The Boss (7 page)

‘Not at all, no.'

‘Good girl. We'll pick one up in the High Street.'

He had obviously decided I couldn't possibly own a hoodie, and the way he said ‘good girl' seemed almost as condescending as having my bottom patted, but again he was oblivious to his own behaviour. Stephen's car was outside, a flashy silver Saab. He held the door for me, but somehow even that came across as a gesture of control rather than courtesy. Paul took their van, along with the equipment, and they already seemed to know where they were going, driving off separately.

Being alone with him in the car was worse than before, as without Paul around I kept wanting to say something about what had happened between us. If he was aware of my discomfort or felt any himself it didn't show, his manner as bland and affable as ever as he turned on the sound system.

‘I imagine you like music?'

‘Yes. Shall I choose a CD?'

‘No need. I can choose from six, already preloaded. Shall we have a little Albrechtsberger?'

It sounded like some weird Goth band, which gave me hope, but turned out to be church organ music. As with the sherry Stephen simply assumed that his taste was definitive, and I kept my thoughts to myself as we drove into town. He gave me a tenner to pick up a black hoodie at one of the market stalls and we drove on to my house, where he waited while I changed into jeans and trainers. I wasn't sure if they'd want me to change back later, and didn't want to have to ask to go back via the house, so I carefully folded my work clothes into a bag and took it with me.

Stephen made no comment, and took the Lynn Road, still humming along to Albrechtsberger as he drove. I couldn't help but notice that he was well over the speed limit, and slowed for the camera at Weeting just like everybody else. Whatever his attitude to lawbreakers it clearly didn't extend to driving too fast, or perhaps he simply felt that such things didn't apply to him, which wouldn't have surprised me in the least.

He came to a stop at the mouth of one of the logging tracks, where the van was already parked. It was a place I knew well, not the best spot for parking up because there were often peeping Toms in among the bushes, but I had happy memories of coming under Dave Shaw's fingers as he whispered filthy things into my ear. There was also a smear of rust and char on the ground at one side, evidence of a yet more discreditable episode in which I'd been involved. Paul was already out of the van, looking down the path that led into the woods.

‘This should be ideal. We'll go a little way in to avoid
traffic noise and I'll fix the camera at about five metres.'

The path was certainly pretty. No timber had been taken out of that part of the wood for years so the sides of the track had grown in, leaving just a single grassy path running between banks of ferns and long grass, then well-grown bushes with big oaks rising beyond them. We walked in, the foliage quickly closing until I needed to push the taller ferns aside to stop them tickling my face.

We stopped where the oaks gave way to a pine plantation, now mature, so that thick trees rose in ranks with open space below them, while the path was considerably more open. One of the younger oaks looked ideal, and Paul had quickly pulled himself up into the branches. Stephen passed him the camera and set up the power source while it was fixed in place. Just as they'd predicted, it was hardly noticeable from ground level unless you knew it was there. Stephen thought the same.

‘We could leave it for a while, Paul. A field test would be useful.'

‘Who's going to come past?'

‘A few people use the track, dog walkers I suppose.'

‘I'd rather stay close in case anyone notices it and decides they'd like a camera.'

‘Fair enough. Once we've done the take of Felicity we'll wait nearby for a while. OK, Felicity, we need you to start out of range so the camera can track you.'

I walked further down the track. Here was my chance to test the camera and see just how little of my face it needed to see to recognise me. Just walking away from Stephen restored something of my determination, and when Paul called out for me to stop I
pulled the hood around my face and slouched forward, deliberately looking at the ground. Ahead of me, Stephen was crouched at the base of the oak tree, peering at the laptop they'd rigged up to the camera, and he didn't speak until I'd almost passed him.

‘I don't think you have to look quite that suspicious, Felicity.'

‘Sorry.'

I'd looked around as he spoke, dislodging my hood, and at that instant the laptop pinged. It had recognised me, with maybe half my face showing and from above and behind, which was far too good for my liking. Not for theirs, as Stephen confirmed.

‘Positive ID. Excellent. Right, if you could just run through that again, Felicity, and don't overplay it.'

I went back, this time with my hoodie open. The laptop signalled its triumphant ping when I was only halfway there. It was far too good and almost hoodie-proof. Both of them were well impressed, Paul speaking down from the tree as I went out of camera shot.

‘Excellent, and that last take is easily good enough to use. That should impress them.'

Stephen agreed, at least in part.

‘Yes, but we need a bullet point, something to really catch their attention. Felicity, you brought your office clothes with you, I believe? Would you mind changing into them and perhaps putting your hair up, to make you look as different as possible? That way we can demonstrate how the system uses facial indexing and can ignore minor changes.'

‘OK, but how does that work?'

‘A lot of systems simply take an image and compare it with others to get a match, in which case a new haircut or even putting on glasses will fool them. With
the ZX it establishes a series of readings based on the bone structure of your head, which as you can imagine is far harder to fool.'

I gave what I hoped was an understanding nod. We were finished, done and dusted, or to use Steve's favourite phrase, buttered and buggered. Nor was I particularly happy about changing my clothes. It was a simple enough thing; I've always rather liked showing off, and they'd didn't have to see anything anyway, but somehow it seemed to be one more act of submission. I'd be undressing close to Stephen English. To all intents and purposes he'd ordered me to take my clothes off. The fact that it wasn't for sex didn't matter – it was going to turn me on.

To make matters worse, I couldn't even flirt, not that I was going to do anything obvious, not after last time, because Paul was there and I very definitely didn't want him getting the wrong end of the stick. I caught myself biting my lip as I retrieved my bag from the car, and spent ages choosing a quiet place in among the ferns to undress. Even then I was so carried away with the idea of Stephen ordering me to strip that I had my knickers half down before I remembered that it was completely unnecessary.

