by Monica Belle
Black Knight Securities was on the new trading estate to the south of town, where the shoe factory Dad had worked in had been before it went bust. Just that was enough to make me feel resentful, although it wasn’t their fault, obviously, let alone the way Mum and Dad had fallen apart afterwards.
Black Knight Securities were obviously just setting up. There was a showroom, with tall glass doors now wide open and a man in a white overall laying brick-red carpet tiles within. He didn’t seem very likely to be the one doing the interviewing, so I stepped past him with what I hoped was a polite smile and through the door beyond into a warehouse piled high with crates and boxes. Two men were frowning over a clipboard, both suits, but otherwise very different.
One looked like a fox, fairly tall and very thin, with close-cropped red hair coming down across his forehead in a point where he’d begun to go bald, while his features were pinched and suspicious. The other was equally tall, but dark haired and well built, his good looks spoilt only by the look of square-jawed, humourless honesty projected in his face. They were just the sort of people I’d been dodging for years and I hated them both immediately. The last thing I wanted was their job, and I was sure they’d want a meek little thing behind the desk, so I stepped boldly forward, deliberately breaking into their conversation.
‘Hi. I’m Felicity Cotton. I’ve come about the job.’
Foxy looked down, distinctly peeved. Square Jaw turned steel-grey eyes onto me and turned over a couple of pages on his clipboard before replying.
‘Miss Cotton? Yes, eleven fifteen. Sorry, I didn’t realise you were waiting.’
I hadn’t been, I was late. I was almost tempted to say so too, but held back, telling myself it wasn’t because of his air of natural command but simple common sense. He tapped his finger on the clipboard then spoke to Foxy.
‘Would you interview Miss Cotton, Paul? I’ll finish checking this in and join you in a minute.’
Foxy nodded and ushered me towards a wooden staircase which led up to an open office immediately above the showroom. He didn’t look best pleased and I was sure I’d already failed, which brought an odd mixture of relief and annoyance. The office space was effectively a balcony overlooking the warehouse, with carpet tiles like the ones in the showroom and two desks each with its chair and computer. Everything looked brand new. I sat down without waiting to be asked while Foxy shuffled through various bits of paper before finally addressing me.
‘Miss Cotton, right, here we are. You’re twenty, you’ve lived in the area all your life, and this would be your first employment?’
He’d obviously written me off already and was only going through the motions, so I answered casually.
‘That’s right.’
‘And how have you spent your time since leaving education?’
I almost answered that I’d been product-testing for companies like his, which was fairly true, but I wasn’t feeling quite cheeky enough. Instead I shrugged, knowing full well that my complete failure to get a job for four years had already buried me.
‘This and that. You know, moving around.’
‘Travelling?’
I nodded. The trip down to Wiltshire with the convoy the year before counted as travelling, definitely travelling.
‘Whereabouts?’
Wiltshire somehow didn’t seem the right answer, but there were Steve’s booze runs to Calais.
‘The Continent, France mainly.’
‘I see, and why did you choose to do this rather than start in full-time employment?’
I couldn’t think of an answer other than the truth.
‘I didn’t want to get tied down, not straightaway.’
‘So having soaked up a little culture you’re now intent on starting on your career path?’
That sounded about right, even if it hadn’t been culture I was soaking up.
‘Yes.’
‘And what made you choose the security industry?’
I hesitated, because it was a really stupid question. They wanted a dogsbody on the front desk, so it was hardly a career path, any more than taking a job flipping burgers is a career path in globalised evil. Foxy was looking expectant though and I had to say something, so snatched at something Pete had said when we were talking about speed cameras.
‘It’s the fastest growing industry in the country at present, with, er . . . unprecedented potential for expansion both on the national and international markets.’
‘That’s a very proactive attitude, Miss Cotton. Do you feel that’s something you would bring to the company if we were to select you?’
I had no idea what he was talking about, but wasn’t about to look a complete fool by asking what ‘proactive’ meant.
‘Yes.’
He seemed to want me to continue, but I couldn’t think of anything to say and eventually he looked down at his papers again, apparently scanning a list for another question to ask me. I waited, letting my eyes flicker around the big, white warehouse and the stacks of boxes. Most seemed to be cameras of one sort or another, which was really depressing. At last Foxy decided on a question.
‘What do you have in your personal toolbox?’
Again I hesitated, not at all sure what he was asking, even if it was some sort of coded test to see if I’d show him my tits or something. Fortunately he spoke again before I could decide whether to slap the cheeky bastard or give him a flash.
‘What skills will you bring to the job, that is, Miss Cotton?’
‘Oh, I see, um . . . Well, I know quite a bit about cameras, I suppose.’
He’d been going to ask another question but thought better of it, reaching across his desk instead and passing me a square black box as he spoke again.
‘What do you make of this, then?’
From the picture on the box, it was obviously a surveillance camera, but only when I took it out did I realise it was one I’d never seen before, and seriously sneaky. It was black, no larger than my balled fist, and designed to be mounted high on a wall. Big Brother would have been proud. Foxy was waiting for my opinion.
