by Liz Jensen
– Losing one’s mother is a terrible shame, he said. A terrible shame for you, never to have known yours.
– What you don’t know, you don’t miss, I said.
– Do you really think that, he said. I don’t. My mother, for example – even though she died when I was young – taught me some very important lessons. (He leaned forward, almost like we were mates. Lowered his voice.) – It was at her suggestion, for example, that I joined the Corporation, said Pike.
– What, I went, puzzled. How come? It didn’t exist then.
Pike leaned back. His face had suddenly gone all faraway.
– She knew she was dying. But she was something of a strategist. She could see what lay ahead. She left me a sort of blueprint. An elaborate flow-chart, he smiled. She knew what interested me, and where my talents lay. And she recommended that, when I was an adult, I should join a large organisation which I respected. He grinned. – Wasn’t I lucky?
– You sure were, I said, and I take my hat off to your marvellous mother. Just think, without that blueprint of hers, you wouldn’t be here, would you, watching a fraudster eating sushi.
He seemed to like that.
– No, he laughed, I probably wouldn’t.
When I’d finished the sushi, and swished it down with bitter tea, he smiled again. Then with a sudden swift movement, like a magician, he leaned forward and whisked my backup disc from my shirt pocket. I know it seems crazy, but it felt like he was actually taking out my heart.
And he smiled. When he put the disc into his own shirt pocket, I felt tears of rage pricking my eyes. It seemed so unfair. It was only a backup, after all. Couldn’t I have kept just one thing? For old times’ sake?
– That had sentimental value, I said.
He acted as though he hadn’t heard me.
– You’re to be our guest at Head Office, he said.
– And if I say no?
– Then let me outline your options, Harvey, he smiled.
That’s when he drew a big zero in the air with his forefinger. A zero which framed his fake-apologetic face, a halo between us. And he smiled again, that same unreal smile, and I began to realise I was in deep shit.
BETRAY THE CUSTOMER AND YOU ARE BETRAYING YOURSELF
Wesley Pike flipped the CD ROM from his pocket, and handed it to Hannah. His arm grazed hers, and something snaked through her. His shirt was peppermint green today. He made her feel like a cringing insect about to be swatted.
– Society’s a big family, he smiled. A family, and a business. It’s something you’ll appreciate, when you look at what’s in here.
The label on it was handwritten, in thick marker pen, in an oddly firm script: THE FAMILY. The big brash capitals reminded Hannah of Tilda’s plastic pill-chest. Each drawer lovingly labelled. There was something childish about the capital letters. Something naive, mawkish.
Pike grinned.
– You’re right about the handwriting. The graphology analysis bears it out. A case of retarded development. Not unusual, I imagine, in Multiple Personality Disorder?
– I don’t know, said Hannah. It would figure, though.
To avoid looking at him again, Hannah turned over the CD ROM. There was more of the same handwriting on the back.
Cameron HOGG.
Gloria HOGG.
Rick HOGG.
Sid HOGG.
Lola HOGG.
Next to Lola Hogg’s name, there was a little green sticker of a heart, no bigger than an asterisk. She wondered what it meant.
Her eyes slid to the window. Outside, from this angle, you could see the Frooto building. Its little windmills, recently adjusted, sprinkled out their new theme tune on the breeze. If you strained your ears near an air duct, you could just hear it.
– They’re complex organisms, families, mused Pike. We all came from somewhere different, to get here. But we carry the child within us.
Hannah tried to picture him as a child, but could only think of a little creature with Wesley Pike’s adult face cracking its way out of an eggshell, like a crocodile. She glanced at him sharply; he was smiling.
– Hogg, she said, still looking at the CD. Is this a family, then?
– In a way, he said. They were created by Harvey Kidd, as aliases. Alter egos. He ran a fraud network through them. The usual system – it’s called teeming and lading in accountancy jargon. He’s a rather pathetic character. His background turned him inward.
Hannah fingered the CD, running a nail under the heart sticker. She picked it loose, and stuck it on the side of her desk, as she had seen Fleur Tilley do, surreptitiously, with snot.
