Web Site Story (16 page)

'speedo,' said Mr Pokey and speedo hovered in the air. 'big truck rumble, fight night fifty, dog tattoo and maggot farm.' And up they came and dangled in the air.

'You know them all,' said Mr Pokey. 'And of course the search is on for even better and better. Better, faster, trickier, more challenging for the game-player. Back at the turn of the century everyone was placing their bets upon virtual reality. But what of that now? When was the last time you ever saw a player in a headset?'

'Yes that's true,' said Kelly. 'Why do you think that was?'

'Fashion,' said Mr Pokey. 'Plain and simple. As with clothes, music, cars, art, architecture, home furnishings, everything. You don't have to go on inventing things. Coming up with new things all the time. That's not necessary. You have
Retro.
Retro music, retro fashion, retro architecture. It's an homage to the greatness of the past. That's what made Remington Mute, he made computers big and comfortable again, the way they used to be. The way that people got nostalgic over. And the games. They were
like
the old games. Only
better.'

'What makes them better?' Kelly asked. 'Is it the Mute-chip?'

'Mute-chip?' The big fat smile faded from the face of Mr Pokey. His gaze left Kelly's breasts and fixed itself upon her eyes. 'What do you know about the Mute-chip?'

'Well, nothing,' said Kelly hurriedly. And remaining very demure. 'I overheard two men talking about it, when I came into the building.'

'Did you indeed?' said Mr Pokey, leaning across his desk.

'I've no idea what it is. I thought it was only a Web Myth. Is it real? Is it something special?'

'Just product,' said Mr Pokey. But Kelly could see that he was pressing lighted pads that were set into his desktop.

'Anyway,' said Mr Pokey. 'I'm sure you'll learn all about the Mute-chip in the fullness of time. When you have risen to sufficient status within the company. But I wouldn't mention it in public if I were you. I am just replaying the CCTV footage of your arrival. If I can identify the two operatives, I will have them dismissed for their indiscreet talk.'

'No, please,' said Kelly. 'I wouldn't want that to happen because of me. They were whispering, actually. It's just that my hearing is very acute.'

'I wonder if you're lying,' whispered Mr Pokey.

'I can assure you I am not,' said Kelly. 'Now please tell me all about the job.'

'The job in hand', said Mr Speedy, 'is to promote Suburbia World Plc. Naturally this will be done mostly across the World Wide Web. But here, in this Luddite backwater, it must be done through the borough's official organ, the respected
Brentford Mercury.'

'It's a newspaper,' said Derek. 'Not an advertising circular.'

'But this will bring jobs to the borough.'

'We don't have an unemployment problem here,' said Derek. 'And we don't have any homeless people sleeping on the streets. Well, we do have one, Mad John. But every borough has a Mad John, it's a tradition, or an old charter, or something. He sleeps in a hedge and he shouts at shoes.'

'Shoes?' said Mr Shadow.

'Shoes,' said Derek. 'He roots them out of the black bin liners that people of a charitable persuasion leave outside the charity shop on a Sunday night. Mad John gets the shoes out and puts them on parade upon the pavement and gives them a good telling-off.'

'Why?' asked Mr Speedy.

'Because that's what he does. He's a local character.'

Mr Speedy had his tiny briefcase laptop jobbie open. He was pressing tiny little jobbie keys on it. 'Sunday evenings, you say?' said he. 'Outside the charity shop. That would be the one on the High Street would it? The sfsasbisoagh. The Society for Small and Shoeless Boys in Search of a Good Hiding.'

'What are you doing?' Derek asked.

'Putting it on the schedule,' said Mr Speedy. 'All we have down for Sunday evenings so far is', he pushed more keys and peered at the screen, 'watching Old Pete plant sprouts in Allotment World…'

'Allotment World?' said Derek.

Mr Speedy read from the screen. 'Enjoy a real-life safari across Brentford's very own horticultural kingdom and wild-life preserve. Can
you
spot the giant feral tomcat of legend? Identify twenty-two different species of sprout? Find the spot where the sacred mandrake grows…?'

'Mandrake?' said Derek. 'It grows in Brentford?'

'A character called Old Vic grows it. We have a file on him. He used to be a prisoner of war.'

'I know,' said Derek, burying his face in his hands.

'So we'll add in this Mad John,' said Mr Speedy, punching keys. 'He shouts, you say? Is he violent?'

