Deep Fried: A Novel
Page 17
‘You’re full of shit.’
‘I know there’s more to it than the research programme.’
Sophie spits it out quickly, words like bullets, pinning the aggressors down.
‘I know how Herb Stantiall died. I know about a meeting between Holly Ford and the head of the UGrow corporation, and I know the name of the account set up by the UGrow subsidiary where the first payments were made. I even have the names of the people who set that account up.’
‘So?’ Lucinda bluffs, but I’ve seen that look before. The eyes darting to Marcus’s, that desperate little call for help.
‘So, I’m just a little girl Lucinda, who’s going to listen to me? But have you heard of Michelle Stephens? She’s the London journalist who covered your libel trials in ’ninety-eight and has been after you ever since. And here’s the funny thing, Lucinda, now she knows everything I know. Every link, every detail. I copied them all across, and I’ve hidden them in places you’ll never find. And she’s got them too.’
Lucinda steps forward. Sophie doesn’t move. I’m still scared. I like so many things about Sophie, I like the way she talks at them, I like the way she thinks she’s bullet proof, but that’s not the same as believing in her. I can think of so many good reasons to hate Lucinda, but I do believe in her. Even now, seeing her this shaken, I still believe she’ll find a way of crushing Sophie, crushing us both. All I can do is watch. And hope I’m wrong.
Lucinda starts a slow, sarcastic clap.
‘Well done, Sophie. All very clever. But even if you’re right, even if there is some story that’s going to be run – and trust me, I’m sure we can find ways of stopping it from ever going to print – it still doesn’t get around the fact that you’re here, with us, and while a few moments ago the people I work for might have wanted to kill you to keep you from talking, now it’s going to be just punishment. So what’s the reason for that stupid big smile on your face again?’
My question too, actually. There’s something throat-dryingly terrifying, hearing someone discuss your death. Sophie though, doesn’t seem at all concerned.
‘I’m smiling, Lucinda,’ she replies, not missing a beat, ‘because you and Marcus are going to get us out of here.’
‘And why would we do that?’
‘Because you’re heroes, both of you,’ Sophie says, and I still don’t see it coming.
‘See, tomorrow morning, when this story makes the news, all over the world I should say, you’re going to be household names, both of you. You didn’t think a renowned journalist would take much notice of a little girl did you? But she did take notice of the emails she got from two high level PBs employees. That was the biggest bonus of having access to both your accounts. I simply became you. You’re world famous whistleblowers now: Marcus and Lucinda, the ethical face of the corporate world. I should think they’ll want you to go on Oprah. One day, they might even make a film about you. Two young, attractive industrial psychologists who are asked to brainwash a brave young boy, but are hit by a wave of conscience, and at great risk to themselves, steal classified electronic information and pass it on to a British journalist. Oh, they’ll run it alright. It’s too good a story not to. She offered you money for the information by the way, but well, you felt you had to turn it down.
‘What’s wrong? Not so big now are you? Look on the bright side. Your bosses aren’t going to be happy, and I don’t suppose you’ll ever get to work in the industry again, but think of the fame. Think of the glory. Doesn’t it just feel so much better, knowing you did the right thing? You’re my heroes, both of you. You truly are.’
I had a drama teacher whose favourite saying was ‘Silence speaks, let the silence speak!’ He had a lisp and we all took the piss, of course, but it turns out he was right. Silence, big, gobsmacking silence, shouts out all through that room. I watch their faces and it’s like some sort of sci-fi movie; they’re literally melting away before my eyes. Indestructible Marcus, immovable Lucinda, gone forever. I look at Sophie, and see the way the same silence polishes her white face, brings sparkle to her eyes.
I’m cold. So very wet and cold. I walk into my room and get a sweatshirt, and no one tries to stop me. They can’t. There isn’t a thing they can do. It’s just so brilliant. I bring out a top for Sophie too, and the rest of my gear, packed into a bag. Lucinda and Marcus are still standing there.