– I suppose you could call all this – Pike gestured to the CD ROM – the result. He smiled at Hannah. – Psychopathology incarnate.
– Harvey Kidd, murmured Hannah, trying out the sound of it. And wrote the name, pointlessly, on her pad. She stared at the faint trace of adhesive where the little green heart had been. It, too, was in the shape of a tiny heart. She was to look for behaviour patterns, and clues to the personalities of the Hoggs, Pike instructed her. Provide summaries on the Hogg characters by Wednesday, and a full report by Friday. Examine them in relation to Multiple Personality Disorder. It seemed straightforward enough. As he spoke, Hannah stared at the CD ROM, and the word FAMILY danced before her eyes. She and Tilda counted as a family, she supposed. Together, they formed the smallest nuclear unit there was. Anything smaller, and you were just a person. Technically speaking, Hannah probably had hundreds of half-brothers and sisters dotted about the world. But a lab family didn’t really count. So much for relatives.
– I expect I can do that, she said when Pike had finished. She could feel the heat from his body radiating out.
– I’m sure you can.
The blood came to her cheeks.
– It’s what comes next that you’ll find more difficult.
She looked up then, and saw the amusement in his eyes. He was playing with her, like a cat. She squirmed inside, now horribly, shamefully aroused.
– And what does come next? asked Hannah, overcome by a dismal foreboding.
– You work with Kidd himself. Questionnaire him. He leaned closer. – One on one.
She felt herself rock then. One on one. She had to hold on to the side of the desk. Then she exhaled slowly. She stared at her pad. Harvey Kidd. The name began to blur as her eyes filled.
– Don’t worry, he smiled down at her. He’s white-collar.
– But I, Hannah began. Then stopped. It was pointless. He knew her problem but he was ignoring it – no, worse, he was rubbing salt in it. Or rather, the Boss was. Via him. Odd the way more and more she confused the two of them.
Then with no warning, he touched her on the cheek.
– I told you there was people-work involved, he said slowly.
A shudder ran from her face directly down to her groin, where it settled, burning. – Relax, Pike murmured. He’s just a man. He won’t rape you.
– I have Crabbe’s Block, she found herself saying aloud, as she glanced in the mirror in the toilet where she’d gone to splash water on her face. Its pale oval, framed by wisps of thin, almost translucent hair, looked ghost-like. A social handicap rather than a mental one, Dr Crabbe had said. The place where Pike had touched her still burned.
She had always wondered what sex might be like. She had a sort of idea. As a child, she had paid close attention to the diagrams, though they horrified her. In the bad old days, when everyone had a car, the way you filled it with fuel seemed similar. Channel-surfing, she’d flipped past bits of soft porn – she’d never stayed to watch a whole scene. It had always aroused and appalled her at the same time.
– It’s a social handicap, rather than a mental one, she told her reflection. And watched it blush back. Work would fix things. Didn’t it always?
She began on the Family Project methodically, by skimming through global case studies and reports on Multiple Personality Disorder, but she found little about proxies that didn’t fit
into a voices-in-the-head model. The further she hunted, the more she became aware of how rare this man’s pathology must be. Harvey Kidd didn’t believe he was all these separate but connected people. No; they lived apart from him, as semi-detached alter egos. They were even, in limited fiscal terms, functioning as individuals. The fraud evidence – which formed the bulk of the data on the discs and in the Libertyforce file – made that clear. But the fragments puzzled her.
My father believed that the Hogg family was real, ran Tiffany Kidd’s statement. Ever since I can remember, he spent time alone with them in the Family Room, rather than with me and my mother. He preferred their company to ours and would often spend a whole night in there, working …
Hannah called up shots of the ‘Family Room’. It could be any home-worker’s office: the jar of pens, the coffee-making equipment, the mini-fridge studded with novelty magnets, the unhealthy but tenacious cheese-plant. There were two desks, an office chair, a sofa, a coffee table, three computer terminals, two telephone/fax machines, several piles of stationery and application forms, and all the accoutrements of electronic paperwork: discs, printers, mouse-pads, stacks of cartridges, a scanner. But then Hannah noticed the walls. They were clad in a bizarre and garish wallpaper featuring bits of a coral reef. Or perhaps, she thought, peering closer, it was a technicolour mould, brought on by damp.
