The Fool - Chapter Sixteen ========================== I - "So how's your new job then?" says Simon. He is dishevelled as ever, his long curly hair pulled back in a pony tail and wearing, I swear, the same grey jumper as the last time I saw him, months ago. The pub, his local, is small and dark. I like it. "A nightmare," I tell him, taking a large swig of my pint. "God it's good to get to the pub after a hard day's work." "Better watch it mate," says Simon, "this is only the first day." "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I tell him. "Anyway. So what have you been up to?" "Fighting, mainly." "Fighting?" "For the squat. We had a little trouble with the guy who owns it. He's been off in the South of France for the last ten years, but he turned up in London a couple of months back and started trying to make us leave." "What happened?" "Well, we made it clear to him that we weren't going to leave without putting up a fight, that he'd left the building empty for ten years and that we'd made it into a community centre blah blah blah, and while yeah, he probably would win in the end, we're pretty sure he's decided it wouldn't necessarily be worth his while, right now." "And?" "And he went away again. Back in the South of France now, apparently. Vive Marseilles, or whatever." "Marseilles?" "I don't know. Wherever." II -- "Anyway," says Simon. "What is it you're actually doing? This job thing." "I don't know yet. Something to do with databases." "Oh right. What's the company called?" I think for a moment, and realise I am not sure. I tell Simon so, and he laughs. "I got the job through an agency," I protest. "Didn't they tell you the name of the company? They always used to do that when I did temping, years ago. Helps when you're trying to find the place." "Yeah, they did tell me, but I forgot." "Alright then, what do they do, this Mystery Company X?" says Simon, still laughing. I think a moment more and realise that I have no idea. Simon is by now in hysterics. "Sorry, Adam. Sheesh," he finally manages to spit out. "So. You're working for a company you don't know the name of, who do something you don't know what, and for the moment, you don't know what you're doing. Is the money good?" "It's not bad," I say. He snorts. "It better be," he says. "Seriously, what is it? Like a bank or something?" "I don't think it's a bank, no. Definitely something financial sector, though. Insurance maybe? Whatever it is, they have lots of databases and number crunching to do. I was doing data entry for them before they gave me this new job." "Oh," Simon whistles softly. "Ri-ight." He nods. "Yeah," I say, "You're right. I'm basically sucking Satan's cock in a blindfold. I know." "Your words not mine," says Simon. III --- "Anyway," says Simon. "Who's this Dave, and why is he staying with me?" "I was going to ask you that." "And what about this Society of Mysteries thing? What's that?" "Well," I say with a sigh, "it's some kind of occult study group. With grades and ceremonies and initiations. I've..." I stop. "You've?" asks Simon. I say nothing. "You've what?" Simon says. "I've... well... been to a couple of their meetings." "Well good for you," says Simon. "I mean, you need to get out more." "Thanks," I say. "I'm sorry but you do. Cheers." We clink glasses, and drink. "Your good health," I say. "Anyway," says Simon, with a grin, "do these people have the secret of Life, the Universe and Everything?" I grin back. "Dunno," say I. "But there are cute women at the meetings, I'll bet," says Simon. "And Dave's in charge of the Brighton branch." "Is he?" say I. "That's what he told me," says Simon, finishing his pint, and handing me the glass. "Your round, I think. I'll have the same again." I down mine in turn and head for the bar, lost in thought and frowning. I haven't told Simon about Beth yet. Maybe I shouldn't. IV -- "Anyway," says Simon, as I return with the pints. "Ta. What about this girl who's dumped you? The silly bint. She'll regret it, you know. Don't you worry." "She's not a silly bint," say I. "She... oh." "Oh dear," says Simon. "Dear oh dear." "Yeah well," I say. "You know. It's stupid really. I wasn't seeing her for that long, and..." "How long?" "I don't know, a few weeks, a month, or something. Anyway, not much happened, and..." "You slept with her, though?" "Yes. And then she got signed and said she was very..." "She got what?" "Signed. She got signed." "Signed as in record company signed?" "Signed as in yes she's a musician and a singer and a very good one, and it so happened that she just got signed, yes." "Wow," says Simon. "Which she took as her cue to tell me goodbye," say I. "She told me that now that she'd got signed she was going to be very busy and that was why she wasn't going to be able to see me any more. That was a couple of days ago, I think. Thursday, even. Yeah. Signed on Tuesday, dumped me on Thursday." "Woah," says Simon. "That's got to hurt." "Ow," say I. "Your health," says Simon, raising his glass. "Cheers." We drink in silence for a while. V - "I don't care," says Simon. "I still say she's a silly bint. A silly signed bint. What's her name?" "Beth," I say. "Beth." "Bethbeth," says Simon. "Catchy." I growl, and he stops laughing. "Ok, ok," he says. "Sorry. I don't even want to ask what her surname is, I'm scared you'll tell me you don't know." I say nothing and frown furiously. "Aw, come on," says Simon. "You know I'm only joking. Come, let's finish these and go for a smoke. I've got some nice weed at the moment." We drink up and go back to the squat. The place is clean and has a hallway full of leaflets and posters. There is large room with a piano, a sound system and a bar; there are various smaller rooms upstairs and along a corridor. Simon's room is upstairs. The place is an explosion of books, papers and assorted dismantled computers spread over every available surface and the floor area. Bits of mattress poke through the piles of papers on one side, which Simon sweeps aside into the larger pile at the foot of the mattress. He lifts a pile of papers by the bed to reveal a small wooden box, and opens the lid. Inside is a small plastic bag containing something gnarled and green. Simon opens the bag and holds it out to me. "Smell that," he says. We proceed to sit down and get very stoned. VI -- I am still