‘It’s an external, wall-mounted surveillance camera, designed to be unobtrusive, while this shield would make it hard to break with a stone or something. The field of vision looks likes three-quarters of a circle, and the lens is a Zeiss, so high quality. It must be wired in and controlled from a base as there’s a zoom facility. I imagine it’s for use in shopping centres and stuff, anywhere with a security base. It says it’s digital, so presumably it feeds back pictures to a computer? I’ve not seen it before though.’
‘You wouldn’t have. It’s our new line, the ZX-4. After a lot of research, Stephen and I decided this was the best available, both in terms of money and technical merit. Last month he and I went to the Korean plant where they’re produced, watched the demonstration and were given instructions on using them. What isn’t obvious to the average person is that it can be used in conjunction with a facial recognition program, and automatically stores the images for future reference. With this baby you can pick a face from the crowd and it will retrieve every sighting of that individual going back as far as records have been kept. I’m sure you can see how powerful a tool that is, especially when linked to police or council databases.’
And they wonder why people wear hoodies. I turned the horrible thing over in my hand, looking for a weakness. It was clearly designed to be installed too high for spray paint to work easily, and was too tough and too small to make throwing things at it worthwhile. I tried to think of anything I’d done wrong recently that might have been captured on camera. There was plenty, and I had to ask.
‘Have any of these been installed yet, locally?’
‘No, but we have an advisory team from the council coming over for a demonstration next week. In fact our primary marketing strategy is based on the supply of integrated systems including modules such as the ZX-4, and principally to corporate bodies. Assisting us with presentations would be an important part of your job, which is one reason we’
re keen to take on somebody with local knowledge. I take it you’re aware of the high incidence of low-level crime in the Hockford area?’
‘Er . . . yes.’
‘The highest per capita rate of taking and driving in the country, for instance, which was a major deciding factor in locating ourselves here. We are an aggressive, forward-looking company, Miss Cotton, and by stamping down hard on street crime here, we aim to build a national reputation for our products. This is why we’re looking for dynamic, proactive team members, perhaps like yourself. Furthermore, if you do work with us, you’ll be taking on a fulfilling, real-time role in reducing street crime.’
That was true. I could reduce it by about half.
‘So you’re hoping the council will buy your system and you’ll be able to catch the local scallies . . . sorry, I mean low-level criminals?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But won’t they just move on? You can’t put cameras everywhere.’
‘Ah, but we can, just about. That’s the beauty of the system. The ZX-4 is a high-cost, high-efficiency module, primarily designed to make the initial recordings for the facial recognition program. We have other low-cost modules, effectively disposable, which function as part of the integrated system to ensure close on one-hundred-per-cent coverage of the area for considerably less than the price of our competitors’ systems.’
I had to say something.
‘Isn’t that a bit over the top?’
‘At Black Knight Security we take a zero-tolerance approach. If they don’t want to get caught, they shouldn’t break the law. If you’re not breaking the law, you have nothing to worry about. Simple.’
‘But what about deterrence? Wouldn’t it be better to put up a big, obvious camera, then maybe nobody would do anything in the first place?’
There was something almost conspiratorial in his voice as he answered me.
‘You’re not looking at the big picture. At this stage of the game we need the oxygen of publicity, and that means getting results. If we use big, obvious cameras, then the . . . what was that word you used, scalies?’
‘Scallies.’
‘They’ll be careful. We aim to get the full system installed without their knowledge, and to spend at least a week gathering facial recognition data before making our move. That should get us the attention we need.’
I was staring at him in horror, but he didn’t notice, instead giving a dry cough as he realised he’d been getting carried away with his grand project. Once more he looked at the papers he’d been asking questions from before speaking.
‘Right, er . . . Miss Cotton, just one or two more general questions. Please could you give an example of a situation where you’ve used your own initiative to solve a problem?’
I could – bailing out of the old Beamer Dave Shaw had pinched before he decided to race the police down the M11 – but it didn’t seem likely to go down very well. For a moment nothing else would come, before I thought of the way I’d managed to get backstage at the Bladders concert, but that wouldn’t do either. I pretended to be considering several options, and finally decided to turn the whole thing around on him.
‘I don’t really see how you can solve a problem without showing initiative. After all, even if you go and ask somebody else to help, that’s initiative, isn’t it? But if you just stand there and do nothing, then you haven’t solved the problem.’
He looked mildly perplexed for a moment, then went on.
‘Do you feel you work best alone, or as part of a team?’
I knew the answer to that one, even it is was a total lie.
‘Oh, as part of a team. I’ve always been a team player, although I can work alone if I have to.’
He gave a solemn nod, then continued.
‘What do you do to relax?’
That at least I could answer.
‘Play the drums.’
He looked a little surprised, but nodded once again. Mr Square Jaw was on his way up and gave me an affable smile as he leant against the banister. I smiled back, maybe a bit nervous, not because he was so good-looking, rather because the pair of them were freaking me out. I felt like a mouse between two cats, one scrawny ginger and one big, sleek black one.
I seemed to have survived the interview anyway, because Foxy stacked his papers and put them back on the desk as he spoke.
