Fatal Error

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Actually, not really. I think I must have a good head for it. I got myself in quite a lot of trouble last year over drinking so I try to stay clear of it.’

  ‘Trouble? What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Big trouble. I got thrown out of Cheltenham Ladies’ College.’

  ‘You did?’ That explained why she had arrived at Broadhill in the middle of the A-level syllabus. I squinted at her in the strong morning sunlight. ‘You don’t look much like a Cheltenham Lady to me.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? You haven’t seen me in my uniform.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Broadhill didn’t have a uniform. Or rather it did, but it was imposed by the pupils and was far too complicated to be written down. I wasn’t even sure I understood it. Guy did, of course. So did Mel. ‘I bet your parents were proud of you.’

  ‘I think my mother thought it was quite funny. My father was furious, though. And since my mother doesn’t talk to my father her support didn’t help much. It was a bit unfair. It was a first offence and it was my birthday.’

  ‘And Broadhill didn’t mind?’

  ‘You know they have an appeal going for a new library?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They got quite a large anonymous donation.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The young North African gardener appeared on the other side of the pool and began weeding. Shirtless. Ingrid happily watched him, but I closed my eyes. The sun shone pink through my lids. A grasshopper started up somewhere very close. I winced. ‘Is anyone else up?’

  ‘Mel’s awake, but she’s still getting herself ready. She’s in a pretty bad way too. I haven’t seen Tony or Dominique. Or Owen. What about Guy?’

  ‘Asleep. Where did these come from?’ I asked, glancing at the croissants.

  ‘Miguel. Here he is.’

  And he was. ‘Orange juice, monsieur?’ he said, bearing a large jug of the stuff.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He poured me a glass and I drained it, realizing that it was orange juice I craved. The cold sweet liquid made me feel very slightly better. Miguel understood and refilled the glass.

  He noticed Ingrid’s glass was almost empty. ‘A senhorita aceita um pouco mais?’

  ‘Sim, por favor.’ He filled it. ‘É o suficiente. Obrigada.’

  ‘De nada.’

  ‘What the hell was that?’ I asked, as he withdrew.

  ‘Miguel’s Portuguese,’ she said.

  ‘Of course. Silly me.’ I sipped some more juice. ‘I can’t get over this place, can you? I mean having someone bringing you your breakfast in the morning.’ Then I paused. I really had no idea what Ingrid’s background was. ‘Sorry. Perhaps you’re used to it. You probably have a dozen places like this.’

  She saw my hesitation and laughed. ‘You’re right. This is a nice place.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘That’s quite difficult to answer. And you?’

  ‘Easy. Northamptonshire. England. How can it be difficult to answer?’

  ‘It assumes that you have a family. I have several families. And each one has several houses.’

  ‘Sounds very grand.’

  ‘Actually, it’s a pain in the arse.’

  ‘Oh. What kind of name is Ingrid Da Cunha anyway? It sounds like an island off the coast of Sweden.’

  Ingrid laughed. A little too loudly for my head. ‘I feel like an island off the coast of Sweden. Perhaps that’s a good description of me. It’s actually Ingrid Carlson Da Cunha. My mother is Swedish, my father’s Brazilian. I was born in London so I actually have a British passport. I’ve lived in Tokyo, Hong Kong, Frankfurt, Paris, São Paulo and New York. Broadhill is my ninth, and I hope last, school. Believe me, I would love to be able to say that I’d lived in one place for the last eighteen years.’

  I didn’t believe her. Her background sounded impossibly glamorous to me. I rubbed my temples. ‘How long does it take for a hangover to go away?’

  ‘A week, I think,’ said Ingrid.

  ‘That’s not funny. A week of this and I’ll be dead.’

  Ingrid smiled with amusement, tinged with just a little sympathy.

  Then I remembered what I had overheard last night. ‘I suppose you speak a lot of languages?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Is one of them French?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be. I’ve just done my French A level.’

  ‘Do you know what “gosse” means?’