feeling pleasantly dreamy when I get into work the next morning. The coffee almost tastes good to me. Peter Chapman is not in this morning, but he has left me a small task which has to do with fixing something in and adding something to one of the databases. The task is clearly set out in the specification he has given me, and it is obvious that I don't actually need to know what the whole thing is for, I just need to write the code needed to complete the task. And they are paying me in money. I'll be able to move to a larger bedsit. Or get a new computer. Or something. I reread the specification. I am prevaricating. I have opened a new file, and written some comments at the top, but I haven't actually written any code yet. I won't have to tell people I'm a temp any more. I feel a small surge of something shiver down my spine. I'll be able to tell people I'm a programmer again. Except women, where I'm still probably better off lying and saying I'm a temp. I laugh to myself and sip my coffee. Enough of this nonsense. I have code to write. VII --- Peter Chapman arrives at about three o'clock in the afternoon, looking extremely hassled. After a while he emerges from his office looking a great deal calmer, gets a coffee, and comes over to me. "Ah Adam," he says, clearly making some effort to appear relaxed. "Do you have a moment?" "I do," I tell him. "In my office," he says, leading the way. We sit down in his office, and he leans back in his chair and stares at me in silence for a moment, sipping at his coffee. The light glints off his Motorhead tie-pin, and I wish I had brought my coffee in with me. "Actually, could you shut the door please," he says, at length. "No, don't worry, I'll do it." He closes the door and returns to his seat. "What I have to say to you doesn't leave these four walls, ok? I spoke to the police today, Adam. All the seniors in the Order have. Turns out these two Brighton kids were very involved in the Order and had been for some time. "We've been co-operating fully with enquiries, and all that, and the police have told us that they're pretty sure it was drugs now, and that no matter what bullshit they might print in the papers, they are satisfied that we are just a study group with a hierarchy that organises and performs regular rituals and ceremonies, and that we are not Satanists, do not worship Satan, and have nothing in any way against the Church any more than we have against the Buddhists or the Mormons. And why should we? "Nor are we in favour of being found dead in cars, as we have told the police, which is why we are happy to co-operate with them. We have nothing to hide. And so on." VIII ---- "Anyway," says Peter Chapman. "The point is, that there is a very tiny outside chance that the police may also ask to talk to you. In which case, I want to ask you to be sure that you do as we have all done, that you co-operate fully with their enquiries." "I will," I say. "If I, er, need to." "Quite," says Peter Chapman. "And at the same time as co-operating fully with their enquiries, remember, there's no need to tell them about the fact that we happen to work together, not unless they ask." "Fine, fine," I say. "Also, I want you to remember that you signed a non-disclosure agreement along with that contract, yesterday." "Right," I say, less certainly. "Please don't tear either of those documents up." Peter Chapman looks thoughtful. "I'm sure they don't give a shit what you do at work, exactly," he continues, "but if they should ask, just remember, you don't need to go into detail, and if they do start asking you to tell them anything specific that would break the NDA, don't call a lawyer, call me. I'll get you a lawyer." I nod slowly, digesting this, not really understanding a word. There's only a tiny outside chance the police will call on me anyway, right, so, can I go back to my code please. Peter Chapman smiles at me. He seems relieved. "As I say," he says, "there's only a tiny outside chance of it, anyway. Well, thanks Adam. How are you doing on that task I gave you?" "Oh, yeah," I say. "Getting my head round it slowly." "Well," says Peter Chapman. "Good. Carry on." IX -- I am just getting into the code I am writing when my phone rings. Not my mobile, but the one on the desk, which, I realise, as I answer it, I have never used before. "Hello Adam," says a nasal voice. "I've got the police for you. Please hold the line." "Thanks," I say. The line is passed to a friendly sounding constable, who informs me that Brighton CID are investigating the deaths of Jason Reeves and Annie Fry, and that they understand that I went to a party with them and stayed at their house the weekend before they died. They would like me to come down to such and such a station and give them a statement. Nothing to worry about, just a routine statement. I tell him sure, that will be fine, and he tells me that this is great, there is no big hurry, I can come straight after work if I like. Or, he is implying heavily, without actually saying so, whether or not I like. "I'll come straight from work," I say. X - "So lets recap," says the policeman for the tenth time. "You were with your girlfriend Beth, in London, on Friday night. You decided to go to Brighton on Saturday afternoon. You got to Brighton Saturday evening, and went to the pub where you met Jason and Annie. You went out drinking with them, and then you went back to their place, where you and Beth stayed the night. You yourself were very drunk, you say, and you don't remember much of the evening. When you woke up there was no-one there, and you did nothing, touched nothing, left the house, found Beth, and drove back to London." "Yes," I say. "What I still don't understand it, how you found Beth. You say you didn't ring her?" "She was just there on the street," I say. "She'd gone for a walk, I was driving down the street, and there she was." "I don't know," says the other policeman. It is gone midnight. We have been at this for some time. Whether or not they are going to keep me in overnight is about to become a moot point. "Are you charging me with anything?" I ask, for the tenth time. "No," says the first policeman. "But we do need this statement." Apparently, they are not happy with the one I have given them. Reading it back, nor am I. None of this makes any sense to me.