The Cybergypsies

by Indra Sinha

  Countless mischievous and insulting messages have been posted on the Shades chatline. One of these stated that Mr Gawain had ‘drooled’ over his ten year old cousin being corrupted in the Bridal Suite. There could hardly be a clearer libel. Yet I understand that Micronet justified their failure to remove this message from the Shades chatline on the extraordinary grounds that ‘it might be true’. By the same logic they should not object if I were to post a preposterous message stating that you, sir, have AIDS. After all, it might be true. Why, when Micronet knew that a hate campaign was in progress against Mr Gawain, was the Shades chatline not properly monitored? The ‘firebomb’ threat should not have been allowed to remain up for three minutes, let alone three hours. Mr Vallance, when will your company wake up to its responsibilities?

  The response is immediate. Next morning, the Shades chatline, and all the other chatlines, are shut. With their closure, Micronet is doomed. Within weeks the funeral notices are going out. On the last night, all the Shades players are invited to a party in the Bridal Suite. To mark the occasion, each of them is given the demigodly powers of an Archwizard or -witch. Dozens of characters pile into the great bed. Almost every Shades player who ever was is here, laughing as if midnight will never come. As the hour approaches, their hilarity builds. Finally there are only minutes left. Then only one minute. Together they count down to the end of the world. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . in the minds of the watchers, in those last few seconds, the ground shakes, lightning flashes above the forests . . . seven . . . six . . . they are shouting out the numbers now . . . five . . . four . . . the city walls begin to crumble, the castle’s black towers tremble, totter and slowly start to fall. . . THREE! . . . TWO! . . . In the last second, lightning glares across a world collapsing, towers, trees and ruined city shimmer, vanish and are seen no more.

  Dear Jeffrey Archer

  The end of October 1991 and winter’s creeping again down the Kurdish mountains. The Simple Truth concert raised £57 million, but people in Kurdistan are saying that little of it has reached them. Sarbast writes to ask how the money was distributed. No reply. We seem to be back to the situation before the concert where they don’t acknowledge our existence. It’s rumoured that some of the money has been given to the Iraqi Red Crescent. No-one seriously believes this since the IRC is thought to be under the thumb of Saddam.

  ‘Let’s ask Jeffrey Archer to help us find out what has happened to the money,’ says Handren. ‘He helped us before.’

  I have an idea. ‘We’ll write an open letter and publish it in the Guardian: “Dear Mr Archer, what happened to the money?” ’

  ‘He will sue,’ says Sarbast. ‘Assuredly, he will sue.’

  ‘Why should he? The Kurdish people are grateful to him. So are we. We’ll say so. We are not suggesting that the money has gone astray. The point is that we don’t know where it has gone and we can’t get any answers. So we are asking him, as our friend, to help us find out.’

  The letter to Jeffrey Archer runs as a full page ad in the Guardian under the headline, ‘Dear Mr Archer, Kurdish children are still dying’. We take great care not to insult Archer, because he has done so much to help, nor to imply that there has been any impropriety in the way the money was handled. I post the text in mideast.kurds on Greennet (where it remains to this day).

  ‘Dear Mr Archer,’ the text begins, ‘In Kurdistan you’re a hero. Little children know the syllables of your name . . .’

  More massacres

  News comes in from the Middle East of a new wave of mass killings. Reports from the villages of Makkadeh, Libnah, Gezer and Eglon speak of remorseless slaughter. In these places not a single person is spared in a series of incidents blamed on fundamentalist militias. In the regions of Horim and Ammon killings and lootings are widely reported. Meanwhile in a settlement on the old site of Jericho, the population is murdered and the buildings set on fire. The sole surviving inhabitant is a woman who tells reporters, ‘They killed every living thing in the place, men and women, young and old, even the cattle.’ In Hormah every man, woman and child is executed. After razing a settlement at Hesbon, a fundamentalist troop commander boasts to newsmen, ‘We utterly destroyed the men and the women and the little ones.’ In the Moab rural district thousands are systematically murdered for their religious beliefs. Fundamentalist armed groups decapitate hundreds of victims and display their heads. In Midian province men are killed, women and children taken away as slave labour. Amnesty International’s press release says: MASS KILLINGS AND CRUELTIES ORDERED, COMMITTED, APPROVED BY FUNDAMENTALIST LEADER.