‘Thank you very much, Miss Cotton. I’m Paul Minter, by the way, and my colleague is Stephen English.’
Square Jaw stuck out an enormous paw, which enfolded my own hand completely as I gave it a tentative shake. Foxy also offered a hand then I beat a retreat, complying with their final demand by sending up the next applicant, a woman older than me, smarter than me, and undoubtedly more suitable for the job in every possible way. She even looked as if she might have shown some proactive initiative in a team-based problem-solving scenario.
I went home, feeling distinctly depressed. Nobody was in, so I flopped down on my bed, thinking black thoughts. I obviously didn’t have the job, not that I wanted it anyway, but much more importantly it looked like the entire town and maybe even the surrounding countryside was going to be swamped with Foxy and Square Jaw’s horrid little cameras. Soon it would be impossible to have a snog without some closet perve peeping in to have a good leer and check that nothing happened to offend propriety, that or offer some thoroughly condescending advice on birth control.
Not even The Clash or Dag Nasty or Fat Lip could pick me up, but only succeeded in turning my thoughts to dark but ludicrously impractical ideas for putting a stop to the surveillance camera scheme. Yet at the very least I could warn everyone, so Foxy and Square Jaw might not get the bonanza scoop of scallies they expected. I knew what to look for too, which had to help, but with the sort of technology they were employing it was going to be very hard to hide.
I could of course give up my life of crime and become a model citizen, but I didn’t want to, not with the punk blaring into my ears. Unfortunately it’s one thing to sing ‘Never Surrender’, another to do it, and by the time I’d got to ‘I Fought the Law’ I found I couldn’t get the lyrics out of my head. I thought back to my joyride with Pete just a few days before and wondered if it might be my last. It already felt distant in time, a lost moment of pleasure and excitement I would never know again.
That was nonsense. I’d just have to be clever, but there was always a way to beat the system. Foxy and Square Jaw would never control me. I’d be out again, maybe with one of those joke masks you can get of King Kong or the Queen. Let them put that in their facial recognition program. That made me laugh, and I began to daydream about the two men and how I could thwart their evil scheme, or their good scheme really, because I had no illusions about who the bad guys were, at least by most standards.
It was amazing how different they were to the men I knew, in some ways anyway. In other ways they were the same. After all, they were really in it to make money, just like Steve bringing the booze back from Calais, only legal. That was where the resemblance ended. Steve was full of life and emotion, always laughing, or angry, or dirty, filling my mouth with cold lager and then pulling my head down on his crotch because he liked the feeling on his cock. It was impossible to imagine Foxy doing that, or Square Jaw, who was definitely a Stephen and not a Steve.
There had been that one brief moment though, when Foxy had said that thing about my ‘personal toolbox’ and for one moment I’d really thought he was testing me to see if I’d be the sort of assistant who did personal favours. Not that I’d have done it for him, not in a million years. Square Jaw was a different matter, because he was undeniably good-looking, and I can sometimes be a bit of a sucker for a stern man, literally.
It actually made quite a nice fantasy, imagining Square Jaw interviewing me, with the same string of fatuous, newspeak questions, then all of a sudden a complete bombshell, something like ‘And what would you do if I were to demand fellatio out of hours, Miss Cotton?’ I’d tell him that I was no clock-watcher but dedicated
to the success of the company and quite happy to work late, or that I fully understood the importance of teamwork and that if sexual tension was reducing his performance I would be more than happy to provide him relief in my mouth.
That was a deliciously dirty thought, and I made myself more comfortable on the bed, rucking my skirt up a little and letting my thighs come apart. For a moment the scene in my head changed, and I was imagining doing to Stephen English what I had done to Pete, straddling his face to make him lick me to heaven. Somehow it didn’t work, but seemed inappropriate, even insolent. Stephen was too strong, too harsh to be handled so easily. If he licked me he’d have me on all fours, in a thoroughly exposed position, but it was much more likely to be me down on him.
I didn’t want to admit to myself that he made me feel subservient, and I fought against what my body was telling me to do, but only for a moment. The idea was too sexy to hold back on. My hand went between my thighs, touching myself through the moist cotton of my knickers as I imagined the scene. It would be after hours, with both of us working late, and he would suddenly, casually make his demand, in a voice that allowed no possibility of disobedience – ‘You will now give me fellatio, Miss Cotton.’
He would say it that way, very formal and stuffy, but the end result would be just the same, his cock fed into my mouth for me to suck him off. I’d be kneeling, under his desk, maybe with my smart little skirt suit – the same one I was really in – disarranged to show my breasts and bottom. Men love that, to have a girl go bare while she sucks, and he would be no exception. I’d be playing with myself as his cock grew in my mouth, just as I was for real, with my fingers doing wonderful things between my legs and to one nipple.
Already I was on the edge of orgasm, but I took a last moment to strip myself, pushing down my knickers under my skirt and hauling my blouse and bra high to bare my breasts. That felt good, and as I began to touch again my mind focused on how he’d look in a similar dishevelled state, with his smart business suit still on, but with his cock and balls sticking out from his fly, huge and virile, ready for my mouth as I was ordered onto my knees to suck him.
