He was sitting, flicking through the Asian Wall Street Journal and drinking a watery machine-made Americano when he saw Viv. She was standing outside, pulling and pulling on the heavy glass front door before eventually realising that she needed to do the opposite. She put her shoulder to the door and ended up almost falling in. She was wearing her green dress again, underneath a long blue coat and with high heels. She made her way slowly across the lobby, looking down at her feet and concentrating on every step. She only noticed Patrick once she was practically standing next to him. She gave a lopsided smile.
‘Good morning you.’
‘Morning. I’m guessing the date went well? It certainly went long.’
Viv put her hand on the top of the tall wing-backed chair to steady herself and sighed.
‘Best. Date. Ever. We just went backwards and forwards on the Star Ferry for most of the night. From here to Kowloon, Kowloon back to here … talking and eating and drinking.’
‘Especially drinking.’
‘Especially drinkin’. We made tock-cails. No … wait. Cocktails! Weird word cocktails, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’ Patrick looked at his watch. ‘Do you want me to help you back up to your room?’
She shook her head vigorously.
‘Don’t patronise me Patrick.’ Viv grinned. ‘That’s not extremely easy to say either is it? Don’t Patrick-nise me.’ She laughed. ‘Funny, huh?’ Viv paused. ‘Dan laughs at all of my jokes.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘I know very well exactly where my room is …’ she checked the pockets of her coat. ‘I even have a key. Good night, good friend.’ She leant over and pecked him on the cheek, then set off towards the lift, walking in a reasonably straight line. Patrick called after her.
‘Drink some water.’
‘Yeah, your mother drinks water!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing …’ She waved a hand. ‘I was trying to be funny, but I think it came out rude. Sorry ’bout that.’ The lift doors opened and she disappeared inside.
Colorado Dan arrived a couple of minutes later, less rumpled than Viv but also rather red in the face, not from drink, but by the looks of his stormy countenance, more out of anger.
‘Hey there Patrick, good morning.’
‘Morning, you okay?’
‘Me? Yeah. Just pissed off. That taxi driver was being a dick, driving us round in circles for half an hour, then trying to rip us off at the end of it. I had to set him straight.’ He looked around the empty lobby. ‘Where’d Viv go?’
Patrick pointed at the lift.
‘Up to her room.’
‘Glad to hear it, she’s a little liquored up. Sleep and water is what she needs. What you doing up at …’ He took a phone from his jacket pocket to check the time, then tutted at himself and put it back. But not before Patrick had noticed the familiar looking case.
‘Isn’t that Viv’s phone?’
‘Yeah, she left it back in the cab … like I said, she’s a bit booze high.’ He got his own phone from the other pocket. ‘It’s a quarter off six, what are you doin’ down here?’
‘I have to get a couple of things at the shop.’
Dan glanced over at the gift shop. Its lights were off and the windows dark, but you could still make out the carousel of postcards, a selection of yesterday’s newspapers, assorted souvenirs.
‘Gotta send an urgent postcard?’
‘Toothpaste, some ibuprofen.’
‘I got both of those in my room, if you wanna come up?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘Thanks, but it’s okay. I’m here now.’
Dan nodded.
‘Yes you are …’ He clapped Patrick on the back. ‘Well then buddy, I guess I’ll catch you later.’
‘Sure, sleep well.’
‘I always do.’
At one minute to six, Ada hurried into the hotel and across the lobby, the key to the souvenir shop in her hand. She nodded at Patrick and unlocked the door.
‘I’m sorry to be late sir.’
‘You’re not late at all Ada, you’re bang on time.’
He perused the postcards, spinning the carousel slowly while she went into the storeroom to change out of her coat and tracksuit and into her grey uniform.
The beige fax machine took its time to warm up, but once it had and the green light started blinking, it wasn’t long before it pulled in and spat out a sheet of paper with McCluskey’s familiar scribbled capitals on it.
‘INITIAL AND SEND BACK.’
Even her faxes came across as angry. He did as instructed and Ada stayed and watched. Patrick opened his new notebook and underneath the Chinese characters that he’d painstakingly transcribed, scribbled the fax number that McCluskey had sent this message through from, just in case there was a problem with the Skype later. There was an awkward silence while he and Ada sat waiting for the second message. He turned and smiled at the young woman.
‘Thanks again for your help. Er … you said you were on a business course I think? How’s it going?’
‘Good, really well …’ She talked him through her most recent class on bookkeeping. She was planning to specialise in business and hospitality because that was where the jobs were – jobs and the possibility of travel. They heard the grinding sound of plastic cogs as McCluskey’s second message made its way six thousand miles across land and under sea.
‘HERE YOU GO – DON’T FUCK UP.’
She’d written the Skype address out and underlined it. Next to that was a note reminding him to shred the fax. She really didn’t trust him at all. Patrick copied the Skype address down onto his pad, then tore the page out, folded it up and tucked it away in his wallet. He ripped the fax with its identifying phone number up into small pieces and stuffed them in his pocket. He would flush those down the loo when he got back to his room. He stuffed the notepad in his jacket pocket and was checking he hadn’t forgotten anything when Ada cleared her throat.