  The leader orders the extra-judicial execution of two hundred and fifty political opponents. When their supporters protest, he uses a biological weapon – according to some reports a strain of the deadly Yersinia pestis bacillus – causing nearly 15,000 deaths. The leader, whose real name is not allowed to be revealed, thrives on a culture of secrecy. His public appearances grow fewer. He is said to change his appearance often, possibly in a bid to thwart assassins, and forbids images of himself to be made or displayed. Surviving propaganda materials show an elderly, white bearded man.

  The leader, known only by a cipher, displays signs of paranoia. He orders the deaths of 3,000 of his own officers whose loyalty he suspects. Fears are expressed about his unstable frame of mind. He possesses a terrifying arsenal of biological weapons and the ability to hit cities throughout the region with ground to ground missiles. He detonates a weapon of massive yield against a hostile army. The towns of Dosmo and Mogharro are hit by missiles which rain down ‘fire and brimstone’. This same leader, earlier in his career, wiped out every living thing, both human and animal, over an area which extended to the entire planet, the only survivors being a man called Noah and his immediate family.

  The above is the burden of a long message which appears in the NuKE the World echo.

  Area 18: Nuke The World

  From: Jesus Slut Fucker Sent

  To: All Msg #9, Sep-04-93 12:26:36

  Subject: True Nature of the Christian God

  What is the nature of the Jehovah God? Many times we like to see him as Spirit and Truth, other times as Love incarnate. Perhaps we could look at the not so nice God to get a better look at his real, no-gloss, raw character.

  ‘It’s poignant,’ said Lilith, when I related the story to her. ‘For you, doubly so.’ (Lilith, who appears to think only of pleasure, never responds when I suggest she think about joining Amnesty.)

  ‘You’re forgetting, Bear, that God’s objective in all this was the suppression of female deities. Remind me to tell you about my namesake some time. These things happen when men take their hands off their willies and start playing with guns. If politics were forbidden to males and only women allowed to rule, none of these things would happen.’

  ‘Margaret Thatcher is a woman.’

  ‘Wrong,’ she says, ‘she is an honorary man.’

  Ambushed by Kurds (and Bear)

  Handren, Sarbast and I are hanging around in the lobby of the Queen Elizabeth Hall, a huge conference centre which stands right across the square from the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. We’ve just spent two hours in a public meeting listening to speaker after speaker, including guest of honour Jeffrey Archer, praise the Red Cross’s efforts in Kurdistan.

  ‘Quick, he’s coming.’

  On cue, the stocky figure appears, leading a flying wedge of charity fundraisers and Red Cross officials at a brisk pace towards us. Archer talks over his shoulder as he walks, glancing from left to right but never behind him, gesturing with his hands as he makes a point or gives an order.

  I thrust Handren forward and say, ‘Right, now’s our chance. Get out there and introduce yourself.’

  But Handren, sweet fellow that he is, picks this moment to feign shyness. The opportunity is, literally, passing. I step out of the crowd and plant myself in his path.

  ‘Mr Archer, I and my colleagues from the Kurdish Disaster Fund would like the chance of a word with you.’


  ‘Oh?’ He stops. One can almost hear his brain chirring. Kurdish Disaster Fund? Then recognition settles like a mask upon his face.

  ‘You’re the people who placed the open letter in the Guardian. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

  ‘Good, we were hoping you’d contact us.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I was most surprised by your letter, as I had not seen a copy of it beforehand. To which of my addresses did you send it?’

  ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t send me a copy?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I suppose we should have.’

  ‘Surely,’ says Jeffrey Archer, ‘it is not just customary, but simple good manners, to show a letter to the person to whom it’s addressed, before you publish it?’

  ‘Yes, but we were afraid that if we’d showed it to you first, you’d stop us publishing it.’

  By now a small crowd of people has gathered round us and the Red Cross officials are hovering.