'Perhaps you should check that out for yourself.' Derek peeped up through his fingers.

'We will,' said Mr Shadow. 'We check everything out.'

'It's not a safe area, you know,' said Derek, straightening up. 'There was a big riot in the Arts Centre last night. I was in it. There was blood, I have bruises, would you like to see them?'

'I have bruises of my own,' said Mr Speedy. 'Mine are far more impressive than yours.'

'I'm sure they're not,' said Derek.

'Our company has a division that specializes in urban pacification,' said Mr Shadow. 'Any trouble from the locals will be swiftly dealt with.'

'Oh yes?' said Derek, the tone of sarcasm ringing in his voice. 'So what will you do, put a big fence around the borough as well?'

'Naturally,' said Mr Shadow. 'We can't have anyone sneaking into Suburbia World without paying.'

'Regarding pay,' said Kelly. 'You mentioned a certain figure yesterday that seemed very generous, particularly as the nature of my job here was somewhat unspecific. You mentioned a contract, has that been drawn up?'

'The figure stands, the contract has been drawn up. You will find the job itself challenging. It should appeal to you. You impress me as a young woman with highly competitive instincts. We at Mute Corp are always •working on new games. And we're always looking for qualified participants, players, to test the systems.'

'All right,' said Kelly. 'Well I'm up for it. I've played a lot of computer games in my time…'

'We're well aware
of that,'
said Mr Pokey.

'You are?'

'Of course. We have files on everyone.'

'Everyone?' said Kelly. 'You can't have files on everyone.'

'Mute Corp manages the Government's mainframe, which is linked to the armed services and the emergency services mainframes. Mute Corp manages the communications network. Mute Corp manages all of the World Wide Web.'

'You have to be kidding,' said Kelly.

'Oh no,' said Mr Pokey. 'And it's all there for the public to see. The Freedom of Information Act, you know. Check the Mute Corp web site. We have no secrets.'

'So tell me about this Mute-chip of yours.'

'The corporation's business dealings and interests are not a secret. Obviously the technology we develop
is.'

'And so your files on me said that I had potential as what? A games tester?'

'Absolutely. Your university career. Your access to the games library, at the university. You have a natural aptitude towards the playing of computer games. If your natural aptitude lay with mathematics we'd employ you in the accounts department. We only employ operatives according to their specialized skills. And everybody's skills are all on file. Everything's on file. Your whole life's on file. I can tell you the address where you are currently lodging. You wrote out an old-fashioned paper cheque for your landlady, Mrs…' Mr Pokey tapped keys, 'Mrs Gormenghast, and she's on file too, bought two pots of puce paint, serial number 10A/BC444 from Homebase in Chiswick last week. Everything is computer-linked.
Everything.
Surely you are aware of this?'

'Of course,' said Kelly. 'But it is a little frightening when you hear it being read out like that.'

'You haven't committed any crimes,' said Mr Pokey. 'You're a model citizen. No violations of penal codes. No misdemeanours.'

'No,' said Kelly. 'None.'

'You are an ambitious young woman and we are offering you a challenging position.'

'All right,' said Kelly. ‘I’ll take it.'

'Well of course you will, you wouldn't be here if you •weren't going to. Would you? So we'll get you all checked out…'

'Checked out?' said Kelly.

'Just the standard medical.'

'I see.'

'And then you will be highly paid for doing something you enjoy. What could possibly be better than that?'

Kelly thought about it. What
could
possibly be better than being highly paid for doing something you enjoy? Nothing really. And while she was doing this something, she \vould find out everything she needed to know about Mute Corp. Every little secret.

Or every
big
secret.

And yes, she
was
ambitious, and yes, she
was
highly competitive. And yes, not only would she beat their games, she would expose to the world whatever it was that Mute Corp had done to Big Bob Charker and those hapless souls who had apparently vanished from the face of the earth.

She would.

Oh yes she would.

'Right,' said Kelly. 'I'm up for it. I'll take the medical and get straight into your game.'

'Splendid,' said Mr Pokey. 'I knew you were perfect for the job. We never make a mistake at Mute Corp.' And his eyes were back on her breasts once more and the smile was back on his face.

Kelly smiled. 'Just one thing,' she said. 'What is the name of this new game of yours?'

'go mango,' said Mr Pokey.

