CONNECTED

by Denman, Simon

  CHAPTER 13

  Peter wished to be somewhere else.

  After the initial excitement at his recounting of the burglary the previous night, the conversation around the dining table had turned even duller than usual. Was it he who had changed, or was it everyone else? There had surely been a time when the purchase of a villa on the Costa del Sol by a lunch guest would have piqued his curiosity for at least a few minutes, but as the empty suit proudly expounded the acquisition of his Andalusian abode, Peter saw only a precarious edifice of self justification. He smiled and nodded politely at what he hoped were appropriate moments, but his thoughts had already wandered back to Isabelle. That first sensation of her soft warm flesh, separated from his by only two thin layers of cotton would, he hoped, be burned into memory for eternity. He wanted to preserve every nuance of the experience. Their shallow erratic breathing, as years of pent up desire was carried to the threshold of gratification. The mutual knowledge of having reached that critical line, beyond which nothing would ever be the same again, and the agonising decision of whether to yield to the temptation to cross it.

  “So Peter, what do you think?” asked the poison dwarf.

  Peter looked at the diminutive figure across the table, her smiling mouth betrayed by the supercilious glint in her eyes.

  For a mischievous moment he considered answering literally. I'm actually thinking of the sensation of my sister-in-law's breasts pressing against my chest through her cotton nightdress last night.

  “About what?” he answered instead.

  Abigail tutted. “About buying one of the other villas in the same complex – oh do pay attention darling!”

  “Why would we want to do that?” asked Peter, genuinely bewildered.

  “Well, as Craig has just explained, it could be a good investment for our retirement - not to mention all the cheap holidays we could have in the meantime.”

  He considered this for a moment. “I'm sorry, but I really can't think of anything more odious than having to spend my retirement with the bilious, beer-bellied Brits of Benidorm...”

  “Benalmádena!” interjected the empty suit resentfully.

  “Present company excepted of course,” added Peter, rather too late.

  “Peter, what on earth has got into you?” yelled Abigail.

  “I'm terribly sorry,” said Peter, trying to keep a straight face, “I'm sure the Brits in Benalmádena are far less bilious than those in Benidorm.”

  “What does bilious mean?” asked Kate.

  That was it, Peter finally burst into laughter while everyone else looked silently on: the empty suit and poison dwarf with indignation, Abigail with angry embarrassment, and Sam and Kate with an innocent combination of amusement and confusion.

  “I want to go to Turkey again for our holiday,” said Sam.

  They all looked at the boy, and then at each other.

  “Well it's perhaps better if you do,” said the empty suit finally, looking down at his empty plate.

  “More vegetables anyone?” asked Abigail. “They're organic!”

  “I only buy organic as well,” chimed in the poison dwarf, apparently grateful for the change of subject. “Don't want any of those pesticides or GM in them.”

  “GM means generically modified,” said Sam, “I learnt it in school.”

  “Genetically modified!” Peter corrected.

  “Whatever it is, we don't want it, do we Sam?” said the poison dwarf curtly.

  “Why not?” asked Peter.

  She looked at him obstinately, her orange cheeks flushing pink. “Well, it's interfering with nature isn't it. Can't be good for you.”

  “Well – that might be true for some GM crops - in the same way that some 'natural' varieties of a plant may not contain as many nutrients as others, but that doesn't mean that genetic modification is inherently bad.”

  “Peter!” warned Abigail.

  “What? I'm just saying that we shouldn't reject something simply on the basis of ignorance. We've been selectively breeding things for hundreds if not thousands of years. Nobody questions that - except perhaps to lament the trading of flavour for better shelf-life in things like tomatoes and strawberries.”

  “I find most supermarket strawberries completely tasteless,” said the empty suit, looking pleased at the opportunity to contribute something to this new conversation.

  “Quite!” said Peter, wondering why he was even bothering to engage these idiots. “The point I was trying to make is that the net result of GM isn't all that different to selective breeding programmes, which have been universally accepted - at least from an ethical point of view.” He looked around the table for signs of agreement, or at the very least, acknowledgement of the validity of his argument, but his gaze was met with only confusion, irritation or both.