‘Is that all?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘I thought maybe you wanted to talk about something that is broken?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Perhaps you have a problem with your room, a broken thing?’
‘No, the room’s all fine.’
‘Oh, well good …’ She paused then gestured at his jacket. ‘Then I am sorry I was being rude. Nosy.’
Patrick smiled.
‘Nosy? What do you mean?’ Ada pointed at his jacket pocket.
‘In your book.’
‘My notepad?’
‘Yes … in the notepad, in Cantonese slang – you wrote that you require a repairman.’
30 The Influencers
THE CHERRYWOOD HOTEL, CUPERTINO, CALIFORNIA
Christy asked questions. Good questions, smart. Maybe because of that, maybe because he’d drunk two Jack Daniels and half a bottle of Chardonnay, Fred found that he had soon told her as much about the project he was currently working on as anyone. More.
‘We’ve known for ages that we can sell people zit cream on a Friday afternoon because they’re thinking about Friday night, we know they’ll buy trainers and cycling gear on a Sunday morning, we know that if they’re a member of the golf club or the gun club that they’ll like this policy or that kind of politician … all that sort of thing goes without saying.’ Christy was nodding. Fred was used to being listened to, but not quite like this, he was enjoying it. ‘But we’ve got around five thousand different data points for almost every single American right now. Soon we’ll have more. The more we have, the more we’ll know.’
‘And the more you’ll be able to predict?’
Fred’s hand went to the knot of his tie.
‘Predict yes. But not just predict.’
‘What then? Influence?’
He smiled.
‘Influence is a good way of putting it. I’ve been talking about tuning. But influencing is better. Gentler.’
He paused and refilled her glass.
&nbs
p; ‘You see the potential in what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, absolutely.’
Fred took another sip of wine.
‘And do any of these things that we’re talking about … does any of it make you feel … queasy?’
‘Queasy as in sick?’
‘Yes. Someone I know said the sort of developments that I’m talking about … the future that I’m imagining … made her feel queasy.’
Christy shook her head.
‘Not at all. We’ll just know a whole lot more about what people want. We’ll be able to offer it to them before they even know they want it. It’ll be cool. It’ll feel modern.’
‘I think that’s true … but there will come a point, a little further down the line, when people will start to worry about things like free will.’
Christy nodded.
‘What kind of people?’
Fred shook his head. ‘Mainly old people I bet. What’s that quote about freedom and happiness, how, given the choice, most people would pick happiness? I can’t remember who said it, I read it back in high school, but I remember thinking “yeah, of course. Who doesn’t want to be happy?” She reminded him of Elizabeth, back at the beginning, when as well as the confidence that came from a good upbringing and real confidence in the rightness of her ideas, she had that invincible confidence of youth. She smiled at Fred. ‘You shouldn’t worry about that. Even the people who don’t like it straight away, they’ll get used to it. People are really good at getting used to stuff.’
PART THREE
They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.
Dorothy Parker
31 Oaths
STOCKWELL ROAD, LONDON
To say that the microwaveable Indian banquet for one had been a disappointment was an understatement. The curry was bland, the rice starchy and the naan bread tasted like cardboard. Carver cleaned the debris from the dining room table and went to rinse it off in the kitchen sink. He had a dishwasher – a good one – but it rarely saw service. It wasn’t worth it when most of the time you were talking about one plate, a knife and a fork. Back in the living room, he pushed the sash window open wide to try to get rid of the curry smell. It was raining stair rods outside, but as a result the air felt as fresh as the air on the Stockwell Road ever did. Carver billowed the curtains a bit and soon the smell was gone. At the bus stop on the other side of the road, a mum and her buggied toddler were taking cover from the rain, the mother chatting away on her phone, the toddler in the buggy whining and waving her little fat hands around. As William watched, the mother finished her call, bent down and handed the child her phone. The bubble-haired toddler gave her mother a brief questioning look, then turned her attention to the screen. Carver pulled the curtains shut and glanced at his watch. He’d marked all the latest essays that his students had handed in, he’d prepared tomorrow’s lesson, he’d even laid out his bloody clothes for the next day. He thought about calling Donnie and asking whether he’d managed to dig up anything interesting on Public Square yet, but he quickly changed his mind. Donnie liked to do things his own way and in his own time; hassling him this soon after asking him to do the work would only piss him off. William went and switched the radio on instead – he could listen to the news bulletin while he finished the crossword.
Hong Kong was still leading the summary. The newsreader read a late-breaking statement from the Hong Kong government before cuing in the latest report from John Brandon. Carver tuned his ear and listened. It was bad – William was never slow to find fault with Brandon’s delivery, but that wasn’t what was wrong with this piece. It was poorly constructed, badly scripted and the whole thing sounded like it had been bolted together rather than professionally edited. William put his newspaper to one side. Maybe it wasn’t Patrick who’d produced the piece? It didn’t sound like his work – nothing like. He walked over to the radio and switched it off before the report had even finished. It was really none of his business who’d produced the package. If it had been a piece of work that he’d set his students to do, then William would have a stake, an interest. But it wasn’t and, therefore, he didn’t.
