by Annabel Port
He’s still not said a word as he gets to work on my shoulder. It’s a good massage.
“Have you done this before?” I ask.
“Yes, bunny rabbit,” he says.
“On a bunny rabbit?”
“No,” he says, laughing incredulously. “You’re a bunny rabbit.”
I tell him that I’m not.
“You don’t want to be cute and cuddly?” he asks.
“Well . . .” I start to say.
“You know Johnny Rotten?”
I tell him I do.
“He said all girls were bunny rabbits.”
Suddenly I’m not the mental one. He continues massaging my shoulder the whole time. He may be mental but he’s really lovely. When it eventually ends, we go our separate ways. Apart from it’s the same way. I have to keep behind him and he’s walking really slowly. It’s all a bit awkward.
I’ve really got to know my neighbours though. Once again, not in the way I’d hoped to. But I still don’t feel like I’ve properly integrated with any young people yet. Maybe it’s because they’re all out rioting. Or maybe not. Maybe the vast majority are just lovely. Now is the time to test it.
There’s another high street in South Woodford, about ten minutes from my flat. It includes a Sainsbury’s, Marks & Spencer and Laura Ashley Home. There’s also a cinema. I see a group of young boys outside. They’re about fourteen and eating popcorn.
I say, “Hi, young people! Do you want to come and loot Laura Ashley Home Store with me?”
They stare at me open-mouthed. They don’t say a word.
“Come on! Let’s get curtains!” I urge them.
Eventually one speaks. “Nah.”
“Why?” I ask.
“We’re going to see a film.”
They don’t want to go looting. They are far too nice. My only criticism is that they’re eating their popcorn before even going in to the cinema, so are clearly unable to resist instant gratification.
I look for more loveliness. I see four young girls outside Greggs the Baker.
“Hi, young people, my self-esteem is really low today. Could you say some nice things to cheer me up?”
Without missing a beat one says, “I really like your scarf.” Immediately followed by another girl saying, “Nice coat.” Another one tells me I’ve got a nice bag. The last one looks me up and down and says, “Yeah, good fashion sense.”
I’m so happy I nearly cry. I’d asked some young people to comment on my appearance. I was prepared for the worst, but they are so nice. Not once do they give any indication that this was a strange thing to happen. And one girl thinks I’ve got good fashion sense. And didn’t even add “for your age”. Which proves that London is definitely, undeniably, lovely once more.
10
The Challenge:
To leak some confidential information
I’m worried. In the first year of WikiLeaks, they leaked 1.2 million documents. That’s 137 an hour. How am I going to manage that?
I decide to start in my own workplace, the radio station. Not because I’m too lazy to leave the building, but because someone once left a list of everybody’s salary on the printer, so I think it will be easy.
It starts very badly. A search of all printers just turns up a request for “Shiny Happy People” and some two-for-one vouchers for the restaurant Wok To Walk. I’m going to have to think of another way to access all the confidential information in the building.
I consider hacking into someone’s computer but I haven’t yet mastered Excel, so I might struggle with hacking.
I can do eavesdropping, though. I can eavesdrop on the high-powered meetings. I know from eighties sitcoms that the best way to do this is by using an upturned glass. I find a clean, empty glass, which in itself is a minor miracle in our building, and I worry that I’ve used up all my luck already.
Then I go to the fourth floor, the sales floor, which is really intimidating. There’s a lot of high-fiving and whooping as yet another big-bucks deal has been closed. I imagine. I haven’t been up there since 2003. I’m pretty scared. But I tell myself that if Julian Assange had been scared, we wouldn’t have found out that Prince Andrew was a bit rude abroad once, and I force myself up the stairs.
Straight away, I see the meeting room with one of the CEOs and a bigwig from finance inside. The reason I’m able to see this is because all the internal walls are made of glass, a fact that I’d inconveniently forgotten. I don’t even know if an upturned glass works on glass. But I do know that me standing with my ear against an upturned glass on their glass wall will be pretty conspicuous. Then I notice they’ve got the door wide open so they’re probably not masterminding something terrible. Or else they’re awful at it.
I abort this mission and try now to interrogate Martin, our beloved security guard, the eyes and ears of the building. He’s busy trying to crack the National Lottery and seems quite stressed. It turns out that William Hill now do their own lottery twice day and all the winning numbers have to be input into his complex chart.
I ask him some questions but he won’t reveal anything. He’s too professional. I’m running out of time and am not on schedule for 137 leaks an hour.
I realise I need to get in there among the people. I need to go undercover. My first thought is to infiltrate M15. But then I worry about getting arrested and interrogated for days in a basement with an anglepoise lamp being shone in my eyes. My second thought is the government, but I have very similar worries. What other big British institution can I expose?
Then it comes to me. Marks & Spencer. I don’t waste time thinking this through any further. I go straight to the giant flagship Marks & Spencer store in Marble Arch and say to the first assistant I see, “Hi, I start today, can you tell me where the staffroom is?”
The lady tells me to go to the reception and gives me directions that involve going outside then turning left, then left.
