Dinner is lasagna and small talk about family members. Apart from her recently deceased mother, I knew Michelle’s brothers and father well and had enjoyed a good relationship with them until Michelle had taken herself away. Like all such separations, this one drove a wedge between many more people than just husband and wife.
I talk more about my amateur dramatics and Michelle tells me about her new job, working for an advertising company in the city. She complains about breakdowns on the bus in the mornings and I sympathize and grumble about the alternative difficulties involved in driving a car in the rush hour. The conversation is safe and impersonal until the plates are cleared away and we move into the living room with coffees.
I sit on the sofa, expecting Michelle to sit opposite: instead she perches herself beside me.
“It’s been good talking to you again,” she says. “Comfortable, like a snug old raincoat that you’d almost forgotten about.”
“Thanks,” I smile. “I love it when people compare me to their cast-off clothes.”
She laughs. There are tiny crease marks around her small eyes. “It was a compliment. Memories of the good times rather than the bad.”
“That’s okay. You seem better tonight. More cheerful.”
“Oh, I’ll survive. I’m starting to look forward instead of back.”
There’s a silence. I wonder what I’m doing here. The evening’s been filled with words but I have the feeling that nothing’s been said. Profound, huh? I’ve been holding back, waiting for Michelle to say what’s on her mind, even though it’s not in my nature to delay things. I always prefer to get things out in the open, to address problems up front. But in the end, it’s Michelle who speaks.
“I know you’re wondering. You want to ask but...” She puts her cup down and turns towards me. There’s a knot between her carefully plucked eyebrows. “I’ve said I was a fool. I’ve been thinking of you all the time recently. ‘What if’ thoughts. Is there any chance you can forgive me for what happened?”
I shrug. Deadpan face. “I forgave you a long time ago. I never thought it was your fault. I know I neglected you. It would be stupid to hold a grudge.”
“You loved me once. You said...”
“I know.”
“Is it dead after all this time?”
I’ve been wondering the same thing. The truth is, I still feel jealous when I think of her and the other man who took her away from me. Jealous when I think of her and the other men I guess she’s also had, either before or after the separation. Legally, she’s no longer my wife. But I feel responsibility for her, despite everything. And I had felt passion, in the early days. Desire. But love? I doubt now whether that was ever what I felt, but this is no time for brutal honesty.
“The fact is, I don’t know. This is all too sudden.”
“I understand. All I want to say is that I don’t think it’s dead, not on my part. If you think there’s a chance...” She realizes that she is rushing, pauses. A hand reaches up and an index finger smoothes the skin around her mouth, careful not to disturb the lipstick. “Sorry. I don’t want to pressure you, it’s just...”
“I’ll need time to think.” I look around, wondering why my simple life has suddenly become so complicated again, check my watch. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I’d better be on my way.”
We stand. She walks me to the hall and opens the door for me. As I brush past, she moves into my arms and holds me for a moment. “You don’t have to go home, you know.”
I hold her for a moment and then pull away. “I know, but... Give me some time.”
13
Praise-Jesus-For-He-Is-Lord Message Board.
Messages recorded at ***.***.*** **.**
Archangel The Lord will not be mocked. For He is a God of Love and Vengence and He is sore displeesed.
Satan-Slayer Brother, He will visit His wrath upon the blaspheemers and them that trespas against His Holly Word. And he will visit his vengence upon them that blaspheem and there children and there children’s children and they will fry in hell and be well and truly FUCKED, man.
Archangel Right, brother. Send your donations to Church of Loving Mother Mary, PO Box...
***
Scene—a studio news set. Cue anchorman with lead story: “Independent Presidential candidate Stephen Garner today released details of what he claims is an FBI investigation into alleged fraud by members of a law firm connected with Senator George Francis. Our political correspondent Gordon Saunders reports.”
Switch to a new backdrop. Capitol Building. A reporter stands in the foreground, talking into a hand-held microphone. “Details of the alleged FBI investigation were released to the news media today by Stephen Garner. The release follows controversial speeches in recent weeks by Mr Garner, in which he has alleged that both major political parties have been involved in covering-up cases of fraud and corruption involving their members.
“The information given to us today relates to a district attorney’s investigation into the business dealings of the Manhattan-based firm of solicitors, Zandar, Flint and Francis, three years ago. Now-Senator George Francis has been a partner in this practice for over thirty years, although his involvement is officially described as minor since his election to congress sixteen years ago.
“According to the information given out by Mr Garner, the district attorney’s office became involved after allegations by a former client of the firm that over twelve million dollars had been removed from a trust fund without the trustees’ approval. The money had apparently been used for other purposes by one or more members of Senator Francis’s firm, although it was returned to the trust fund at a later date.