  ‘I can very well understand that,’ he says, ‘but it’s scarcely an excuse. You know very well that you should have had the courtesy to send me a copy first.’

  ‘You are right and we are sorry, but we were desperate,’ says Handren, finding his voice at last.

  ‘We tried to reach you many times, but we could never get through,’ says Sarbast.

  Archer looks from one of us to the other.

  ‘I am the fool who wrote it,’ I say, and tap my chin. ‘So if you can’t forgive us, you had better stick one here.’

  Archer looks surprised. ‘As a matter of fact, I am rather angry with you. I think you had better all come to see me.’ He rounds on a nervous assistant standing behind him. ‘Nadhim, when can I see these gentlemen?’

  ‘Friday, at 7.30 a.m.,’ replies the assistant instantly.

  ‘Nadhim is Kurdish,’ whispers Sarbast to me.

  ‘Come to my office at 7 a.m. on Friday,’ Archer tells us. ‘We will have an hour and a half together. Nadhim will sort out the details. Goodnight.’

  He sweeps onward in a cloud of lackeys.

  On the steps outside, watching his entourage depart, Sarbast says, ‘Did you notice he never asked us would the time suit us?’ He adds happily, ‘I do not think I have ever met anyone so important.’

  Why Krug champagne?

  Friday morning, mist rising off the river, a barge bound down to the docks raising a khaki bow ripple, unquieting the water between us and the Palace of Westminster. The three of us, washed and brushed, present ourselves at the door of the famous apartment.

  This is where he holds the political lunches,’ whispers Handren. The Prime Minister comes here often. Mrs Thatcher too. Edward told me this. He says that Jeffrey Archer serves always shepherd’s pie with Krug champagne.’

  Edward is Edward Pilkington of the Guardian, one of the few journalists to show an interest in the Kurds before the crisis.

  ‘Why Krug champagne?’ asks Sarbast.

  ‘I do not know,’ replies Handren solemnly. ‘Edward did not say.’

  The door opens and a female assistant leads us into an airy apartment that occupies one whole floor of the building. Windows wrap right the way round. We are high over London, looking out across a wide sweep of the city, with a spectacular view across to Parliament and Big Ben. The assistant ushers us past a huge dining table – it rivals Gawain’s – into a seating area where white sofas surround a low glass table bearing ziggurats of art books. On the furthest sofa the secretary Nadhim sits bolt upright. Beside him, equally ill at ease, is another Kurd. Jeffrey Archer, peering over his spectacles like an old fashioned schoolmaster, rises smiling from the central sofa and invites us to be seated. Sarbast, Handren and I perch in a row along the edge of the third sofa.

  The new Kurd is called Brosk. We introduce ourselves. First Handren, stiffly, like a soldier on defaulters.

  Sarbast mumbles his name. ‘On behalf of the KCC, Mr Archer, I would like to thank you for all that you have done . . .’

  ‘And Bear . . .’ says Archer, jotting on a pad.

  Handren whispers, ‘The tables, they are from science fiction.’

  The female assistant brings in coffee, lukewarm and weak, as Archer launches into a well-rehearsed rebuke.

  ‘I am very cross with you people. You have used my name to obtain publicity for your cause. If you really needed my help, why did you not simply come to me?’

  ‘We tried . . .’, Sarbast begins, but Archer holds up a hand.

  ‘What you have done has unfairly and despicably cast doubts on my genuine effort to help your countrymen. It harms all of us. It has caused a lot of people – a lot of influential people, I may add – to question whether you were worth helping. They say to me, “Jeffrey, you should never have got involved with them”. They say, “After all you have done, they are so ungrateful”. What am I to reply?’

  ‘Mr Archer, we are very sorry if . . .’ stutters Handren.

  ‘You must know only too well,’ Archer, looking at him, carries on, ‘how little help your people had received. How little was being done. I worked eighteen hours a day to get that concert organised. I put myself on the line. I went cap in hand to governments for money. I sought, and obtained, a prime TV channel for an entire evening. Do you have any idea what that kind of exposure is worth?’

  I make some mental calculations. He is right. Several hours of television beamed to an audience of two hundred million – the time alone might be worth fifty million pounds.

