The Fool - Chapter Twenty ========================= I - It is Thursday morning. I feel dreadful. I am a little late in to work, and I can see through his door that Peter Chapman is here today. I sip at coffee apprehensively, and try to remember where I'd got up to yesterday. Oh yes, really_delete_record(). I decide I have done enough work on this for the moment, and move on to the next part of the task. This seems to be to do with optimising transactions. My brain glazes over and I stare at the page for a while without understanding any of the letters on it, let alone the words, or what the words might mean taken together. All at once it comes back into focus, and I understand what has to be done. Every time certain fields of a record are updated, a record of that update is made elsewhere in the database. This slows down everything by a factor of large. So, I am being asked to write code which will update those fields without the other record of that update being made. For speed. Speed my scrawny arse. No wonder he doesn't want me to talk to anyone else in the technical team. He isn't asking me to put a back door in the database. He's asking me to blow down all four walls of it, and create for him a personal remote control device which lets him alter the actual data at will, undetected. II -- There is a gaping flaw in his plan. As the one being asked to execute it for him, I have detected the whole thing. Oh well. Hang on. If the database really does contain some kind of important, sensitive data, surely there will be checks and balances in place on what kind of software gets access to it. They wouldn't just let any old code run willy nilly over the data without at least checking it first. Wouldn't they? If not, maybe the data isn't so important and sensitive after all, and Peter Chapman is just playing some larger game of politics that I do not and cannot understand, not knowing anything at all about the context. So I have detected nothing. As I am staring into space, wondering about this, Peter Chapman emerges from his office. "Ah Adam," he says. "Working hard I see." "Yes," I tell him. "Making headway." "Good good," he says. "Carry on." He disappears in the direction of the coffee machine, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He didn't mention that I was late in this morning, and he also didn't mention that yesterday I went and gave a copy of what looks to me like a highly incriminating specification document to his boss. There are a couple of things I'd like to ask him about, as it happens, but I can't get straight in my mind how to word them. "Peter, about this code to help you embezzle funds, I'm worried you won't be allowed to run it over the database with sufficient permissions to guarantee a reasonable return. By the way, what does this company actually do? Are we a bank?" No, that's not quite right. III --- I continue staring into space for most of the morning. I am not overly inspired to continue writing code. I fire up a web browser and sit there looking at it for a moment, trying to think of a single site I would like to visit. Hang on. How about the unofficial Society of Mysteries site. A quick search and voila. No mention of the mailing list, nor archive, but then the list is for members of the Order only. Some interesting looking articles though. I choose one at random. "That Within Us Which Does Sound A Trumpet" "'What is that within us which does sound a trumpet and all that is lower in our nature rises in response -- almost in a moment, almost in the twinkling of an eye?' wrote Arthur Edward Waite, in connection with the Judgement card, the twentieth Trump in the Tarot deck. What indeed? This article will present an overview of the answer to this question that is presented both implicitly and more overtly in the various rites and ceremonies of the Society of Mysteries. "It is clear..." I never do find out what is clear, because I am at this moment tapped on the shoulder, and whirl round in shock to find Peter Chapman standing there wagging an admonishing finger at me. "Come come, Adam," he says. "We're not logging your keystrokes any more, but we do log your web browsing. It's highly unfortunate for you that you chose to visit that particular site, since it raises a particular red flag for me, that one, and I don't approve of it." I close down the browser and mutter apologies, red-faced. "You do have the internet at home, don't you Adam," says Peter Chapman. "Please do your personal browsing there. Thanks." He stalks off, arrogantly, and I feel a surge of boiling, impotent rage. I sit there breathing deeply until it passes. There is nothing I can do. IV -- I spend lunchtime sitting in the caff growling imprecations at the paper, annoyed with it, annoyed with myself for not having brought a pen, annoyed with the food for being no good, and annoyed with myself for having had the same egg, bacon, sausage and chips twenty-four times in a row before realising this. At least the tea isn't too bad. V - Shortly after lunch, three uniformed police officers arrive and arrest Peter Chapman. The operation takes place extremely quietly and smoothly. They arrive at the door of his office, walk straight in, closing it behind them, talk to him quietly for a little while, then the door opens again, and they leave, with him in handcuffs. I stare open-mouthed into space for a while. I am uncertain as to the correct office etiquette for when your boss has just been arrested. I have no idea what I should do. Until now, it has not bothered me one whit that I have been working pretty much on my own, but at this point, I feel a definite need to consult someone more experienced than myself in such matters. I pick up the phone. "Julie," I say, as she answers. "I have a query." She laughs for a long time. "Ah Adam," she says, eventually. "Yes. I thought I might hear from you." "Funny that," say I. "Yes," she says. "I must admit I don't really know what's happening either, but you are right, Peter has just been arrested. We thought it was going to be this morning, but it wasn't. Anyway. Colin's told me to tell you not to panic, and not to go anywhere for the moment. I'll call you back in a little while when I've found out what's supposed to be happening to