by James Goss
When I’d dated Jackie, she’d said she was more into cuddles. Clearly she’d become rather more liberated. Without going into detail, there was a lot of Kenneth to see on Jackie’s laptop. Which was a goldmine. A real Kenyan goldmine.
First I needed to find out who Kenneth was. He obviously wasn’t ‘Kenneth Kambata,’ but luckily there’s a simple online tool that’s only too eager to help out. I uploaded a few clear face shots of Kenneth to Facebook and showed no signs of tagging any of them. That really got Facebook’s goat, and it couldn’t resist popping up to ask ‘Who is this?’ and providing a few suggestions. Ones that were backed up by a Google reverse image search which turned up some visually similar results of that same man. Only with his clothes on.
Turns out ‘Kenneth Kambata’ did live in Kenya, but not in a rustic village idyll. Instead he lived in Lang’ata, which Wikipedia told me was a suburb of Nairobi. His name was Joshua Bomas, and, joy of joys, he was a pastor.
Google Maps told me that the Gospel Harvest Fellowship was in a splendid white stone building with neatly-tended lawns. Transcripts of his sermons were spiced with sulphur. I found quite a few photos of Pastor Joshua casting out hellfire with all the enthusiasm that I’d seen him scattering his seed.
This was all very helpful in constructing a fake identity for myself. First I needed an authentic sounding name. I picked ‘Precious Ramotswe,’ realised what I’d done and hastily changed it to ‘Abuya’ as this was the first name in a Kenyan Babynames chooser. It means ‘born when the garden was overgrown,’ by the way. My local evangelist church is always advertising on the back of buses, so I plucked a photo from their site of a reasonably stern-looking matriach and, lo, Abuya Ramotswe. The garden was overgrown and it was time to do a little weeding.
I sent Pastor Joshua a gushing message about his latest sermon and a friend request. It was speedily accepted. I was in. I joined the church’s Facebook group.
Dawn was coming up in London, but it was nearly 9am in Kenya, and this was clearly Pastor Joshua’s peak time. The Facebook group was flooding with photos of his last sermon, some wise thoughts, and praise from his flock. Everything he posted was getting a fair number of likes. Good, clearly the faithful were sitting up and paying attention.
I’ll take a moment to tell you a bit more about my friend Jay. After university, he did a bit of porn (he’s long since hung up his ankles), but in the early days of Facebook, people were always tagging him in pictures that showed that he was an unusually talented project manager. It was a nightmare for him and a chore for his friends as we had to see his sex face on a regular basis (it looked like he was doing hard sums with numbers he didn’t much care for). How utterly embarrassing for him, I thought.
I subjected Pastor Joshua to similar treatment. First I posted a heavily cropped and seemingly innocuous shot of his face at his personal Hallelujah Chorus. ‘Praise the lord!’ A lot of his flock liked that. Forgive them, Pastor Joshua, they know not what they do.
Then I uploaded a second picture, zoomed out to show a little more of his very manly chest. This got some likes and a slightly puzzled, ‘Pastor, have you joined a gym?!?!?’
And then I uploaded the full shot. The money shot. Pastor Joshua wanking away with all—and I mean all—his might.
Pastor Joshua moved swiftly and in a not very mysterious way. He immediately de-tagged himself from the pictures and they vanished from the feed. Then he sent me a message.
Dear friend,
May I ask why you do such unkindness to me with such egregious fakery? Please, I ask you in the name of myself and of the Gospel Harvest Fellowship to prayerfully desist in these actions. If you have listened to the slander of serpents, I tell you now to turn away your cheek from LIES and to follow once more the true path that leads to righteousness.
To reiterate once more, these pictures are nothing but obvious fakes thrown in my way by the devil, and if you spread them further you are doing the work of the evil one. Fakes, remember that in prayer,
Pastor J
Dear Pastor Joshua
I am most sorry to hear that these pictures are fakes because I have so many of them. I have personally found them most enlightening. Never have I felt I’ve been shown the way to heaven more clearly than when you shoved your finger up your arse.
In faith,
Abuya Ramotswe (Mrs)
Seen 16:42
I posted a relevant picture to his timeline. It was a corker. He detagged it at once. He was quite the dab hand at snap. He also swiftly detagged the one of him on all fours, made a short statement urging everyone ‘Not to believe SATAN’S LIES AND FAKES!!!’ and then defriended me. Smart move.
BUT I’D ALREADY made friends with some of the congregation on the Facebook group, and showed them my gratitude by messaging them a brief video clip. The sound was muffled but enthusiastic.
TWO MINUTES LATER Moses Gamba was saying, ‘Friends, various seniors in the Gospel Harvest Fellowship have been sent a very worrying piece of media which, after some discussion, we have strongly agreed not to post until a full and honest investigation of it has been made with Pastor Joshua.’
A MINUTE LATER someone posted the video itself.
By now I had Pastor Joshua’s email address. I sent him my Skype address and another video clip. Thirty seconds later I donned a balaclava and accepted the incoming call. He had barely started screaming at me when I held up my hand.