She blew up the images on her screen and drew in her breath.
Not coral. Not mould. The Family Room, from floor to ceiling, was festooned with photographs of people. Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands. But not just any people – the same people. Over and over again.
She enlarged the images further. The family shots were set against an array of backgrounds ranging from the Himalayas to a cobbled back street in what might have been Paris, or Prague. The people seemed to be smiling or laughing, mostly. Over and over again, the same faces – a woman, two men and two teenage children – dotted the walls. Kidd must have scanned in assorted pictures of families from a disc, and graphically doctored them, replacing the heads with –
So here at last were the famous Hoggs.
Hannah bit her tongue in concentration as she selected a section of the wall and blew it up to the maximum. It crossed her mind that bird-spotters might feel this way, when they glimpsed a rare species of tern.
In the family portrait on the screen before her, the one who jumped out at you was the teenage girl, because her breasts were huge. In some shots they were covered by wafty fabric or peeking out from a décolleté neckline, but in others they were bare. They had large dark nipples. The face was pretty and confident, with brash teeth. This must be Lola. Next to her stood the father, Rick – the man Harvey Kidd called ‘Dad’. He had a cardboard handsomeness, but there was weakness in the cheesy smile. He was too young to be the father of anyone Kidd’s age. Behind Rick and Lola stood a woman: Gloria. She was young too; svelte and charismatic-looking. The man standing to Gloria’s left must be Rick’s brother, Uncle Sid. He was more rugged than Rick, less earnest, and you could imagine a roguish, slightly louche side. Cameron stood a little behind, to the left of Gloria. He wasn’t as good-looking as the others, and wore a less classically happy smile. Hannah moved the mouse to view some of the other pictures. Gloria and Lola on a tandem, with tulips in the background. Cameron and Sid wielding drills, in a workshop heaped with wood-shavings. The whole family beaming around a tinselled Christmas tree, a log fire in the background and gifts stacked high. Gloria in a Hawaiian hula-girl outfit. Lola, naked breasts to the fore, riding on a camel in the desert, with the rest of the family, tiny identikitted faces attached seamlessly to the bodies, following behind. As Hannah scrutinised Lola – there was no avoiding those breasts – something tightened inside her. It was unnerving to peer into a stranger’s private world like this. Embarrassingly intimate, like seeing a soul – or a bottom – laid bare.
Harvey Kidd was clearly sick in a unique way.
That night, as she lay in bed, the image of his private Family Room kept coming back to her. It was like a shrine – but not a shrine to the dead. A shrine to people who were, in some very disturbed manner, alive.
But something had grabbed her. When she woke the next morning, her throat was constricted with it.
* * *
She was so engrossed that Leo Hurley had to ring the buzzer twice before Hannah heard. His eyes were still sunk back and depressed, like dim bulbs.
– Got a minute? He was clutching something in his hand: an envelope. Leo closed the door behind him, cleared a space on a chair, and sat.
– You still look ill, said Hannah. It worried her, this new unkempt look of his. It wouldn’t be long before Personnel had a word.
– So who are these? he asked, taking in the family portraits on the screen.
While she told him, Leo focused on Lola’s naked breasts.
– And d’you know why you’ve been asked to do it?
It annoyed Hannah, the way even when he was addressing her, his eyes kept sliding back to Lola. She seemed to mesmerise him.
– No. Well, maybe because I know about proxies and –
– No, I meant, what’s it for, Leo interrupted. What does the Boss need it for? Don’t you ever want to know the outcome of any of these projects? Don’t you – He broke off, exasperated.
– Not really, said Hannah, defensively. Anyway, I’m finding it interesting. I feel I’m beginning to know them as – well, as people.
– But you don’t like people, Hannah! He said it almost indignantly; for a brief moment, he sounded like Ma. – You know you don’t. Didn’t you say it was part of the syndrome you’ve got? The Crabbe’s Block thing?