'Yabba-dabba-dooby-dooby-do,
[12]
' said the doctor.

'Yabba-dabba-dooby-dooby-do-do,
[13]
' Kelly replied.

The doctor wore a stunning white concoction, wrought from bogusynthecatedextroselectroline, which had been sprayed over her body and a pair of Doveston holistic thigh boots with on-board chaos-generators, double reticulating splines and personal matrix engines, with rather spiffing Minnie Mouse bows on the toecaps.

'You have a working knowledge of Runese,' said the doctor. It was a statement rather than a question. 'It's only really the plebs who use it all the time. We professionals need more than forty words to get the job done. Don't we?'

'I'm sure you have accessed my file,' said Kelly. 'I have a degree in the Universal tongue. Did it on a night-school course six months ago on the Web. Along with Origami and Macrame. Not to mention Mantovani.'

The doctor didn't mention Mantovani.

'Please be seated,' said the doctor.

Kelly seated herself.

The doctor's office differed from that of Mr Pokey's, in that it wasn't the same. The walls of this office were adorned with garish blown-up photographs of industrial injuries. The doctor's desk was a transparent slab of plexiglas, and encased within it was a human skeleton. A
two-headed
human skeleton.

On the wall behind the desk were shelves. On these shelves were numerous preserving jars containing dissected human organs, heads, limbs and assorted bits and bobs.

Kelly was impressed by the collection. 'An impressive array of exhibits,' she observed. 'All the work of Hartley Grimes
[14]
?'

'Not my personal choice,' said the doctor. 'Mute Corp employed an interior designer to give the offices a makeover. An old chap called Lawrence someone-or-other. He was very fashionable back in the 1990s. And style never dates, does it?'

'Apparently not,' said Kelly.

'So let us get down to business, would you care to go behind the screen and remove all your clothing.'

'I had a medi-check only a month ago,' said Kelly. 'I was declared Double Al. It will be on my medical file.'

'Oh, it is,' said the doctor. 'But company rules are company rules and rules must be enforced.'

'But I
am
officially Double Al.'

The doctor fluttered her eyelashes. They were fibre-optic, tiny green and blue globes glittering at their tips. 'Everyone has to have six-monthly health checks,' she said. 'You and I both know this. Most illnesses have been eradicated. Disease is virtually unknown, the universal panacea chip that everyone is implanted with at birth sees to this. But there are certain specific minor ailments that I have to check for.'

'Such as?' Kelly asked.

'Have you ever heard of keamerphybriosis?'

'No,' said Kelly. 'I haven't.'

'Or haemoglottism? Or Sterling's syndrome?'

'No,' said Kelly, slowly shaking her golden head and teasing at her hair. 'I haven't heard of those, either.'

'Nor have I,' said the doctor. 'Nor has anyone else. Because I just made them up. But if you don't consent to me giving you a full body examination, they will be just three of the totally bogus incurable complaints that I shall type into your file to prevent you getting this job.'

'Why?' Kelly asked.

The doctor sighed. 'I would have thought that was patently obvious,' she said. 'I just want to see you with your kit off. It's a doctor thing. I thought it was taken for granted.'

'Oh,' said Kelly. 'Well why didn't you just say so?' And she went behind the screen and got her kit off.

'We seem to have got off to a rather poor start,' said Mr Speedy to Derek. Mr Speedy was sitting in the chair of Mr Shields. The chair that Derek should have been sitting in. Mr Speedy had his feet upon Mr Shields's desk and Mr Speedy was now sipping Scotch from the bottle Mr Shields kept in his drawer.

Derek sat upon a boxed computer part, which somehow had been overlooked when the rest went off to the Brentford constabulary.

'You see,' said Mr Speedy. 'Mr Shields has a job for life. It's in that absurd contract of his. But
you
don't. And
you
know it. Mute Corp pays your wages and Mute Corp expects each of its employees to give of his or her best. Do I make myself thoroughly understood?'

Derek grinned painfully and made a show of rubbing his hands together. 'So,' said he. 'Shall we get started on this exciting project? You were joking about the fence being put around the borough though, weren't you?'

Mr Speedy shook his head. And Mr Shadow shook
his
head. And slowly Derek shook
his
head as well. 'You
weren't
joking, then,' he said.