  ‘Yes. It’s slang. For a child. Or a kid.’

  ‘Oh. And just to make sure I haven’t got something wrong, “baiser” means “to kiss”, doesn’t it?’

  Ingrid laughed. ‘It used to. But not any more.’

  ‘Not any more?’ Suddenly I remembered the giggling that followed Madame Renard’s explanation of the meaning during that French lesson a couple of years before. ‘Oh, God. It means fuck, doesn’t it?’

  Ingrid nodded.

  ‘Ah.’ This was more serious than I had feared.

  The smile had disappeared from Ingrid’s face. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I heard it last night.’ Ingrid was looking at me oddly. ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I think some people were doing more than just saying it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘So where did you hear it?’ Ingrid asked.

  ‘It was the middle of the night. As you can tell, I’d had a bit too much to drink, so I went out into the garden for some air. I heard shouting. It was Dominique. She was screaming at Tony: “Salaud! Une gosse! Tu as baisé une gosse!”’ I hesitated. There was really only one conclusion.

  I glanced at Ingrid, afraid to voice my thoughts. Did she know? It was hard to tell. Her face was impassive. But she was watching me, too.

  ‘Tony slept with Mel last night, didn’t he?’ I ventured.

  Ingrid nodded slowly.

  ‘I can’t believe it. What a perv!’ Teenage boys like to think that there is nothing about sex that can shock them. But Tony was somebody’s father, a parent. It seemed unnatural. It seemed wrong. ‘But his wife was right there in the house!’

  ‘I know,’ said Ingrid. ‘And it sounds like she’s guessed what he was up to. Hold on,’ she whispered. ‘Here’s Mel.’

  Mel crept out on to the terrace from the house. She looked dreadful. Her face was a grey shade of off-white and her eyes were red and puffy. She had applied lipstick and some black eye shadow, but that just made her look worse.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘Hi.’ She sat down and dived for the coffee. I didn’t know what to say. She didn’t say anything. So the three of us sat in silence.

  Feeling a little better for my breakfast, I went for a swim in the pool. The cold water felt wonderful. There was life after alcohol after all. I was joined by an energetic Tony, who did thirty lengths at a disgusting speed. After a few minutes, Guy appeared. He dived in, keeping up with his father stroke for stroke. It seemed obscene to me to see them both striving to outdo each other in the water after what Tony had done with his son’s girlfriend the night before. It was almost as if the night’s activities had given Tony a shot of unnatural energy. Unlike the dazed and bleary-eyed Mel, who was still nursing a cup of coffee on the terrace.

  I left them to get on with it, pulled myself on to a chair by the pool and closed my eyes, letting the sun do its stuff.

  Around midday Guy roused me. ‘Come on! Get your clothes. We’re going to a restaurant in Monte Carlo. Then we’re off to the beach in the afternoon.’

  I grunted and did as I was told, not quite sure whether I was up to a big lunch and the alcohol that would probably go with it. Everyone was milling around in the large hallway. Dominique had appeared, wearing her sunglasses and acting as though nothing had happened the night before. The only person not present was Owen. Guy said he was plugged in to his portable computer and didn’t want to join us. That bothered nobody.

 
; ‘OK, let’s go,’ said Tony. ‘We can all squeeze into the Jeep.’

  ‘I’ll take my car,’ said Dominique.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I can take someone with me,’ she turned to me. ‘David?’

  I was a little surprised that she had picked me. I would have preferred to go with the others and slump in silence in the back; I wasn’t sure I was up to making conversation with Dominique that morning. But I didn’t want to be impolite. ‘OK,’ I said.

  We all trooped outside, Tony pulled up in the Jeep and everyone but me piled in. Dominique had gone back inside for something. Tony waited a few seconds, muttering to himself, and then started the engine.

  ‘Sorry, David, she’s always late for everything. We should go on ahead. Do you want to come with us?’

  I hesitated a moment. ‘No, I’d better wait for her,’ I said eventually, deciding that that was the least rude thing to do.