– Yes, but maybe these people … they’re different. I mean, they’re not real, are they.
– No. Leo looked down at the scuffed, grubby suede of his shoes and they sat in silence for a moment. – Look, there’s something I need to ask you, he began, shifting the envelope about in his hands. It’s about what’s going on. The thing I told you at the party. Look, I printed something off. You don’t need to know what’s in here, but –
– What?
– Just – can you send it out for me? To somewhere on the outside?
Hannah flushed, and reached for a strip of bubble-wrap.
– Where?
– Just somewhere. An address. Any address on the outside.
There was a short silence while this sunk in.
– I wouldn’t be asking you if it wasn’t important.
– But it’s completely off code, she said, flushing. I could be questionnaired! She popped more bubbles frantically. – Anyway, why me?
– Because no one will suspect. Then if something happens to me, he said.
– What?
– If I disappear or something.
– Oh, please, she snapped. That’s just stupid. And, and melodramatic. You’re not in some movie, you know. How would you disappear? Down a crater, I suppose?
– People do.
– Only on the outside, said Hannah. Only Marginals.
They didn’t count.
– Listen. If you try to find me and I’m not there – I want you to get hold of this envelope again and read what’s in it.
– No. She was surprised at her own anger. – I won’t. Nothing’s going to happen. You’re paranoid. You’re turning into a Munchie.
That was it. Munchhausen’s Syndrome. He needed attention. Libertycare code was succinct. Your first loyalty is to the customer. Betray the customer, and you’re betraying yourself.
That night, Hannah lay awake for hours, thinking about the Hogg family, the criminal called Harvey Kidd, and what she should do about Leo. When she finally drifted into a foggy sleep, she dreamed that Lola Hogg came alive behind the computer screen. She was trapped inside it like a small, pixilated insect. Her pretty teenaged face looked anxious, desperate even. She was waving Leo’s envelope, mouthing silent silver words. Whatever she wanted to say seemed increasingly urgent. Her breasts wobbled as she tri
ed to communicate with Hannah.
– What do you want? Hannah kept asking, as Lola’s breasts became more and more distorted, her gestures more alarming. Lola seemed to be pushing against the computer screen, now, trying to make herself heard. Hannah put her ear close to the glass, and with a sudden clarity, the words came through.
– Let me out! screamed Lola. Why the FUCK don’t you just let me out!
Hannah woke with a jolt, as though a filthy electric shock had passed through her.
What was most unfair about Leo’s visit, she thought, as she tried to wash off the dream under the shower, turning on the jet so hard it stung her, was that he hadn’t given her a chance to say no. He’d just got up and walked out of her office, leaving his brown envelope lying on her table.
It was so thin, she thought, you could tear it up with one swift rip.
WELCOME TO HEAD OFFICE
The white, blind-windowed skyscraper of Head Office had dominated the Harbourville skyline for as long as I could remember. It was famous. The two silent forcies who’d driven me there whisked me quickly through a maze of glass and bar-coded me into a high crystally dome of sprinkled light, with men and women milling about at floor level. A neon Bird of Liberty shone above, huge and pulsating. I was as familiar with the Bird as any other Atlantican, I guess. I’d never given it a second thought. FREEDOM: THE DREAM THAT CAME TRUE, it said underneath. There were others dotted about the walls, in different colours: SERVING THE CUSTOMER, PUTTING YOU FIRST, GIVE AND TAKE.
At the reception desk, a barrel-shaped guard scanned my paperwork and led me into an elevator, which shot upwards with the force of a rocket, and next thing, we were on the umpteenth floor, treading on milky-green carpeting, past potted ferns and eye-high aquariums of fish with bulgy tumours. It had the same thin atmosphere as the malls I’d go to with Gwynneth, the kind where you could be trapped all day, muzak in the background, hunting for the right thermos or a certain make of lilo, fuelling up at the food court and shoving change into some gonzo experience simulator. We turned a sharp left and the guard nodded me into a large room with a desk and two chairs, which I guess you’d call minimalism because it could’ve done with a carpet.