  ‘You know that I have worked hard for your people and I did not have to,’ Archer is saying. ‘I don’t look for gratitude, but I do not expect to be abused.’

  I glance at Handren. He looks wretched. Sarbast too. I feel the same. Our ad had seemed so clever and righteous. Now we see what a shabby trick we have played.

  ‘I saw the Prime Minister at the weekend,’ says Archer. ‘He said to me, “Jeffrey, you should pick your friends more carefully”.’

  ‘Is the Prime Minister a family friend?’

  ‘I was at a party,’ Archer continues, glaring at me through the gap between his frowning brows and the rim of his spectacles, ‘and I met a friend who also happens to be a cousin of the Queen. He said, “Jeff, what is this? What have you been doing to the Kurds? Is this serious?” Now I want this stopped. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Mr Archer,’ says Handren, ‘we apologise for our bad manners. We admire what you have done for us. We do not . . .’

  Archer gestures to Nadhim, who hands him a newspaper. Upside down, I recognise our ad.

  ‘You say here that £57 million was enough to have solved all your people’s problems,’ says Archer, reading from the page. ‘Of course you must know that is simply naive nonsense.’

  He throws the paper aside.

  ‘I am working hard to find out exactly where all the money went, but I have not the slightest doubt that it has been wisely and properly distributed. I understand that, as Kurds, you are concerned about the situation in your homeland. In my view, rightly. But let me tell you that if you persist in doing this sort of thing I will stop helping. I will walk away and wash my hands of you.’

  ‘Mr Archer, we are not ungrateful,’ says Sarbast. ‘We are extremely thankful for everything you have done. But we were frustrated and we felt . . .’

  The female secretary comes in and says, ‘Jeffrey, Lynda’s on the phone for you.’

  Archer goes over to a large desk on which are three telephones, one of them red. He sits, picks up the red phone, watching us.

  ‘Yes Lynda, good of you to call . . . Thank you . . . As it happens, I am sitting here with five Kurds . . .’ He looks at me. ‘Correction. I am sitting here with four Kurds and Bear . . . Yes, quite . . . Very good of you to say so. I shall acquaint them with your views . . .’

  ‘That was Baroness Chalker who, as I am sure you know, is one of Her Majesty’s Ministers. She asks me to tell you that she thinks you are ungrateful wretches and that many cabinet colleagues to whom she has spoken agree wi
th her.’

  But he is smiling.

  ‘You will be delighted to hear that Lynda told me her team has despatched twenty trucks of Heinz beans.’

  ‘Oh that is most excellent news,’ says Sarbast.

  Archer beams at him.

  ‘Very well, I’ve had my grouse. I am not a vindictive man and I don’t bear grudges, so I’ll accept your apology and we’ll consider the matter closed. Now then, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well,’ says Sarbast, reaching into his pocket for the list . . .

  As we are leaving Archer takes me aside.

  ‘Bear, you wrote this advertisement. I want you to write another one. Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This time, I want you to play fair. Be positive. Let’s talk about what has been achieved. Here is my fax number. Let me have your draft as soon as possible. I suggest something along the lines of “Dear Mr Archer, thank you for all your help”.’

  A song for Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,’ says Sarbast.

  When Jeffrey Archer asked what he could do for us, Handren and Sarbast instantly produced our long list of wants. Would he assist our appeal? Would he visit the Kurdish Cultural Centre?

  Archer turned to his secretary.

  ‘Nadhim, when is the soonest I can do this?’

  ‘Next Tuesday at 11 a.m., if we reschedule your briefing with the Ambassador.’

  ‘I will be at your centre at 11 a.m. on Tuesday,’ said Archer. ‘I can give you exactly one hour.’

  We are in their favourite caff, somewhere near the Kurdish Cultural Centre sitting in greasy disbelief over plates of fried egg, beans and chips and huge mugs of tea. It is eight-thirty and the streets are full of the London rush hour.

  ‘Jeffrey Archer’s coming,’ yelps Sarbast in a panic. ‘Jeffrey Archer is coming to the Centre. Ohmygod, what are we going to do?’