty strip of freshly painted wall where there used to be a long TV screen. The green on black screen was, in fact, a digital ticker tape. It used to feature a rolling, random selection of all the millions of questions that people around America and the world were typing into the Public Square search engine. Now it was gone. Elizabeth had wanted to let a little light in on the magic that Public Square made possible. She wanted to be open and transparent. Fred knew that showing the workings was a risk and argued against. Sure enough, it quickly became obvious that the giant screen was not offering visitors a fleeting glimpse into a magician’s box of tricks – it was more like chucking a flare down a public sewer. In any half hour a spectator might see searches about cannibalism, racism, bump stock gun overrides and pretty much any form of human or animal-related pornography you could imagine …

  For a while they put a 10-second delay on the live feed and a moderator edited what went out. As a result, only achingly hip and high-minded searches made it to the digital ticker tape. The kid doing the moderating blabbed to someone about the work she was doing and the local then national press found out. They used that stick to beat Public Square even harder. Elizabeth ordered a return to the random and unpasteurised for a while but it was never going to last. The experiment was meant to show how engaged and vibrant America was, how thirsty the people were for knowledge and information and how Public Square was helping quench that thirst. In fact the experiment showed that America – most of the data was home grown – was fundamentally sad. A sad, lonely and angry nation; still under God – there were plenty of very strange questions about Jesus – but also preoccupied by thoughts of death and disease, pornography, celebrity and violence. As one of the temporary receptionists at Public Square so eloquently put it, watching the ticker tape all day was ‘fucking scary’. Looking at the gap on the wall above reception, it was clear that Fred had finally persuaded Elizabeth to pull the plug.