Fred laughed.
‘What nonsense Lizzie. You know you’re welcome pretty much any time.’
‘Pretty much. You hear that Jags? Don’t worry, I’ve got things I can be doing, you boys run along and have fun.’
The two men rode the elevator down to reception in silence. They didn’t speak until they were well outside the glass egg and striding across the campus.
‘So that’s a fuckin’ handbrake turn away from everything we’ve been doing down in Chile so far.’
Fred nodded.
‘I know.’
‘You didn’t feel like saying something?’
‘No point. Once Lizzie makes her mind up about something like this, that’s it … Brochu is just going to have to tick along a little differently from now.’ They walked past a huge white wooden beehive, past the farm-to-table cafeteria, living bike sheds constructed from turf and moss. A couple of Public Square people zipped by on solar-powered scooters. Jags had his own opinions about all this, but he kept them to himself. ‘Perhaps she’s right, it could be that softly-softly is a better way to run the mining side of things – at least down there in our own back yard. Lizzie’s ideas aren’t going to help us get more coltan out of the ground in Congo but maybe they’ll work in Brochu. She gets to be humanitarian of the year or whatever it is she wants, and Brochu becomes more productive …’ Jags said nothing. ‘The price of copper’s about to start climbing, so more productive is what we want.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘About what?’
‘About the price of copper.’
‘Supply and demand. I’m doing a lot of deals right now and we’ve got several new products in development. We’re going to need a lot more copper, coltan, lithium, more silver, rare-earth metals … more of everything in fact. First us and then the other big players will follow suit.’
‘So you want the mine more productive, but I can’t use muscle any more?’ Jags had planned to replace Pablo with his eldest son, a slightly thuggish and malleable individual similar to his father. Now he was going to have to think again. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any thoughts about how this new approach is meant to work?’
Fred shook his head.
‘It seems to me that that’s a you problem, not a me problem.’ He was grinning that grin again; it was unusual to see Jags appearing unsettled and Fred was enjoying it. ‘Find the people who you think can help do things the way Lizzie wants them done. Once you know who they are, send me the names and numbers and I’ll run the rule on them.’
‘Fine.’ They were passing the company crèche. Alongside the bright Comic Sans sign for the Public Square Nursery School was a picture of a mobile phone with a diagonal red line through it: No screens beyond this point. Jags jutted his chin in the direction of the sign.
‘What’s that all about.’
Fred shook his head.
‘That’s just Lizzie’s pretend trade union flexing its pretend muscle. They read the last lot of research we did on kids and screens.’
‘I must’ve missed that.’
‘If it’s correct, then no parent in their right mind’s going to let a child under three even see a screen. No kid under twelve should get their hands on a smartphone.’
‘I see. I’m guessing Public Square aren’t putting a press release out on that right away?’
‘Me and Lizzie are discussing it. I’m not sure the research methodology stacks up, I want to run it again.’
‘Right.’
Fred’s man cave was, in fact, a black metal box of a building, hidden by thick lines of mature silver birch trees. He took an access all areas pass from his pocket and handed it to Jags.
‘So by my reckoning you’ll need to head back to Chile tomorrow or the day after, put the wheels in motion down there, then straight to the UK.’ Jags nodded. ‘The timing of this London trip is for-tuitous. There are one or two things over there that I need you to take a look at.’
10 Open Day
PECKHAM HIGH ROAD, LONDON
The bus was full to bursting by the time Rebecca reached the front of the queue but the driver ushered her on with a hairy hand.
‘Got two seats on top if you can fight your way up there.’ He glanced up through his periscope. ‘One now.’ He gave Rebecca an encouraging smile as she edged past the loose knot of people crowded around the door. ‘Good luck. Stay alive.’ She returned the smile and soldiered on, past a folded buggy and several men with no obvious excuse for not being upstairs and out of everyone’s way. She felt eyes on her as she climbed the stairs and regretted her choice of a skirt instead of jeans. The weather forecast on the radio for London that morning had been particularly unhelpful: heavy showers at first, then sunny spells and temperatures climbing into the twenties by the afternoon. How were you supposed to dress for that lot? At the top of the stairs she shuffled out of her red raincoat and tied it round her waist, shouldered her satchel and went in search of the legendary empty seat. It was one row from the back and occupied by a Primark bag belonging to the woman sitting in the window seat. The woman was staring into her phone, headphones in and apparently unaware of Rebecca or anything else going on around her. Rebecca tapped her on the shoulder, gave her the most apologetic smile she could manage and jutted her chin in the direction of the shopping bag. The woman looked around the bus before grudgingly removing the bag and pushing it down between her legs.
‘Thank you so much.’
The woman removed one earphone.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said thank you.’
Rebecca took a scrappy manila envelope from her satchel and looked at the to-do list she’d written on the reverse. She added the words: speak to Mum and then promptly put a line through them – she’d spoken to her mother already that morning. As she did this, she saw Patrick, a sarcastic grin on his face. In recent times, the compulsive list-making habit that her boyfriend had once found so endearing had become annoying. The last time he’d been home – a fleeting visit just before Hong Kong and after … where? Ukraine? – he’d decided to raise the matter.