you. Ok?" "Thanks," I say. VI -- A little while later Julie rings back and tells me that she's spoken to Colin, and that he's said there isn't really any reason for me to be there any more, and that they can let me go. "Let me go as in let me go?" I say. "Go as in go home," she says. "Or to the pub. Or wherever you like. Lucky you." "What about tomorrow?" I ask, and there is silence on the other end for a while. "Colin didn't say anything to me about that," she says eventually. "You came to us through an agency, didn't you? I think you should ring them and see what they say. Permatemp, wasn't it?" "Yes," I say, feeling sick. "Permatemp." "So call them," she says. "Anyway. Nice to meet you briefly." "Likewise. Does this mean you're not organising me a leaving do?" I ask. She laughs. "No," she says, "I was going to invite you to Peter Chapman's, but that's been cancelled." I laugh, not entirely hollowly, and wish her goodbye. VII --- Rochelle, from Permatemp, when I finally get her on the telephone, is suitably irate on my behalf. "Oh Adam," she says. "I'm so sorry those people have messed you around so badly. I'm very upset with them. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about it. Very unusual circumstances." "Ye.." I say, but cannot get a word in edgeways. "I suppose it's obviously not their fault that Peter Chapman was arrested, but unfortunately, since he was the only who signed the contract on their side, they've been telling us that there's no reason to honour it. I think we could possibly pursue it, but, I'll be very honest with you Adam, I've been told not to, because we do get quite a lot of business from them overall. Which rather leaves you in the lurch, I'm afraid." "I..." say I, but get no further. "They did agree to pay you up until the end of the week, though, which I think is the least they can do. And I promise I'll put you at the top of my priority list for the next suitable thing that comes up, so hopefully I'll have some good news for you very soon. And that's all I can do, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Adam." "I..." I say, expecting to be interrupted, and faltering in surprise after not so being. "Er, so, that's it here, then, they don't want me to come back tomorrow." "No, Adam," says Rochelle. "No, they don't." "Oh," I say, the realisation slowly sinking in. "That's it then." "Yes," says Rochelle. "And you've got the afternoon off. Lucky you, wish I did. Anyway, I'll call you tomorrow, as I say, hopefully with some good news. Take care now, Adam." "Bye," I say, feeling dizzy. VIII ---- I am in Simon's local, enjoying the increasingly incredulous expression on his face as I tell him the story. "So wait," he says. "Let me get this straight. This guy hired you to do some kind of dirty work on a database for him, you told his boss about it, then next day he got arrested and they sacked you because they didn't need anyone to do this guy's dirty work for him any more." "Yeah, that's about right," I say. "Your round, I think." He goes to the bar, and I light a cigarette, puffing on it nervously. I have rejoined the ranks of the resting temporary office workers quite unexpectedly, and the idea is making it hard for me to relax. Not that I have ever been accused of being the world's most laid back person, it occurs to me. And on the other hand, it is four thirty in the afternoon, and here I am in the pub, chilling out with a mate. No-one can say I am not trying to relax. Simon returns with the beers. "Cheers," I say, raising my glass. "To the Eternal Now, may we figure out the right thing to do with it. Particularly me." "Cheers," says Simon. "Me too." We drink. "Listen," says Simon. "There's this jazz jam in South London tonight, supposed to be amazing. A place called the Paradise. I'm going down there later on. Want to come?" "Yeah," I say. "Why not." Simon smiles. "I thought you'd say no," he said. IX -- We are delayed on our way to South London by the necessity to go and first buy, then smoke some weed, which turns out to be even better than Simon's last lot, which slows us down still more, though not unpleasantly. Our delay is further compounded by hunger, a problem Simon solves by boiling pasta and throwing various ingredients into one of the pots in the squat kitchen until the resulting mixture bears a close enough resemblance to pasta sauce to be pronounced edible. When the food is ready, Simon turns out, much to my surprise, to have half a bottle of wine left, with which we wash down the meal. "How do you do that," I ask Simon. "Do what?" he says. "Manage to hang on to half a bottle of wine like that." "Easy," says Simon. "When I open a bottle of wine, I don't necessarily drink all of it at once. You should try it some time." "I thought there was a law," I say, stoutly, "about not leaving bottles of wine undrunk." "No," says Simon, gently. "No there isn't. What do you think corks are for?" I have to admit to him that I hadn't thought of that. X - When we finally get to the Paradise it is gone ten and Simon is worried that we will have missed most of the music, but guy on the door assures us that we haven't missed very much, it is just starting now. Inside, the place is crowded, and Simon heads straight for the bar. A quartet of bass, guitar, drums and saxophone are playing some relatively demure bebop tune, but there is an expectant buzz in the air. A gaggle of musicians with trumpets and saxophones are hovering on one side of the stage and a few people are already dancing. I join Simon at the bar, and he hands me a drink. "Cheers," he says. "Cheers." The tune finishes, and a ripple of applause runs around the room. I turn back to the stage and the saxophone player has been replaced by a trumpet player. The bass and drums start playing an insistent, raw beat, and the trumpet player is making hand signals at someone, indicating they should join him on stage. I turn to Simon and begin to say something, but he waves me silent and points back at the stage. Two stunningly attractive women have joined the trumpet player, one tall, with shaved hair and large purple sunglasses, one shorter, with long blonde hair and... My heart nearly stops. Bea and Beth. The next instant, they both start singing. I am completely blown away.