“Let me just stop you there. First mistake, Pastor. The background you’re using is exactly the same as in your other videos.”
Pastor Joshua looked over his shoulder and then went very quiet.
“If only you’d hung an eye-catching print over that wall, well then, you’d have been fine,” I tutted.
He stared at me in pure hatred.
“You are ruining my life,” he growled. “What do you want?”
“It’s very simple. You have stolen some money from a friend of mine. If you return it, then I will publicly apologise for faking videos of you having sex. If you don’t, then I’ve got lots more.”
He shook his head. “Impossible,” he said. “The money... The money alas is spent. I am afraid I used it for my church. We need a new roof.” He spread his hands out in a simple gesture, as if to say ‘what’s a guy to do?’
I shook my head. “Sadly, no, pastor. According to the Gospel Harvest’s excellent website, you had a new roof installed two years ago. I think you’ve still got the cash.”
He paused, and then spoke in a voice of contrition and honey. “I misspoke. The truth, my good friend, is that these things take time. Even if I could, alas, it takes many days to raise a money transfer in this country. Almost a week, in fact. Perhaps we could talk again on Friday when I have made the arrangements?”
I tutted. Which, actually, looked a little silly on screen. A man in a balaclava tutting. “Now, see here, Joshua... you were paid by PayPal. So I’m sure you can return the favour. Immediately. As I’m sure she’s not the only one, I’ve emailed you your victim’s details and the amount. To jog your memory.”
Now Joshua nodded and smiled ruefully. “It is all right. I know already. It is Jackie.” He gave me a curious look, and a small smile.
“Will you make the payment?”
He hesitated. “Today almost definitely. Tomorrow certainly.”
“No. Pay now. During this call.” My voice was very firm. “You forget, I’ve also got footage of the conspirators you roped in to play your relatives. Who both appear to be deacons in the church. They’re not as entertaining as the other videos, but they could certainly be diverting.”
He glared at me with simple hatred. “You are unspeakable. I consider that what I have done is no more than... I provided company to a lonely woman. And, if I perhaps accepted some remuneration... it was no more than a fair fee.”
I laughed at that. “Not quite.”
“Oh, believe me, I think so,” he chuckled. “These women know what they are getting into. And, if they do not, then i
t is not my lookout. Otherwise you are suggesting that I have given my time for free? Talking to her and, shall we say, providing other services? That is wrong, my friend.”
“It’s simply what every single person around the world does with their free time, Pastor. Are you married?”
He looked nervous. “I am engaged. I am awaiting the blessing of the bishop before I can take things further.”
I nearly tutted again. “I’m sure his approval would depend on you having an upright moral standing. Something harmed by pictures of bits of your upright standing.”
He frowned. “I do not understand.”
“Pay up.”
“It is not simple,” he began again. “It is, as you must understand, my friend, very complicated.” He was definitely wheedling, playing for time.
“Nope,” I said. “Pay up now.”
He glared at me. I glared back.
We kept up the silence for a whole minute, the clock ticking slowly past. The cat weaved curiously around my legs and I worried for a moment that it would leap up onto the desk and into shot, totally ruining my cyber-terrorist credentials.
The silence reached that uncomfortable point. When someone could have said something and didn’t. I’ll say this for Pastor Joshua, he did a good stare, mixing aggrieved and furious.
Finally, he blinked, and glanced away. Then he tapped a few keys.
“It is done,” he said. “Can I trust you, in good faith, to do your part of the deal?”
I nodded. “The emails are already written,” I said.
My phone pinged. It was a text from Jackie. It said, ‘YESS!!!! Xx’
I sent the following message to Facebook:
Dear friends,
I humbly pray that you will forgive me. I have been misled by a serpent into trying to incriminate our good Pastor Joshua. I am a widow and I hoped to win his affections, but the Pastor nobly and politely rebuffed me, telling me that his life was with the church and urging me to follow that same road.
It was then that I decided to blacken and incriminate him, getting my son to doctor the pictures and other media that I have sent to you in order to blacken the name of one whose only crime was virtue.
As you will see from the attached original files, Pastor Joshua is not involved in any way. I humbly beg that you will forgive me.
Abuya Ramotswe (Mrs)
The faked ‘originals’ just about passed muster. It’s actually reasonably easy to do an almost fake. I’d even changed the background. The thing is, if people really want to believe something, then that helps them along enormously.
PASTOR JOSHUA NODDED, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “It will not work, not completely... but then, perhaps it is a punishment I deserve. No man should ever be regarded without suspicion.” He looked at me. “As for you, my friend, vengeance shall call you to account some day.”
“I hope not,” I said and terminated the call.
MY PROXY SERVER pinged back at me. Someone had been trying to run a trace route to see who I was. Luckily, I was using Jackie’s laptop.
JACKIE RANG ME a few minutes later.
“That was bloody amazing,” she said.
“Have you got it all back?”
A tiny hesitation. “Yes.” Well. “Almost all. He kept a very little back, but that doesn’t matter. Not in the scheme of things. But honestly, an utter lifesaver. I was down to my last pennies.”
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
She named a five-star hotel.