‘You make a list and then, straight away, you cross something out. You make a to-do list which includes things you’ve already done.’ Rebecca remembered admitting to this, explaining that it made her feel like she was off to a racing start, but Patrick wouldn’t drop it. ‘I’ve worked out what it is. Your lists aren’t really to-do lists at all. They’re look-what-I’ve-done lists. In fact, they are look-what-I’ve-done-compared-to-what-you’ve-not-done lists.’ She shook the memory from her head; they’d had one stupid argument, that was all. The rest of the time they’d been together had been good. Patrick’s mind had been elsewhere and he’d been tired. They would have a full week together pretty soon – her half term and his long-promised leave. They’d sort things out then. The bus accelerated through an amber light then stopped suddenly behind a van and she felt her stomach lurch. The journey from the flat she and Patrick shared in north London to her school in the south had never been easy, but these last few weeks it seemed to leave her completely rinsed. At least today was a shorter day, no real teaching, just an inset. An open day for prospective parents to take a look around the place, meet the friendlier teachers and recce the most presentable classrooms. The headmaster had asked Rebecca to give a short talk to kick things off, meet and greet a few parents and then she could do what she liked with the rest of the day. She’d been asked to perform this role at several open days now and she was happy doing it. The only downside was the resentful looks she got from the head’s deputy, who clearly thought the job should be hers. Rebecca had suggested this herself, but the head was emphatic. ‘I prefer to save Mrs Shepard for the parents who look like they want their children to be beaten on a regular basis’. Rebecca had done this presentation often enough not to be worried about it and at the forefront of her mind this morning was how best to spend a precious free weekday afternoon. The British Museum maybe? Or the National Portrait Gallery, she h
adn’t been there in ages. She took her phone out and googled the opening hours.
The bus took her within half a mile of her school. Walking her usual shortcut through the old red-brick council estate, Rebecca was vaguely aware of someone, a woman, walking not far behind and drawing slowly closer. Chances were she was lost; it was easy to lose your bearings around here, she’d done it herself many times during her first few weeks working at the school. On reaching the side gate Rebecca paused and waited for the woman to catch her up.
‘Hello.’ Rebecca checked the woman out. She wore a grey business suit and had a tote bag slung over one shoulder. A mass of unruly red hair framed a friendly-looking face.
‘Hi, sorry, I’m …’
‘Lost? I’m guessing you’re here for the open day?’
The woman laughed.
‘I am. But I think I’ve fallen at the first hurdle, I can’t find the bloody school. I thought that maybe you were another – parent? One with a better sense of direction than me.’
‘No, but you’re close …’ Rebecca reached into her satchel and pulled out a school lanyard and security fob. ‘I’m one of the teachers, Miss Black.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘But I’m afraid I can’t let you in through this gate. You’ll have to walk around to the main entrance …’ She pointed in that direction. ‘… they’re registering all the parents at the reception round there.’
The red-haired woman nodded.
‘Brilliant, thank you so much.’
‘No problem. I’ll see you inside.’
‘Absolutely.’
11 Naz
THE COLLEGE OF JOURNALISM, ELEPHANT & CASTLE, LONDON
Carver stewed and sulked for a full twenty-four hours after his falling out with McCluskey in the Chinese restaurant. Righteous indignation and anger slowly dissipated, making way first for a few shadows of doubt and then the slow realisation that he had behaved like a complete ass. This revelation came coupled with the knowledge that he didn’t have that many friends. Certainly not so many that he could afford to lose McCluskey over some small matter. She’d helped him on more occasions than he cared to recall and this was the first time he could remember her asking for anything in return. She’d asked him if he’d phone Patrick on her behalf and he’d not just refused, but also accused her of being up to something. He’d been an idiot and he woke up that morning determined to make amends. An email or phone call was insufficient, he would take a train out to Caversham and apologise in person.
Before that he had a half-day’s teaching to get through, but this did not dent his mood either. Today’s class was a practical and he was a lot happier teaching those than the theoreticals. He also had to talk to them about the last piece of homework he’d set – a straightforward task, which pretty much every kid in the class had failed at.
William bought a large latte and an egg and cress sandwich from the canteen before catching the lift up to his classroom. As the students arrived, they dutifully switched off their phones and placed them in the fire bucket by the door.
‘Today we’re going to start trying to find out if you’ve got the basic equipment to do the job of a radio reporter. Namely – ears.’
He instructed the students to gather together at the front of the classroom, two-deep around his desk. He found a long list of audio files on his laptop, highlighted one and pressed play. The sound was a little tinny, but loud enough. The young people craned their necks to hear; they were waiting for a voice, for speech but there was none, just wild track. He let it play for a minute or so then turned to the class.
‘What do you think that is you’re listening to?’
There was a nervous silence, then Naz spoke.
‘A river, cars, some birds.’