'It will benefit every Brentonian,' said Mr Speedy. 'Keep the riff-raff out and preserve the borough in its state of stasis. Mr Shields wanted to avoid any change here. Clearly
you
wish the same.
We
wish the very same. What could be more harmonious than that?'

'The locals won't take to any fences,' said Derek. 'They're all wound up at the moment as it is. People have been vanishing, the locals believe that The Rapture is in progress. They nearly killed this chap called Charker last night. Some lunatic bishop had them believing he was the Antichrist.'

'Charker?' said Mr Speedy and he looked at Mr Shadow. Mr Shadow did noddings towards Mr Speedy's briefcase laptop jobbie and Mr Speedy keyed letters in and peered at the tiny screen.

'Do you know where Charker is now?' he asked Derek.

Derek shook his head.

'But you would say that some kind of Christian fundamentalist revival is going on in the borough?'

Derek sadly nodded his head. 'It will probably blow over,' said he. 'These things usually do.'

'Oh no,' said Mr Speedy. 'We wouldn't want that. In fact I think we should positively encourage it.'

'What?'
said Derek.

'Is there a shrine?' asked Mr Shadow. 'There's always a shrine. A place where some miracle occurred. Like Lourdes, or Fatima, or Guadalupe, or that underpass in Paris where the spirit of Diana cured the beggar of athlete's foot.'

'I thought it was scabies,' said Mr Speedy.

'No, definitely Paris,' said Mr Shadow. 'But there's always a shrine. Do you have one here?' he asked Derek.

Derek hung his head in dismal affirmation. 'There is,' he said gloomily. 'My mum told me about it this morning. The Plume Cafe, where the tour bus crashed. People have been piling up bunches of flowers there. They say that the first man to be Raptured, was Raptured from there after the crash.'

'Malkuth,' said Mr Speedy, and he pronounced the unpronounceable name.

'Indeed,' said Derek. 'But how did you know
that?'

'Everything is on file,' said Mr Shadow. 'Everyone is on file. We at Mute Corp always make a point of disclosing this fact to those we deal with in business. It reinforces trust and discourages duplicity.'

'You mean you resort to blackmail, if they don't do what you want them to.'

Mr Speedy looked once more at Mr Shadow. 'Of course,' they said. 'It simplifies matters no end.'

'Well / have nothing to hide,' said Derek.

Mr Speedy laughed. 'You certainly have no secrets from us,' he said. 'But a bit of advice for the future. And strictly off the record. The next time you buy an old-fashioned computer game from a dodgy supplier, do it in cash. The movement of stolen goods is far harder to trace that way.'

Derek's jaw fell open.

'So let's not waste any more time,' said Mr Speedy. 'A massive marketing exercise is about to be put into motion. The Suburbia World Plc web site will be going online tomorrow and shares will be floated on the stock exchange by Monday next. We all want this to be a big success, don't we?'

Derek's jaw was still hanging open.

'Crad barges,' said Mr Shadow.

Derek's jaw moved up and then came down again. The word 'What?' came out of his mouth.

'Oh yes,' said Mr Speedy. 'The crad barges. Part of the Brentford Waterworld experience. The crad barges used to come down the Grand Union Canal to the Thames. We'd like some. At least three. To convert into floating restaurants. They'll go down the canal, into the Thames, around Griffin Island then back again. Serving local delicacies. One will be dedicated exclusively to sprout cuisine.'

'What?' went Derek. 'What?'

'Best get at least four crad barges,' said Mr Shadow. 'We can cannibalize one for spare parts.'

'I'm sorry,' said Derek. 'I don't understand what you are saying?'

Mr Speedy shook his head and a look of a certain sadness was to be seen on his face. 'You are to organize four crad barges,' he said. 'Acquire them.'

'Me?' said Derek. 'I'm a newspaperman.'

'You may now consider yourself a
company
man,' said Mr Speedy. 'And company men do whatever the company requires that they do. Unquestioningly.'

'Have you quite finished?' questioned Kelly. 'I fear that I have no more places left for you to probe.'

She lay naked and spreadeagled upon a cold steel table. About her lay a range of hideous intrusive medical instruments.

The doctor removed her surgical gloves and wiped away beads of sweat from her brow. 'You must want this job very much indeed,' she said.

'Oh I see,' said Kelly. 'This was some kind of initiation test, was it? To see how much humiliation I would be prepared to endure?'