The radio he listened to when he was in the living room was part of an integrated music system that Carver had put together over the years and that lived inside a smoked glass cabinet in the corner. He switched the amp from Tuner to Phono and picked up a nearby pile of records. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for: the Choir of King’s College singing Faure’s Requiem. He removed the heavy circle of black vinyl from its sleeve and hesitated, briefly undecided whether to go for side one or two.
‘Pie Jesu.’
He blew a few spots of dust from side one, placed the record down gently on the turntable and lifted the stylus into place. Once done, he hurried back to his most comfortable armchair and plonked himself down. He liked to be sitting when that first booming note from the King’s College organ reverberated around the living room. He closed his eyes and the music transported him – but not as far or as wholeheartedly as it usually did. If Patrick wasn’t producing John Brandon, then what was he doing? The obvious answer was that he was doing whatever secret squirrel stuff it was that McCluskey had asked him to do. The King’s College Choir were doing their collective best, but it wasn’t enough. Carver opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon his trusty leather and canvas grab bag, stuffed next to the front door in the hall. He still hadn’t got around to sticking it in a cupboard or up in the loft and staring at it now, he knew that he would not. The personalised oath that he’d promised himself he would observe – his pledge to do no harm – was laudable, but if you had something to offer and did not offer it? Wasn’t that even worse than risking some future, accidental harm? The familiar, long first note of ‘Pie Jesu’ stopped Carver’s thought process. Stopped everything. For the duration of the song he was aware of nothing apart from the treble’s voice and Faure’s genius.
… grant them rest, grant them everlasting rest.
If a person had the wherewithal to do something, yet opted to do nothing. Could that ever be the correct choice? Carver gazed up at the ceiling but the answer was not there.
32 No Hay Problema
BROCHU, CHILE, SOUTH AMERICA
Soledad was nervous about this meeting with the miners and her mother wasn’t helping.
‘Remind them who your father was … who your mother is.’
‘I’m not sure that the people in Brochu have as large a place in their hearts for you and my father as you think they have.’
‘They prefer us to you …’ There was no arguing with this. The townspeople thought Soledad a strange young woman, aloof and arrogant. ‘People think you believe yourself too good for Brochu.’
‘They’re right.’ She tightened the belt on her jeans and zipped up her blue tracksuit top. ‘I am too good for Brochu. And so are they, so is every poor bastard unlucky enough to have been born here and too foolish to leave.’
‘You are right to be worried if this is how you intend to talk to the men at the mine.’
‘I won’t talk to them like this. I know what I am going to say. I’m going to tell them that it doesn’t have to be like this, not any more.’
Jags had arranged for Soledad to meet with the miners’ representatives. He’d also sent her a summary of what Public Square hoped to do in Brochu. A one-pager he’d called it. She had tried to work some of this into the speech that she had written, but the language was odd and slippery to translate. Phrases that Soledad guessed must sound catchy and inspiring to an English ear – win-win, driving change – sounded at best odd and at worst just stupid once translated into Spanish. Her speech would stick to the simple facts of what Public Square planned to build for the town and then talk about Soledad’s belief that if the whole community got together, then this could be the start of something big for Brochu. Her ambition stretched far beyond a nursery and a small museum; she imagined a model mining community, run by and for the miners and their families – runnin
g profitably, of course, but also safely and for the benefit of all. The summary that Jags sent through hadn’t said exactly this, but it had talked a lot about doing well while doing good. That was another hard-to-translate phrase, but one which squared absolutely with everything that Soledad had in mind.
As well as sending the one-pager, Jags had arranged for four hundred and fifty dollars to be deposited into her bank account – an advance on her first month’s salary. This money had allowed her mother to pay the priest what was owed for her father’s funeral with a little left over. Father Victor was visiting that morning, to thank them for the money and no doubt to find out whether there might be some more where that came from. Soledad was keen to be gone before the priest arrived. Her mother looked her up and down.
‘Are you really going to make your speech dressed like that?’
‘I really am. I’m meeting these men outside the mine, they’re in the middle of their working day. I don’t need to look smart.’
Her mother sighed.
‘At least, please God, brush your hair.’ She put her hands together as though in prayer. ‘Do it for me?’ Soledad went to look for her mother’s hairbrush. She heard Father Victor arrive while she was in the bedroom and decided to stay there. She listened to the priest’s cursory thank you for the money her mother had paid him and then …
‘Of course, as soon as our little church receives some piece of money, so I have to write a dozen more cheques … especially with the ceremonia happening so soon.’
‘Of course Father, although I think you will agree that our family has always contributed more than most to the ceremony. In every sense.’ Soledad heard her mother’s vain little laugh and winced. The priest was undeterred.
A Cursed Place Page 17