  “Excuse me,” he said finally, in exasperation, “I've just remembered, I need to make a phone call. Please just carry on enjoying all this wholesomely natural bounty without me.” He then got up and walked out. As he headed up the stairs to his study, he heard Abigail mutter an apology containing the words Martin, funeral and mid-life crisis, and wondered whether she really considered that to be an acceptable excuse. He had certainly been ruder than usual, but he felt happily indifferent. After spending several days of the previous week reacquainting himself with the latest progress on Superstring theory, he now had little time for such banality. Why waste one's hours with people for whom he had no respect. Life was too short and precious for that. If Abigail wanted to continue to see them, then she could do so without him. At least now they would be under no illusion as to how he felt, and perhaps as a result would cease inviting themselves round.

  Yes, it was definitely he who had changed.

  CHAPTER 14

  As the train rattled out of Colchester on its way south towards London, Brian listened, dumbfounded, and with an unnerving absence of wisecracks, while Doug recounted the events of day.

  “So what's the grand plan then Sherlock?” he finally asked. “Drag him out of the club by his ears and beat him to a pulp, until he tells us why he hacked into your PC?”

  “No, of course not!” said Doug indignantly. “We ask him nicely - and then we beat him to a pulp!” He managed to keep a straight face for about five seconds before cracking. “Seriously?” he continued. “I've no idea. Part of me wants to confront him, and part of me wants to just spy on him, like he's been spying on me and...well...you know, see where it leads.”

  “I suppose at the very least, we'll get to spy some bare naked ladies,” said Brian cheerfully. “The drinks will be expensive though. Do you think we should stop for a couple of pints before we get there?”

  Doug produced a hip flask from his coat pocket. “Why do you think I brought this?”

  They each took swigs and grimaced as the cheap cooking brandy burned its way down their throats.

  “So, talking of naked ladies, when are you going to see Susan again?” asked Doug.

  Brian smiled coyly. “Next Wednesday. She's invited me to hers for dinner. I think it's going to happen!”

  Doug nodded approvingly, already switching thoughts to Cindy.

  “Don't worry mate! She'll be back,” said Brian, as if reading his mind. “After you so heroically got yourself beaten up for her, how could she not?”

  The train started to brake and the station of Chelmsford slid gradually into view through the partly misted windows of the carriage. On the platform, a huddle of teenage girls, shivering defiantly against the chill night air in their skimpy tops, short skirts and sandals, jostled towards the train. A middle-aged man in black tie and dinner jacket ran his eyes lasciviously up their thin white legs as they boarded. The woman at his side, in high heels and fur coat, followed, pretending not to notice. The girls took their seats just across the aisle from Doug and Brian, and the train lurched forward to resume its grudging progress toward the capital.

  “I don't even know where she lives,” said Doug, still gazing dejectedly through
the window. “And she's not answering my calls.”

  “You could try calling from another number so she doesn't recognise who you are,” suggested Brian.

  Doug huffed. “That's not the point though, is it? If she doesn't want to speak to me, tricking her into answering the phone doesn't really advance my cause.”

  Brian looked at him for moment, trying to think of something helpful to say, then grabbed the hip flask and raised it in the air. “Some you win and some you lose, but in the end there's always booze!” He took a large swig and coughed loudly. “This really is quite unpleasant, isn't it?”

  Doug nodded and reached for another sip.

  The girls were still chattering away excitedly to themselves. Doug eavesdropped for a few seconds.

  “I was like really pissed,” said one, “but he was like, 'Let's go back to my place and like, get wasted,' and I was like, 'No I want to go home,' and he was like...”

  Doug immediately regretted tuning in and turned back to the window trying to block out the incessant gibberish, which now seemed impossible to ignore.

  “Excuse me!” he said finally, leaning across the aisle towards them. “Have you ever like, realised, like, how often you like, use the word 'like' in every inane sentence you like, utter?”