  ‘OK. Tell her we’ve gone to the usual place. See you there!’ and the Jeep shot off up the driveway.

  I waited a couple of minutes and then went inside myself.

  ‘David!’

  I heard Dominique’s voice calling from the living room. I went in. She was drinking from a large crystal tumbler of clear liquid.

  ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Vodka. It’s cold.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not after last night.’

  She laughed. ‘Do you have a headache?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, have some, then. It will do you good. I promise you’ll feel much better.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  She poured a large amount of vodka into a tumbler and handed it to me. ‘Here. Try it.’

  I looked at her doubtfully. What the hell, I thought, and took a big slug. The ice-cold liquid turned to fire as it hit the back of my throat, and I scowled.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ she said, smiling. ‘It won’t take long.’ She watched me, as I held the tumbler awkwardly. ‘Well?’

  It was true, I did feel slightly better as the vodka entered my bloodstream.

  ‘Have some more. Salut!’ She drained her glass and refilled it. Under her watchful eyes, I drank more from mine.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be going?’

  ‘There is no hurry. This is France. In any case, Tony always complains I’m late for everything.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, not quite knowing what to do. We were standing a couple of feet apart. She was wearing a loose white dress, and her blonde hair was tied back behind her neck. She had taken off her sunglasses. Her eyes rested on me as she drank. I wasn’t sure what to do or where to look. I could feel the warmth in my face; I didn’t know if it was from the vodka or the embarrassment or both. I gulped some more of my drink nervously. In the end, my eyes ran out of other places to look and I met hers. They were blue. There was something odd about them, but I didn’t have time to work out what.

  She moved towards me.

  I let her come. She brushed my lips with hers. Then she put her arms around my neck and pulled me down to her. Her tongue was coarse and she smelled of perfume and tobacco; to me at that moment a heady, adult smell. Eventually, she broke away.

  ‘Come,’ she said.

  She led me up the stairs by the hand, like a child. We passed through her enormous bedroom, dominated by a large unmade bed, and out on to a balcony. The blue of sea and sky surrounded us. My heart beat fast. My throat was dry.

  She kept her eyes on me, those strange eyes. She reached behind her back, undid something and wriggled. Her dress fell to the ground showing her body, naked apart from some tiny panties. I had never seen a real, breathing, three-dimensional woman’s body before, and certainly never one like this. I could scarcely breathe. I stretched out a hand towards her. She placed it on her breast. I felt the nipple spring hard under my fingers.

  ‘Come here, David.’

  8

  April 1999, The City, London

  I paused at the top of the steps and glanced at the traditional red-and-white striped pole. I was in a narrow alley behind the Bank of England. In front of me, crammed into a basement, was the barber’s shop I had visited every six weeks or so for the previous three years. Except that it was only a fortnight since I had been there last.

  I took a deep breath, descended the steps and pushed open the door.

  Within five minutes I was in the chair, examining my hair in the mirror. Short. Slightly curly. Not fashionable, but not unfashionable either.

  ‘The usual, sir?’

  ‘No, George. I’ll have a number two all over.’

  I had been mumbling the phrase to myself all morning. I had rejected a number one as just being a little too final.

  The Greek Cypriot barber raised his heavy eyebrows, but said nothing and reached for his electric clippers. He fiddled with attachments and switched it on. The buzz made my heart rate soar. In the mirror I saw him hold the vibrating clippers just above my head. He caught my eye and smiled. Sweat poured from my armpits. Get a grip, I thought. This is only hair. It will regrow. I smiled back.

  He lunged. I closed my eyes. The noise increased. I braced myself for the pain of hair being ripped from my scalp, but the sensation was more like a brief, intense massage. I opened my eyes again. A swathe of stubbled skin bisected my hair where my parting used to be. It was like an inverted Mohican. George’s smile widened.

  There was no going back now.