‘Not a bad start, you go first then Naz. I’ll play it to you through my cans …’ He plugged his favourite pair of Bakelite headphones into the laptop and passed them to her. ‘… be careful with those.’ Carver pressed play and watched Naz concentrate; she closed her eyes and listened.
‘I can hear water, maybe not a river though. Some street sounds, cars, birds I think.’
‘Better. So where do you think you are?’
‘I am … in a small town.’
‘Good. And the water?’
‘Definitely not a river. The water is … controlled somehow. Maybe it’s a fountain?’
‘Maybe. And what time of day do you think it is?’
A few of the class laughed, but not Naz. She was getting the hang of this now.
‘I can’t hear a church bell or anything like that.’
‘No, but maybe you don’t need one. Listen.’ She listened.
‘I think it’s the morning, early morning, like six or seven. But I don’t know why I think that.’ Carver nodded and paused the tape.
‘I recorded that at six thirty in the morning, outside a café in a little public square in a place called Vejer in the south of Spain. You get a sense of the time because of the birdsong – it has a particular sound at that time of day and we’re programmed to know that. The water is a fountain, you were right.’
‘I nailed it.’
‘You did okay. We’re all walking around with a huge sound bank in our brains, it’s just we don’t use it like we should.’ Naz handed the headphones back.
‘Your café and that fountain? They’re up at the top of a hill aren’t they? Maybe at the top of some kind of steep narrow street?’ Carver studied Naz.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I can hear it in the noise those cars make, the sound of the engines and the gears.’
William nodded. Naz had painted an almost perfect picture of the spot where he’d made the recording.
‘Not bad.’
The next hour was spent teaching close microphone technique – a way of recording the voice with such clarity that listening back to the interviews you could hear the lipstick on a woman’s lips, the cigarette in the mouth. Carver let the class mess about with this idea and they were the most engaged he’d ever seen them – recording each other and themselves and listening back, their hands hard against their heads and straining to listen. It was Naz who lost interest first and came over to his desk, tape recorder in hand.
‘Is it just the physical things you can hear do you think sir?’
‘As opposed to?’ Carver knew what she was thinking about, he’d wondered the same thing when he was training. He’d wondered it many times since.
‘Can you tell the difference between real and faked emotion? Fear? Love?’
‘Some people think so.’
‘What about a lie? Can you tell the truth from a lie?’
Carver had set aside the second half of the lesson for something he knew the students would find less pleasant than the practical. After they’d packed away the recording equipment he got them to sit back down behind their desks.
‘Last week I asked each of you to send me an example of the sort of news that you read or listen to or watch and that you respect. Newspapers, radio, TV … I didn’t care what form it took …’ The students’ heads nodded. ‘… but I wanted news. What most of you sent me was not news, it was opinion.’
Getting his students to understand that there was a difference, and what that difference was, took the rest of the lesson. First he went through the stuff he’d been sent.
‘This isn’t fact-based journalism; we can argue about objectivity and whether it exists …’
Naz stuck her hand up and the two of them batted that backwards and forwards until Carver sensed that he was losing the rest of the class.
‘There is room for opinion in journalism, of course there is. But to quote one of the old fellows, “Comment is free, facts are sacred.” Also, it seems to me like you’re reading and watching stuff that just reinforces your own opinion. You should be actively looking for things that challenge your existing opinion.’ He looked at the class. Derek’s studded face wore a look of puzzlement.
; ‘Why?’
‘Because that’s how you learn. And, it’s how we learn to live with each other.’ He paused. ‘Try and find and listen to the other side of the argument, whether it’s party politics, international politics … identity politics especially.’
‘You do that do you, sir?’
‘Yes Naz, I’m not a complete dinosaur, I try and stay current when it comes to things like LGBT rights and the rest.’ William was rather pleased with this answer. Then he saw that Naz had her hand up again. ‘Yes?’
‘LGBTQIA+’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s LGBTQIA+ now, sir.’
‘Really? They added more letters? What are those ones for … actually, never mind. Tell me after the lesson. My point is that if you want to campaign, go be a campaigner. You want to be a journalist? I can teach you that.’
12 Department Eight
PUBLIC SQUARE HQ, CUPERTINO, CALIFORNIA
Fred’s idea of organising Public Square’s research centre in the same way as a typical American middle school had won Public Square plenty of column inches. The seven subject areas were maths, English, biology, chemistry, physics, social studies and health and wellness. Each team worked out of its own classroom but the different disciplines were encouraged to mix and swap ideas, especially during recess, which was what was taking place as Fred showed Jags around. Milling about and lounging around in small groups were scores of young people of various nationalities, assorted colours and creeds, all wearing casual and colourful clothes. The scene reminded Jags of the old billboard ads for the United Colours of Benetton, except that this lot all had laptop computers, tablets or phones with them at all times. They walked through the cafeteria … ‘That’s all organic food, completely free, twenty-four hours a day. They can work whatever hours they want to work, complete flexibility.’ Jags saw a knot of kids all wearing the same T-shirts with the same slogan on them: 90 Hours a Week and Loving It.
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