I find myself in a narrow room with two lifts and a small desk. A lady sits there, who I am immediately terrified of. She’s an older, fair-haired lady and looks very no-nonsense.
I say to her, “Hi, I’m starting work here today.”
I can tell she takes an immediate dislike to me. Perhaps because I’m turning up for work on my first day at two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Where are you from?” she asks.
“What do you mean?” I reply.
She says, clearly irritated, “Are you on attachment? A graduate training scheme?”
I’m not sure what this means, so I say, “Erm, I just had an interview and I start today.”
“What job is it?”
“Erm. Shop floor. I think,” I say, a slight tremble entering my voice.
“You think,” she repeats.
“Yes,” I say.
“Who’s your contact here? Who were you told to ask for?”
“I can’t remember. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” she repeats.
“No,” I say.
She takes my name. I’m so embarrassed by this whole situation I give a false name. She writes it down. She doesn’t spell it right but it’s a false name so I don’t say anything.
She tells me to take a seat and that she’s going to call Corinna.
I sit down. It’s got quite busy with people coming in and out so I don’t hear her on the phone. But when she finishes she says, “It’s definitely this branch, is it?”
“I think so,” I tell her.
There’s a man standing next to her. They look at each other and laugh in a very derogatory way.
I’m really insulted. I know it’s my first day at work (sort of), but I’m so insulted I say, “Is something funny?”
She says, “It’s just that there are two branches on Oxford Street.”
Then she starts asking me questions about the interview.
“When did I have it?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Where?”
“Head office.”
“I can’t remember.”
I’m beginning to think I might have had an easier interrogation at M15 in the basement with the anglepoise lamp in my face.
Her phone’s ringing now. She answers it then tells me Corinna wants to speak to me. I take the receiver. Corinna tells me she’s checked with all the managers and nobody is expecting me today.
“Hmm,” I say. “I’m wondering now if it wasn’t Debenhams.”
I look at the receptionist. She looks 50% disgusted and 50% pitying.
I put the phone down.
I say to her, “I’m wondering now if it wasn’t Debenhams.”
Strangely, she’s now about 90% pitying. She speaks to me in a kindly way and gives me directions to the Debenhams.
I know it looks like I’ve failed. But I didn’t! While I was waiting in reception, a man came down to speak to another man with a hard hat. I didn’t catch their whole conversation, but I did hear that they’re modernising lifts five and seven and I heard the words “wood panelling”.
What about that? The flagship M&S are modernising their lifts and they sound really posh.
What I need to do now is leak this sensitive material.
I go back into the actual store. The first till I see has no customers but two members of staff. I say to them, “Guess what, I’ve just been in your reception and they’re modernising lifts five and seven.”
The reaction was unexpected. The girl says, “Bloody hell.”
The man becomes animated, “I’ve been stuck in the lift twice this month.”
They’re really interested. The girl adds, “Perhaps now they’ll do up the locker rooms,” and then, “Well, that gives me something to think about.”
I’m so pleased with this leakage that I try one more till. There’s a man and woman again. I tell them about the lifts. They too are genuinely interested. The man says, “Those lifts break down every other day, no exaggeration.” The woman agrees that it’s great news. I add the snippet about the wood panelling. They don’t care about that, though, they just want them to work.
I can only imagine that my lift-modernising leak is moving like wildfire through M&S. And I’ve just got another 1,199,999 leaks to go.
It’s a new day and while I didn’t manage to do 137 leaks an hour yesterday, I did do one. So I’m full of confidence and thinking about how some of the best-known WikiLeaks are the American Embassy cable ones.
I don’t see any reason why I can’t also uncover some secrets from a foreign embassy, by intercepting some kind of written material.
I make a list of countries that I’m a bit suspicious about. They are: Malta, Singapore, Canada, The Bahamas.
I don’t want you to think I’ve just made a list of countries where they speak English so that I can understand the written material. Please don’t think that.
I decide to focus on Canada. Their embassy is in Grosvenor Square and I walk up to the ornate doors confidently before I’m stopped by a security guard.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Hi, I’m from Confidential Waste Management Services. It’s regarding your shredder.”
“Oh, okay,” he says and lets me in.
My plan is working! Surely all secrets go through a shredder. I will have to do the world’s biggest jigsaw, but that’s the kind of sacrifice you have to make to get to the truth.
I’m inside now and facing a lady behind glass. I tell her, “I’m from Confidential Waste Management Services. I’m doing an audit of all our shredders, so could you show me where your machine is?”
I’m not really sure what an “audit of all our machines” means, but it sounds like the kind of thing that someone from Confidential Waste Management Services might say.
She wants to know if my company supplies their shredder. “Of course,” I answer. This seems to be the right answer and she tries to call the person responsible, but they’re not answering, and now five business people have come in with an appointment so she asks me to wait.
I watch them all go through a lengthy security procedure before they’re allowed in. IDs are checked, photos taken, they walk through a body scanner, all their bags are put through a luggage scanner. It’s like at an airport but they can take a full-sized shampoo in. Although for clarity, I should say I didn’t see anybody try.