  Wapping High Street wasn’t much of a high street. More a lane between converted warehouses, or modem apartment blocks made to look like converted warehouses. There was little traffic, no pedestrians, but plenty of grinding and chugging from the construction equipment hidden behind hoardings.

  I found Malacca Wharf and took the lift to the second floor.

  ‘Nice haircut,’ Guy said as he opened the door.

  ‘I knew you’d like it.’ I pushed past him into the flat. Half of the small living room was taken up with a pine table, groaning under the weight of computers and piles of paper. Owen’s bulk was hunched over a keyboard, tapping away. He looked little different from when I had last seen him several years before, except that the hair peeking out beneath his baseball cap was dyed an unlikely shade of white-blond.

  ‘Hello, Owen.’

  He glanced up at me for a moment. ‘Hi,’ he responded in his high-pitched voice.

  ‘What do you think?’ Guy said. ‘This is ninetyminutes.com’s global HQ.’

  ‘Impressive. And where’s my office?’

  ‘Just here.’ Guy indicated a chair at the table, opposite a pile of paper.

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Good view, though, don’t you think?’

  I walked over to the French windows that opened on to a small balcony. The Thames rushed past brown and turbulent, and on the opposite side of the river more converted warehouses stared back at us.

  ‘Why do you live here? Not much going on, is there?’

  ‘It’s Dad’s place. An investment he bought a while ago. He’s trying to kick me out, but I won’t go.’

  ‘You said you two weren’t getting on.’

  ‘We’re not. We have as little to do with each other as possible.’

  ‘Ah.’

  I realized that that meant more than just Guy having to curtail his spending habits. It meant that the most obvious source of finance for ninetyminutes.com had already dried up. I’d find out more about that later.

  Guy went through to the tiny kitchen and began making coffee. ‘How did they take it at Gurney Kroheim?’

  ‘My boss didn’t like it at all,’ I said. ‘I was quite touched, actually. He tried to plead with me at first, but he gave up after a few minutes. He said I was better off out of it. Poor guy. I don’t give him long.’ Giles was history and he knew it. The next reorganization would see him whited out of the Specialized Finance organogram. I hoped he would find another job.

  ‘Much better job security here,’ said Guy.

&
nbsp; ‘Of course,’ I replied with a wry grin. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. ‘So. What do we do?’

  Guy started talking. And talking. It was like a dam bursting. He had obviously been thinking of nothing else for weeks and he was desperate for someone to share those thoughts with. Owen wasn’t exactly right for the job, but I was. Guy was clearly glad to have me around. It made me feel needed and totally involved right from the outset.

  The first thing to do was to get the ninetyminutes.com website up and running. Guy had a pretty good idea of what he wanted to put on it. There was the basic stuff: match reports, news, photos, player profiles, statistics, different sections for each club, the kind of things every soccer website needed. Then there were the things that Guy hoped would make Ninetyminutes different: gossip, chat, humour, cartoons to start with. And later betting, a fantasy football game, video clips, and the ultimate prize: e-commerce. Once we had attracted visitors to the site, we would begin selling merchandise: clothing, mugs, posters, anything and everything the football fan could want. Stage three would be to design our own range of clothing and other products to push through the site.

  It was amazing how much of all this could be done by outsiders. Owen was working on the technical specifications of the site, making sure that it was ‘scalable’, in other words it could grow as the traffic and complexity increased. But outside companies would provide us with the software and hardware we needed, and a design consultancy would help us with the all-important look and feel of the website itself. News, photos and statistics could be downloaded in digital form from press agencies and then manipulated however we wanted.

  This left the all-important question.

  ‘Who’s going to write all this?’ I asked. ‘The opinions, the humour, the chat? Are we going to leave it all to Owen?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Owen, his only contribution to the conversation so far.

  Guy smiled. ‘Come and look.’

  He hit some keys on his computer and a sheet of bright purple flashed on his screen. The words ‘Sick As A Parrot’ in a shaky font were emblazoned on it in green.

  ‘Nice title,’ I said. ‘And lovely graphics.’