“The information implies that Senator Francis was personally responsible for the disputed trust fund, that he was questioned by district attorney lawyers on three separate occasions and that he disclaimed all knowledge of the transactions that had led to the complaint. However, the matter doesn’t seem to have stopped there. Mr Garner says that subsequent information given to the FBI by an anonymous source claimed that Senator Francis was short of money at the time of the incident as he was being blackmailed over other aspects of his personal life.
“Eventually, the information goes on to say, the district attorney seems to have concluded that there was no hard evidence connecting Senator Francis to the problems with the trust fund. It appears that in the end there was an out-of-court settlement and the fund trustees decided to withdraw the charges.
“Senator Francis today declined to comment on the report but his campaign staff say that a full statement will be made tomorrow.
“In the meantime, Mr Garner refuses to say how the contents of supposedly confidential FBI files came into his possession, stating only that the information was delivered to the Garner campaign headquarters by an anonymous source.”
The picture switches back to the studio, where an anchorman takes up the story.
“Meanwhile, a senior representative of the FBI today denied that the information about Mr Francis had been released by the agency. Deputy Director Robert Solenski says that internal investigations have failed to establish how the alleged leak had occurred but that a full inquiry would take place.”
14
INTERNET alt.sex.juvenile
FROM: Sparky
TO: RagDoll/Newsgroup
Headlines
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***
I make an early-morning start. Take a run, practice the tae kwon do routines in the park, breathing deep. Forward kicks, jumping kicks, make as if you’re standing on a chair with one leg, scissor t
he other leg up, knee raised then spring the foot up. I try the difficult spinning kicks, the ones that look easy when you see them on Martial Law. Fall over. A woman jogger looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe she’s right. I sprint back home, take a quick shower then drive to the office to try to catch up on my paperwork, arriving long before anyone else. I ignore the phone, apart from placing a single call to Mac’s answer service, requesting a meeting later in the day.
Even at ten a.m., there are few people about, most of the staff working off-site with clients, and it is a moment before I realize that I’m not alone. I’m sitting with my feet on a window-ledge, reading a report. I swivel on the chair.
Kathleen is standing by the door. Strain on her face, skin round her eyes seemingly stretched taut. My stomach churns. I jump up from the chair and gesture for her to sit down. She perches on the edge of the seat, leaning forward slightly like a deer ready to flee.
“I’m all right,” she says, reacting to the concern in my eyes. “It’s just that... Well, I’m not sure where to start.”
“Just take your time.” I close the office door before pulling up another chair and sitting down opposite her.
“When I got to the Amalgamated office this morning, everyone was pretty crazy.” She’s rushing her words. She takes a deep breath and goes on slowly. “It seems that the boy who normally occupies the office I’ve been using was killed last night.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, shocked. “What was it, a traffic accident or something?”
She shakes her head, leaning forward so that her hair falls across her face. “No, it’s much worse than that. Gabriel—the boy in the room—was gay, you see. Well, you’d know, I suppose, from the posters on his wall. It looks as though he came upon someone on the way home from work. The police think that it might have been a gang. It seems it’s quite common for gays to be assaulted on the streets in some areas.”
I nod grimly. “It happens. Not nice.”
“Neither was the damage they did to him, according to the rumors going round the office.” She looks up and holds my gaze. I can see the pain in her eyes and again I want to reach out to her, hold her hand, find some way to comfort her. I wallow in helplessness, knowing I can do none of these things.
“You read about it happening in the papers,” she goes on, “but when you know someone, even slightly... This boy, Gabriel, was a bit of an exhibitionist but he was harmless. Everybody liked him. How could anyone do something like that to him?”
“God knows.”
She sits back and makes a visible effort to collect her emotions. I can see her succeeding and realize that she needed to tell somebody but that now her natural strength is pulling her through.
“I’m afraid that’s not all,” she goes on. “Our beloved client came to see me. He was very nice about it but the essence was that I ought to get my stuff together and get out of his face.”
My thoughts are still a few paces behind and it is a moment before what she has said registers. “Why? Do they want to clear the office out or something?”
“I suppose they will, but that’s not it. He told me that he had changed his mind about the work we were doing. He said it didn’t seem important any more and he wanted to just call it off.”
I frown. “That’s strange. When I spoke to him the other day he was really keen for us to carry on.”
“I know. It’s kind-of a change of heart, isn’t it?” She pauses and pushes her hair back from her face, thinking. “The thing is, I got the impression that he wasn’t telling me everything. It was rather as though he was acting under orders. I tried to ask him, in a tactful way, but he wasn’t saying anything.”
I rub the side of my nose, thinking hard. “I’ll call him. Maybe I can talk him round.”
“Not much chance of that. He seemed adamant.”
I stand. Cross to the window. Outside, the sun is still bright on the streets but clouds hang heavily on the horizon. I remember hearing a gloomy weather forecast that morning and wonder how long it will be before the promised rain sets in. “We can’t just let the whole thing drop.”