  The girls looked back at him blankly for a few seconds, as though he'd just spoken in Aramaic then, exchanging a few raised eyebrows, resumed their scintillating tales of adolescent drunken antics.

  “So where exactly is this pleasure palace?” enquired Brian.

  “Crouch End,” Doug replied, crudely emphasising the word crouch. “We take the circle line to Kings Cross and then the Piccadilly up to Wood Green.”

  The single storey, flat roofed building of the club itself crouched at the end of a quiet side street not far from the tube station. Above large unpolished windows, blacked out except for the white feline motifs, was the name Snow Leopard, picked out in metallic silver against glossy black panels. The muffled beat of dance music emanated from a dimly lit opening, in which a large bearded man, dressed in a black bomber jacket, towered menacingly.

  “Fifteen to enter, first drink's free!” grunted the man in a low cockney monotone.

  “Each?” asked Brian. “Or for the two of us?”

  The man sighed, sneering with contempt. “Thirty quid or fuck off!” he said, pulling his shoulders back and puffing out his chest truculently.

  Brian started to turn away, but Doug grabbed his arm. “This one's on me,” he said, pulling the notes from his wallet and handing them to the man.

  “He's a little ray of sunshine isn't he,” commented Brian, as they passed into the dark seedy interior of the club itself. Half a dozen mostly suited men sat at low tables around a small raised stage, upon which gyrated a tall blonde girl in a pale leopard print bikini. Doug scanned the room, but saw no sign of Zhirkov. A cloying sickly sweet smell filled the air. They made their way to a small bar at one end, where another bored looking blonde in a tight black tee-shirt stared at them expectantly.

  “Two beers please,” said Doug.

  “The free ones!” added Brian.

  The girl opened two of the tiniest beer bottles they had ever seen, and placed them on the counter without even cracking a smile.

  “You want me dance for you?” came an accented voice from behind. They swung round to find a small, but voluptuous brunette smiling up at them suggestively.

  “No thanks,” said Doug politely, taking the beer and making his way to one of the tables at the back of the room. Brian hesitated for a moment, eyeing the girl carefully before following.

  “I don't know quite how it works,” said Doug, “but I'm pretty sure that if you do anything to encourage them, we'll be saddled with an horrific bill to pay at the end of the night.”

  “Yeah, you're probably right,” sighed Brian gawping up at the blonde stripper, who had just removed her top with a beguiling flick of the wrist. “Although getting saddled by one of these girls might not be an entirely unpleasant experience,” he added.

  The blonde returned the gaze, smiling in their direction, her eyebrows dancing up suggestively.

  “Now you've done it,” said Doug.

  As the music came to an end, she stepped down from the stage and approached the table. “I'm Michelle,” she chirped in a thick Liverpudlian accent, placing a hand on Brian's shoulder and sitting down beside him. “Where are you boys from?”

  “Listen, I'm sorry,” said Doug, “we enjoyed your dancing up there, but we're students and really can't afford anything besides these exceedingly small beers.”

  She smiled, reaching over and placing a hand on his knee. “Hey honey, relax. I only asked where you were from.”

  On stage, under the coloured down-lights, she had looked quite striking, but up close, it was apparent that most of the effect had been the result of skilfully applied make-up. She was still an attractive girl, probably in her early to mid twenties, and with breasts suspiciously large and firm for the lithe young body from which they billowed.

  She hesitated for a moment, eyeing the young men up and down, her expression somewhere between pity and regret, and then stood up to leave. “Well if you change your mind,” she said, pointing at them with both index fingers at once. “I'll do you a deal - thirty pounds the pair.”

  “Well, they do make a lovely pair,” said Brian, “but what do I get to do with them for thirty pounds?”

  “No, cheeky!” giggled the girl, nodding towards the red curtains along the wall behind them. “I meant thirty pounds will buy a private dance for the pair of you.”

  On closer inspection, the curtained wall behind was in fact a row of partitioned booths, screened off with red velour drapes.