“Fine,” I said evenly. “I’ll hand your laptop in at reception.”
“Thanks, darling,” she cooed. “I owe you one.”
“Then I’ll ask a favour of you. Whatever you choose to write about in the future, stay away from Vampantha.”
“Who?” Jackie looked puzzled. “Sounds familiar...”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I assured her, warmly. “She’s a best-selling novelist. You’ve interviewed her already. People say a lot of mean things about her, but I think she’s an admirable modern feminist role model.”
“I see,” Jackie nodded, clearly clocking the name for future reference.
“Leave Vampantha alone from now on, that’s all,” I said and terminated the call.
Job done.
I HAD ONE more thing to do. It was all getting a bit too close to me. I was making mistakes. It was time to end my relationship with the Killuminati. I’d never find out who they were or why they were. Like everyone watching the final episode of Lost, I just didn’t care anymore.
I logged into MySpace and messaged Duster. “It’s over,” I said.
There was no reply.
IT WAS TIME for bed. It had been a long night, and the doorbell had kept going intermittently. To start with, the noise had thrown me out of my concentration, flooding me with adrenaline. But I’d ignored the bell. I needed to solve one problem. And now I really needed bed. Really, really needed bed.
I made the necessary mistake of going down into the street and putting Jackie’s laptop in a cab to her hotel, then I took sinking treacle steps back up to the flat. I was just threading my way through the cat towards that lovely inviting duvet and ready to sink into the pillow when the doorbell rang again.
Groaning, I opened it.
There was Amber. Looking furious.
SHE LOOKED AMAZING. I’d had no sleep (apart from ten minutes when my head had nodded off over a chicken cup-a-soup). She’d clearly had much more.
“So you’re in,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Good morning,” she said. “You’re covered in bruises.”
“You and Guy beat me up,” I said.
“Well, yes. Where the hell have you been all night?”
“In here.”
“I know. I could see from across the road.”
“So it was you ringing the bell?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you answer it?”
“Didn’t fancy it.”
“And now?”
“Still don’t fancy it much.”
We stood there for a moment. I wasn’t going to invite her in. I’m not sure she wanted me to anyway. Refusal often offends.
“How’s Guy?”
“Oh, fine.”
“And you?”
“Fine.”
“Good. I’m fine too.”
“So I can see.”
“Yeah. About last night...”
“What about last night?”
“Well, you know... oh, where to start?”
Amber narrowed her eyes. “Do go on,” she said. Her tone was menacing.
“Okay, so, dashing off in the middle of a... discussion—can we have discussion?”
She considered. “Yes, we can have discussion.”
“Dashing off in the middle of a discussion, then.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m sorry about that. But she was...” I was careful to avoid Jackie’s name.
“An ex?”
“A bit. Sort of. You okay with that?”
“Why would I not be?” Amber’s voice was very flat indeed. A plane slowly went overhead, leaving behind two long white lines in the sky.
“Great, great,” I said. “I mean, not that she’s my girlfriend now. No. Because she’s met someone else.”
“She wants you back?”
“God, no,” I said a little too quickly.
“Right.”
“No, no, she’s kind of moved on. She’s very happy.”
“Like Guy and me?”
That took some wind out of my sails. I rallied. “Yes,” I said hesitantly. “Just like you and Guy.”
Another silence settled over us.
“The police came round last night,” said Amber.
“Really? Why?”
“The gig. I wish you hadn’t done that.”
Right. I had genuinely forgotten. Yes. Right. That was a problem. Yes. One large jumble sale.
“Oh.”
“You idiot.”
I smiled.
“What?” she said crossly.
“Sorry,” I giggled uncontrollably. “It’s just the way you say ‘idiot.’”
“How?”
“Kind of fondly. It’s nice.”
“It’s not meant fondly. Idiot.” She smiled. Just a little.
“So, how was the police thing?”
She shrugged. “How do you think? Guy and I were in the middle of a Korea-sized row. The police turned up to ask a couple of tiny questions about some burglaries.”
“Uh-huh. And of course you told them you were innocent.”
“Of course I told them I was innocent.”
“And you are.”
“Only...” Amber looked down at the ground. “That’s why I came round to see you last night.”
She’d told the police about me. She’d betrayed me. It’s rare that you get to feel betrayed by someone; almost exciting. I just felt rather dead about it. Curious. When you get a filling and tap a spoon or tinfoil along your teeth one at a time until you find it and all the nerves in your head explode? That. I was working through my brain, tapping my feelings. No explosion. Nothing. Numb.
“You told the police I organised the stunt?” Still nothing.
“No.” Amber was annoyed by the question. “Look, there’s something we need to talk about—”
“Who told the police?”
Amber sighed. “Guy did.”
Bang. There we go. Explosion.
I’M NOT GOING to say, “All things considered, the police were quite nice about it.” It’s just that it could have been so much worse. I was kind of expecting my first visit to a police station to be about any one of a number of deaths (I’d even made a list—an unwritten list obviously—of which one was most likely to get me investigated). Instead, here I was being rather glumly investigated over a series of “internet related burglaries.”