Meanwhile I have a look around the entrance hall. There’s a guest book, which I flick through for some secrets. I find that on 16 June, Kym Marsh visited, and she tried to disguise her identity by spelling Kym with an “i” not a “y”. Mysterious.
I have the idea now that I’ll try hacking into their Internet and reading their emails, even though I have no idea how to do this. I get out my phone but their Wi-Fi is locked. I ask the man in charge of the scanner if he can tell me what the password is. He looks at me incredulously and then says, “No.”
I don’t need the Wi-Fi code now though as I’ve spotted a rubbish bin by his desk. What if I ask to put something in the bin and then cleverly pick something out and secrete it up my sleeve? It could reveal an amazing secret.
I pull an old rail ticket out of my coat pocket and he agrees to me putting it in the bin. I go over to it and see there’s some scrunched-up paper inside. I don’t let it worry me that it’s paper they didn’t bother to shred, maybe just some doodling or a shopping list.
I drop my ticket in and go to grab the scrunched-up paper, but he’s standing right by me watching my every move and I’m not quick enough. I don’t have the sleight of hand. For the first time ever I wish that David Blaine was with me.
The lady behind the glass is calling me over now. She tells me she still can’t get hold of the person responsible so I need to ring and make an appointment to be able to see the shredder.
I know this is going to surprise a lot of people, but it appears you can’t just walk into an embassy and then walk away with all their shredding.
It’s disappointing but I decide to see what I can discover from outside the building. I’m sure there are lots of secrets accidentally visible from the outside. I walk around, trying to peer in to the windows. All the blinds are closed, which is very mysterious.
But then I see another entrance with heavy-looking, woodpanelled double doors. There’s a sign on it that reads: “Deliveries between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m.” I give it an experimental push. It’s open. I go in. It’s a room with another X-ray scanner, a big long one and also two men. A standing man and a sitting-down man.
I’m not quite sure what to say now. So, thinking on my feet, I say, “Sorry, I can’t read very well, what time do you accept deliveries?”
They laugh at me a bit, which is a bit insensitive towards the semi-illiterate, and then ask me why.
“I’m sending a parcel,” I tell them. They want to know if it’s cake for them. “Maybe,” I say.
I need to try and get some secrets so I add, “What kind of things do you usually get sent?”
They won’t tell me anything. Luckily though, I’ve had a brilliant idea. “If I bring you some cake, will you tell me a brilliant top secret?”
They agree, telling me their favourite is chocolate cake and I promise that I’ll be back tomorrow.
It’s the next day, I’ve got the cake (chocolate mini rolls. I’m sure Julian Assange bought leaks with 99p sweet baked goods) and I’m back outside the Canadian Embassy delivery door.
There’s a queue today, but I walk straight in with confidence. I’ve got an assignation.
I see that sitting man is the same but standing man is different.
“Hi, it’s me again!” I say to sitting man. “Do you remember me?”
Sitting man doesn’t seem that happy to see me.
“Guess what I’ve got for you!” I exclaim.
He doesn’t look excited. New standing man just looks confused. I pull the chocolate mini rolls out of my bag.
“You can tell me a secret now,” I say conspiratorially.
Sitting man is becoming flust
ered. He says to new standing man, “It wasn’t me, it was Alfonso. I didn’t promise.”
I am worried now that new standing man is actually his boss. I check but he’s not. Then someone else walks in. He’s wearing a long coat. They don’t need to tell me, I already know.
“Here’s our boss now.”
New standing man leaves the room. He clearly wants nothing to do with this. But this could be the lead I’m looking for. I decide to try and get some secrets out of boss man.
I start by asking if I can go through the big long scanner. It’s a no.
“Have you had anything suspect go through there?” I ask.
“Yes, a few times,” he says.
I ask them what they do with it and they show me a big machine. It’s like a giant metal beer barrel that can contain an explosion.
I’m asking so many questions that they start to get suspicious and ask me if I’m M15. I’m thrilled.
Then they put my chocolate mini rolls through the scanner. They really are suspicious. But I can’t give up. I beg them for a secret and get nothing.
I briefly consider asking for my mini rolls back, then leave. Without them.
I know it looks like I achieved nothing at all at the Canadian Embassy. But what if sitting man behind the delivery door had told me a secret so big that I couldn’t repeat it, or even say I knew it because it could topple several governments? Let alone write about it in a book. Consider that possibility. I’ll say no more.
It’s the final day and I feel ready to leak the shocking secrets of the rich and famous. And I know exactly which two uber-rich and famous celebrities to tackle.
Noel Sullivan, formerly of Hear’Say, and the girl who came third in BBC TV talent contest Over the Rainbow. This decision was based entirely on their high level of wealth and celebrity, and not that they are both starring in the musical Grease at the theatre right by my work.
I feel like the best place to uncover secrets is the stage door, but it’s not immediately obvious where it is, so I go into the booking office and ask the man in the booth.
“Oh,” says booth man, “Are you here for a meeting with Tamsin?”