  “What do you suppose they do for you in there?” asked Brian.

  “Dance around and show you their tits, I imagine,” said Doug flatly, “I can't see thirty quid buying you much more than that.”

  “But I've just seen her tits without paying anything,” said Brian, looking confused. “Maybe in there you get to cop a feel as well!”

  “Maybe,” said Doug, draining the small bottle of beer and starting to roll a cigarette. “Why don't you get another round in while I step outside for a breath of fresh air.”

  “I wonder what silicon ones feel like,” asked Brian, looking over once again at the bountiful blonde who now sat giggling girlishly between two beer-bellied business-men.

  “Don't know,” mumbled Doug, carefully moistening the cigarette paper with the tip of his tongue, and getting up. “Can't be as good as the real thing though. Just wait til Wednesday mate!”

  The bouncer eyed Doug suspiciously as he stepped out into the cold night air and lit up. An elderly couple shuffled past on the far side of street, glancing disapprovingly in the direction of the club, before disappearing behind a parked white van. A little later, the boastful roar of an oversized exhaust manifold joined the muffled bass of the club's sound system, and a bright blue Subaru Impreza appeared at the end of the street. As it got nearer, its gold alloys sparkling ostentatiously under the street light, a cacophony of drums and electric guitar could be heard screaming from within. Doug watched with curiosity, as it pulled up behind the van, waiting to see if its driver matched his mental image of cocky, bling-encrusted boy-racer. The music stopped as the engine was cut, but for a minute or so, nothing stirred except for the two pensioners ambling slowly up the street. Eventually the couple turned down an alleyway and almost immediately the headlights of the Subaru flashed twice. A moment later, two men alighted from the van and walked furtively round to the back. Opening the rear door one of them leant inside, while the other approached the Subaru. The driver's window descended, revealing the profile of a man whose long black hair and chubby face glittered with metallic piercings. Recognising his online nemesis, Doug stepped back into the shadows and watched silently as a white computer base unit was lifted from the back of the van. He quickly pulled out his mobile, switched it to camera mode and starte
d snapping, as the unit was carried round and lowered carefully into the boot of the car. While the men stood whispering to each other in the street, Doug dropped the cigarette and slipped quietly back inside the club.

  “And you think this was the PC stolen from Peter's brother's house last night?” whispered Brian doubtfully. “I admit it does look a bit dodgy to be transferring gear from a white van to the boot of your car, late at night, outside a strip club, but...”

  “Oh come on Brian. This guy hacked into my PC somehow. He's been reading all my emails and God knows what else. He realises from my correspondence with Peter, that there's something valuable on that PC, and gets it lifted so he can take a closer look.”

  “Listen to yourself Doug. This isn't some Robert Ludlum novel, you know. What makes you think a Russian hacker would be the slightest bit interested in some obscure maths project? The guy is probably just buying some hot gear that's fallen off the back of a lorry. Stuff gets nicked all the time ...”

  “It's not just an obscure maths project.”

  “Yeah right, it's a cool hypnotic video file which gives you wacky dreams – yeah I got that, but it still doesn't sound like something you'd risk breaking and entering...” Brian paused, looking over Doug's shoulder. “Hey don't look now, but the kingpin of this international web of espionage has just entered the building.”

  Doug glanced over his shoulder.

  “Hey, I said don't look! You'll blow your cover,” continued Brian sarcastically.

  Zhirkov was leaning with one elbow on the bar, talking nonchalantly at the barmaid, while simultaneously scanning the room for someone more interesting. Momentarily, his gaze connected with Doug's, and then passed on without a hint of recognition. The barmaid was feigning interest, but appeared unimpressed with the man's display of over-familiarity.

  “He does look a right knob though!” said Brian. “What are we going to do?”

  “We're going to talk to him.”

  “And say what? 'Why did you hack my PC?' Don't be an idiot. What if he's friends with King Kong out there in the corridor? Do you want to get the other side of your face smashed in as well? I hear symmetrical scarring is very ‘in’ these days – Gok Wan told me.”