‘Don’t suppose I could borrow your car keys, Marcus,’ I try. ‘I’d like to go home now.’
‘So walk,’ he snarls.
‘That’s not very nice,’ I reply.
‘A walk’ll do just fine,’ Sophie tells me, taking me by the arm and guiding me to the door. I look back just as the first tear crests Lucinda’s cheekbone, and is drawn inevitably downwards.
And I don’t know why I do it, or what it means, that I should wave goodbye the way I do. I just know it feels right.
10
She walks towards me. Thirty I’d say, a child at her side. His chin reaches the top of the counter if he stretches. His eyes scan about, looking for sugar, but we’re not that sort of establishment. He looks at me accusingly, over the till I’m having so much trouble with. Jenny, the manager, thinks I’m a slow learner, but the truth is even less inspiring. I just don’t care enough. She explains, and I nod, and listen, and by the time a sentence is finished I have already forgotten how it started.
I can’t say exactly whose fault it is, that I am standing here. There is plenty of blame to share around. The school wanted me to go back and complete the year, but Jennifer told me I’d have trouble catching up, and it’d be better to work and make some money, for university next year. Not that money should have been a problem. PBs offered me 50 000 dollars, as a way of saying sorry, but Sophie told me that would be selling out, and Mum and Dad said if I wanted to stand by my principles they would be proud of me.
It’s three months since the last time anybody recognised me off the television. This week’s story is a little boy who tried to help a blind guy across the street and got bitten by his dog. And I’m back to being nobody, sinking slowly in the compost of other people’s decisions. Sophie found me the job. She’s an organiser. Dad likes her. Mum’s kept her opinions to herself. So have I.
It’s an organic, vegetarian cafe, but neither of these virtues is enough to keep the Pissed Off at bay. The customers here are usually angrier than I am. They come in looking for things I can’t give them; cures for ageing and endless peace of mind. The little boy is still hungry. He wants fries.
‘Where were these mushrooms grown?’ the woman asks. The mushrooms she refers to are represented only by a dribble of grey juice on an empty plate. Finish your food and then complain. It seems to be a rule.
I don’t know where the mushrooms were grown. I could find out but really, why would I want to? They’re just mushrooms.
‘A field, I think,’ I shrug. It says field mushrooms on the menu.
‘Did you know,’ she asks me, ‘that fields are crawling with genetically modified organisms?’ I shake my head. I didn’t know this. I don’t spend much time in fields.
‘It’s true.’ She will not be stopped. ‘The bacteria from the gut of the animal swaps genetic material with the bacteria in the soil. In the cow shit, right out there in the field, under our noses.’
‘If you come back at two, you can talk to the manager,’ I suggest.
‘I don’t have time to come back at two!’ she screams at me, and the little boy doesn’t flinch. Funny, what we grow used to.
She turns and storms righteously from the premises, her bill unpaid.
‘Have a nice day!’ I call after her.
About the Authors
Bernard Beckett is a Wellington school teacher. His current obsessions are Immanuel Kant and DNA. He’s been known to eat the odd burger.
Clare Knighton is a student at Victoria University, where she studies Genetics and Theatre. She is a vegetarian.
Also by Bernard Beckett
Lester 1999
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br /> Red Cliff 2000
Jolt 2001
No Alarms 2002
Home Boys 2003
Malcolm and Juliet 2004
Copyright
Deep Fried is a work of fiction. All the characters, places and incidents are a figment of the authors’ imaginations.
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the written permission of Longacre Press and the author.
Bernard Beckett and Clare Knighton assert their moral rights to be identified as the authors of this work.
© Bernard Beckett and Clare Knighton
ISBN 978 1 775 53064 0
First published by Longacre Press, 2005
30 Moray Place, Dunedin, New Zealand
A catalogue record for this book is available
from the National Library of New Zealand.
Cover design by Christine Buess
Book design by IslandBridge
Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group, Australia