Kathleen’s quiet for a moment before going on. “Well, we don’t have to let it drop. I know so much about the phantom network now that I reckon I can get access to it from anywhere. Including here.”
I look back out the window, considering the risks. Kathleen waits quietly, alone with her thoughts. Finally I decide and slap my hands together.
“Let’s give it a try.”
***
The firm’s offices include terminal booths—tiny cubicles, each equipped with a personal computer and a high-speed Internet connect. I book one for the next few days. It’s not an unusual action for a partner in the company and the secretary who looks after bookings clearly has no interest in why we need the facility.
The room has no windows and its only furniture is a small computer stand and two chairs. The walls are covered with vinyl and are plain, with not even a calendar to break the monotony. It strikes me as a depressing place but Kathleen doesn’t seem to notice. She sits down in front of the computer and turns it on, tapping impatiently at the side of the keyboard while the system goes through its automatic error-checking routines. I squeeze past to get to the other chair. She looks up at me.
“I forgot. I’ll need access codes to get into our own system. I don’t normally use the computer here.”
“No problem.” I take a piece of paper from beside the terminal and scribble on it. “You can use my I.D. and pass-word.”
I hand the note to her. “Of course,” I say cynically, “I’ve just done exactly what I tell all my clients not to do...”
“Typical consultant,” she says, with a brief smile. “Do as I say, not as I do...”
She starts to type commands. I glance at her face. She’s biting her lower lip as she stares at the screen: the sight of her concentration has become a familiar thing to me, I realize. I find it strange to think that, in some ways, I still hardly know her.
“There,” she says. I lean forward. The screen is displaying a logo headed “Blackdawn Importing INC”.
“I thought,” I murmur, “that you had to go through a couple of other systems to get to the Blackdawn machine.”
“I did. But it occurred to me that someone might try to close the access route down. So I reprogrammed a few things while I still had the access. I can now go straight into the host system and if anyone closes the other route down, it will make no difference. Apart from which, this way’s faster.”
As I watch, Kathleen types in the word ROBOT and the display is instantly replaced with a menu of options.
“That looked easy.”
“Yes.” Her gaze is still on the screen. “There’s no problem getting access as long as you have the right codes. Now I’m here I can get into any other part of the network.”
I leave her to her explorations as I return to my office and the work backlog. Some time later, McAllister arrives, whistling cheerfully. I grunt.
“I hope you’ve got something good to say. I’ve had a bastard of a day.”
He grins: seeing someone else suffer always seems to cheer him up. “You know me, Ross. Little ray of happiness at all times.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Sure. Why, when I was a kid I was so cute that they used to get me to stand at the front of the class and sing ‘Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.’ They reckoned it got the whole school in a good mood.”
I try to picture it but my imagination’s inadequate to the challenge. Instead, I quickly bring him up to date with the events of the day, watching his carefree smile change to a frown. Finally, he interrupts me. “Was this Gabriel guy involved in any way with what you and Kathleen have been doing?”
“No, of course not,” I say. “Why?”
“Probably nothing. It’s just that it’s kind-of a coincidence, the kid being killed while you’re working in his office. Experience has taught me to distrust coincidences.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t see how it could be connected.” I pause when Kathleen walks back into the office and collapses tiredly into a chair, exchanging a cynical smile with McAllister. I nod to the big guy. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve found out?”
Mac grimaces theatrically. “You know how I hate being the center of attention, being so naturally shy.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces his scruffy notebook with a slight flourish, the gesture, I think, making him look the image of a vaudeville detective. Glancing at Kathleen, I detect a half-smile and guess that she shares the thought.
Opening the notebook, Mac starts to read. “Let me start by telling you what this guy O’Regan doesn’t have. He doesn’t have a criminal record. Of any kind.” He looks up, pausing for effect. “Neither does he have a driving license. Or a phone. Or any sort of welfare number. Or an Internal Revenue number. Suspicious me, I got to wondering if he even has a body.”
“A mythical man,” says Kathleen slowly.
“Then I found a few things that he does have.” Mac bows his head over the notebook again. “For a start, he has a birth certificate. His full name is Robert Carroll Charles O’Regan and he was born on the third day of July, 1962, in Buffalo, New York. He’s registered as holding a passport. Issued two years ago, never used. He’s got a bank account. So does his company, Blackdawn Importing. O’Regan’s got signing rights on both accounts. The accounts are with the Off-shore Credit Bank. I guess you won’t have heard of it: it’s a small financial institution. According to my sources, it’s involved in capital markets, whatever they are.” He looks up from the notebook long enough to grimace at us. Capital markets belong in the world of wallet PCs and yuppie bars as far as Mac is concerned.
“This bank’s registered in the Cook Islands. That’s in the South Pacific, would you believe? They tell me it’s a sort of southern hemisphere take on Zurich. Anyway, this bank’s there and it’s wholly owned by the Sligo-McNeil Corporation.”
The Digital Dream Page 14