It was just as well that I'd gone well in among the trees, because somebody passed with a dog while I was changing and would definitely have got an eyeful if I hadn't been careful. Just hearing them pass made me blush and hurry to pull my skirt up, and immediately wonder what was happening to me, Fizz, who'd play topless in the band and flash my knickers in the street for the hell of it.

They were waiting, Stephen with his full attention on Paul's explanation of how the camera tracked
movement, as if making me strip to my undies in the middle of a wood was of no consequence whatsoever. I knew it shouldn't have been either, but I couldn't get it out of my head. I found myself smiling and hoping he'd say something as I waited for them to finish talking. He did, sort of.

‘Felicity, splendid, you look human again. Now if you could just walk through as you did before.'

I went through the same simple routine and, as before, the laptop pinged long before I'd reached the oak tree. Stephen gave me a thumbs-up as if I'd done something clever and I continued until I was sure I was no longer in shot. Paul was the first to speak.

‘Perfect. You're a natural, Felicity.'

‘That was hardly difficult.'

‘You'd be surprised. A lot of people can't help but keep looking at the camera, or just appear self-conscious.'

‘Are we done then?'

Stephen had closed the laptop and glanced at his watch as he spoke.

‘Just about. We should wait for a few more people to pass to see how the camera reacts, and then I don't know about you two, but I could do with a bite of lunch.'

He was so utterly indifferent to other people's privacy that I just had to say something.

‘Might people not object?'

‘I don't see why. Besides, they're unlikely to notice.'

His arrogance really was breathtaking, but he was right about nobody noticing. In the time we spent waiting three people passed, two just minding their own business and the third walking her dog. Stephen decided that was enough for the time being, and we
left, first for lunch at the Green Man and then back to the office. They were very confident about making money, casually putting an expensive lunch on the company accounts, including a bottle of strong red wine which left them in an easygoing mood for the afternoon.

I didn't seem to have anything to do, so I played with the computer, first pretending to study the system and then looking at the images they'd downloaded from the laptop. As with my own and theirs, each had a number, first a jogger, the man who'd passed while I was dressing, then a shifty-looking man who might just have been going for a walk, or not. Enough gay guys cruise the area to make me wonder, but there was only a slight nervousness in his manner to suggest his intentions were anything other than completely innocent. Next came the jogger going the other way, and last an elderly and prim lady with her dog. I couldn't help but smile at the way the camera had reacted, recording not only her face, but that of the dog, which was a big old mastiff with huge jowls and a bad case of doggy drool.

Stephen and Paul were impressed with the results, and immediately decided to install a more carefully hidden camera and get some more. I was left to mind the shop, first trying to be good by sitting attentively behind my desk, then playing minesweeper on the computer. I almost gave into my curiosity to explore, but it occurred to me that a pair of control freaks like Stephen and Paul probably had the entire warehouse wired, and I had no intention of providing video evidence of me going through their things, or even scratching my bum for that matter.

Instead I began to play with the database, first
looking at my own head and Stephen's from different angles, then exchanging his for the slobbery mastiff, only to quickly set things straight for fear I would leave some sort of electronic trace. It was a terrible feeling, not being sure if I was being watched or tracked in some way, and I knew it would be worse once their system was set up in the town. There would be no escape, nowhere I could be sure I wasn't observed except the deepest woods, and then only because I was likely to know where the cameras were.

The thought made me feel tense, adding to my unease at the reactions Stephen English provoked in me. I've always hated men like that, who think the whole world should dance to their tune, and it wasn't just his general attitude either. He was a condescending bastard to me personally, so why did I have such a strong urge to go down on my knees to him, naked, and pay court to his cock and balls until he'd satisfied himself in my mouth.

When they got back they were well pleased with themselves. They'd put up six cameras in various locations in the Breckland, and I at least had a chance to see the map they'd made before I left. Two lay-bys were covered, along with four sections of logging track, all quiet, likely places for the sort of mischief I love. I'd decided to fight my emotions and tried to be cold and formal, but as before Stephen appeared completely oblivious, behaving towards me exactly as he had earlier.

My head was full of contradictions as I walked back home. It was a beautiful evening, tempting me to go out, but I couldn't help but think of those cameras, and that I had to be up for work in the morning. It was as if something had taken up residence in my head, like a
prissy guardian angel chiding me for my behaviour and providing instructions on how to correct myself. After tea I began to feel tired as well, and it would have been all too easy to slump in front of TV and give up, only for a white knight appearing in the extremely unlikely form of Dave Shaw, who rang for me, greeting Mum in his usual suave manner.

‘Fizz in?'

‘One moment, I'll call her. Felicity, it's your friend David.'

My angel was telling me I had work in the morning and that Dave was a bad influence, and that he was a spotty little oik unworthy to tie the laces of Stephen English's immaculate black brogues, but I went to the door. He was as lanky, red-haired and scruffy as ever, the complete scally, and behind him, parked right across our driveway, was an ancient, rusting Rover 800. Mum had gone in.

‘Where did you nick that? Why did you nick that?'

He sounded genuinely hurt as he answered.

‘It ain't nicked. It's mine. I got it down Reardon's Scrapyard. It's a 2.7. You coming?'

It was a death trap, but I was coming. I had to get out.

‘Sure.'

He was grinning all over his face as we ran out to the car. I knew what he wanted, and I knew that he knew I'd turn him down too, but we'd enjoy the drive anyway. Sure enough, he headed out on the Lynn Road, exactly the same route Stephen English had taken that morning, and with more stopping places per mile than any other I know. Like Stephen he drove fast, only instead of the muted purr and effortless power of the Saab there was a gravelly, complaining rumble to the
Rover's big but ancient engine. Only when we'd passed the Weeting did he pay any attention to the way I looked, and then he tried to make it a compliment.