‘I’ll pass you Double Al,' said the doctor. 'Please get dressed and report to Mr Bashful in Training.'

The office of Mr Bashful was hung with artworks. These were of the old school. Possibly St Trinian's. Mr Bashful wore an eight-piece light blue suit that was cut from a man-made fabric. His desk was made of wood and very dull indeed.

'Fabarooni,
[15]
' said Mr Bashful, as Kelly entered his office.

'Fabarooni-do,
[16]
' said Kelly.

'I'm very pleased to welcome you aboard,' said Mr Bashful. 'I think you're going to love it here at Mute Corp.'

'The experience thus far has been positively orgasmic,' said Kelly.

'Really?' said Mr Bashful. 'I was watching your medical examination on CCTV and you didn't seem to be smiling very much.'

Kelly chewed upon her Cupid's bow and teased at a lock of golden hair. 'Broadcast throughout the building, was it?' she asked.

'We have no secrets here.'

'Perhaps you'll let me watch the recording of your medical later, then.'

'You can watch it now if you -want.'

Kelly raised an eyebrow. 'No thank you,' she said.

'So,' said Mr Bashful. 'To work. To work. If you'd be so good as to walk this way.'

‘I’ll try,' said Kelly. ‘I’ll try.'

Mr Bashful led Kelly from his office and through many corridors. All were hung with priceless artworks. Some led somewhere, some led back from somewhere, others led to other somewheres, others back again. Finally one led to a single door, which Mr Bashful opened, with a special plastic card kind of jobbie. 'You'll be issued with one of these,' he told Kelly. 'It's a Unicard, gives you access to all the areas you're allowed access to. I'm allowed access to almost all areas, but that's because of my status.'

Kelly smiled at Mr Bashful. 'Security must be a big concern here,' she said. 'Are all these corridors and rooms covered by CCTV?'

'Gracious no,' said Mr Bashful. 'Only the reception area and the doctor's office. We have no need to spy upon our own operatives.'

'And this door leads to?'

'To your personal games suite. Come.' Mr Bashful ushered Kelly through the doorway. The chamber was small and had no windows. The ceiling was low. The walls were white. There was a desk with a computer terminal, there was a chair before the desk.

'Sit down,' said Mr Bashful, pointing to the chair. 'Key in your name and then follow the instructions you are given. What could be simpler than that?'

'Nothing,' said Kelly. 'But I do have a couple of questions.'

'Go on then.' Mr Bashful looked mildly irritated.

'Firstly,' said Kelly. 'I noticed that the door closed and automatically locked behind us. How do I get out if I have to use the toilet, or something?'

'Key in your request, someone will come.'

'I see,' Kelly nodded.

'So if that's all right, I'll be off.' Mr B. looked slightly nervous now.

'Secondly,' said Kelly. 'This computer terminal. It's a Mute Corp 3000 series. Surely a bit antiquated. I expected something far more state-of-the-art here.'

'You get what you're given,' said Mr Bashful.

'I see,' said Kelly. 'Would you mind putting it online for me then? It's a while since I've used this particular model.'

'Just click the mouse,' said Mr Bashful, in the manner known as brusque.

'How?' Kelly asked. 'Would you mind showing me?'

Mr Bashful's hands shot into the pockets of his eight-piece suit. 'All you have to do is click it,' he said. 'Even a woman can do that, surely.'

Kelly fluttered her eyelashes. 'I
am
only a woman,' she said.

'Just click it, go on, I'll be back later.' Mr Bashful turned to take his leave.

'Oh, one more thing,' said Kelly.

Mr Bashful turned back again. 'What is it
now?
he asked.

Kelly smiled and said, 'Only this,' and then she punched his lights out.

Derek's lights were on, but no-one seemed at home. 'Can I just get this straight?' he asked. 'You want me to acquire four crad barges?'

'And some Morris Minors,' said Mr Shadow. 'About fifty of those should do the trick.'

'Fifty Morris Minors? Why?'

'The car most seen on the streets of Brentford. It's all on file. Please let us not waste any more time.'

'But you can't expect me to do all this. I have a paper to put out. News to gather. Things of that nature generally.'

'You'll be issued with press releases,' said Mr Speedy. 'All will be taken care of. You have been chosen for this task on the grounds of your suitability. You know this borough. You are the local reporter.'

'I'm the features editor,' said Derek.