Digital Circumstances

by BRM Stewart

  I began to sober up a bit with the main course – my usual chicken tikka chilli garlic with a couple of chapattis and a spoonful of someone’s rice, and another Kingfisher. Catherine and Helen got into discussion on books. I had heard most of it before: self-publishing on Amazon’s Kindle store at low prices, or for free, in the hope of gaining recognition and maybe actual money further down the line; the ‘game-changing’ tablet market; the threats and the hopes.

  Jim was a depute head-teacher in a secondary school on the south-side. We talked of the impending winter, hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as the years before, and then inevitably he spoke of education cuts, having to use out-dated technology, the struggle to do more with less. I tried to point out that this is what everyone was doing during the recession – Catherine and Helen came in on my side on that one – and got nowhere, so we backed off before that became a serious point of dispute.

  And he asked about me.

  ‘I work in computers,’ I told him, knowing that I was about to tell him how well off I was, and how easy my life was, and that wouldn’t go down well with a teacher working in a tough Glasgow secondary school. But he would never know what lay behind all of that, and how I’d got to where I was, and how it was all in danger, and maybe my life was in danger too… All of it slipped through my mind in a moment. ‘I’m a partner in a company here in Glasgow – B&D, on St Vincent Street, and we have another place on Argyle Street, in Finnieston.’

  He gave me that affable smile over the rim of his beer glass. ‘So you’re surviving the recession.’

  ‘It’s tough,’ I lied. ‘But we have a good track record with clients – that’s how we get new business, really. And our margins are tight.’ Well, our official margins were tight, and often non-existent.

  ‘How did you get started?’

  ‘We started up a business way back in the late eighties, just after I left school – no qualifications, just me and my best pal Davey.’ I caught my breath, like I always did when thinking of Davey or mentioning his name. ‘That was the Argyle Street shop. We fixed computers, helped folk out installing software, helping them use what they had. We expanded, started building and selling IBM PC clones, software installation and – most importantly – support and after-sales. And then in the nineties we got into the Internet quite quickly. Then Internet commerce, and Internet security. Setting up websites for people like travel agents and shops. Made a lot of money from doing that. And we floated some of our own ideas – lots of stuff that was complete bollocks, never earned anything, but people thought it was and bought it off us.’

  ‘The dot com bubble.’

  ‘That was us.’ I laughed. ‘We had one website where restaurants could advertise their specials for the evening – ‘5 o’clock specials’, I think we called it.’

  ‘Imaginative.’

  ‘Customers could then rate the specials, and choose where to go based on that rating, and then give feedback on the restaurants. We got a huge amount of investment, ran it very successfully for two months, and then sold it on. Just before people realised what complete shite it was as an idea and the share price collapsed. We did that a couple of times.’

  Jim sipped at his Kingfisher, pausing in the middle of his chicken tava. ‘Any ethical issues there, Martin?’

  Oh, fuck off, I thought. Fuck right off. I nearly said that aloud. ‘It’s the business world, Jim, not the public sector. Yes I got out before a collapse, but I didn’t lie about the business’ prospects. I thought up the idea, genuinely thought it was a good one, even though it looks like crap now – I didn’t set it up as a con. If I’d stayed with it and gone down the pan and was living off Helen’s money, would that be ethically sound?’ I didn’t mention the other side of the business, of course – that really was a pretty clear-cut ‘ethical issue’. ‘In my world, for all those years, every day could bring disaster. I could have lost everything at any point.’ My voice was cold and angry, and Helen was watching me. And that statement wasn’t fatuous: I felt I really was standing on the edge now, about to lose everything – about to lose Helen.

  Jim pursed his lips: ‘Another pint?’

  I was really pissed off with him. Granted, I wouldn’t have his job if you’d paid me twice the money I earned, but that wasn’t the point. He was safe, my life was on a knife edge: apparently I worked with people who knew people who would kill people.

  We talked about other things: sport, films, theatre, music. It was a long evening, and I was glad when it was over.

  Helen was happy, laughing as we walked arm in arm all the way back up Byres Road after saying cheerio to Jim and Catherine, who had grabbed a taxi outside the restaurant.

  Back in our lounge in the flat, she put the iPod in its dock, a playlist of her favourite songs. We sat listening to Beth Nielsen Chapman, sipping rum and cokes, me on the couch, she on the floor, against my leg, pretending we were having that ditcher in Alvor.

  ‘What a great night,’ she said. ‘What a lovely couple. How did you and Jim get on?’

  ‘OK. We had a bit of private sector versus public sector argument at one point, and I think we rather pissed each other off.’

  ‘Oh dear. I did overhear some of it.’

  I shrugged and yawned. ‘He’s no idea what it’s like, what I’ve had to do over the years…’ I stopped, and took another drink.

  Her head tilted back: she had been stroking my calf with her fingernails, but now she stopped. ‘Are you referring to last week and your mystery trip?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, no, not that – that was just a wee job, for a friend of a client, not an issue. No, I think I’m just getting a bit jaded – everything’s plateaued…’ I didn’t quite sound convincing even to myself. ‘Maybe I should move to something else…’

  I had intended that to reassure her that – even if there had been something dodgy to worry about with the Portimao job, which there wasn’t – things were going to be different, and good. But I sensed I had worried her more.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me what that was about?’

  ‘I did tell you: it was just a wee computer job.’

  ‘And nothing to do with that guy getting shot.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And you didn’t have a quick fling with that gorgeous little blonde.’

  I bent to kiss her. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

  She frowned and ducked aside from the kiss. ‘I’m off to bed – busy day tomorrow.’ Her tone seemed cool. ‘Don’t be too late,’ was her parting remark. She left her drink on the coffee table, unfinished.

  I sat alone, listening to the songs and the sweet voices. Oh god, I thought, my life was slipping through my fingers like sand. How can I get out of all of this?

  Chapter 5

  Glasgow – twenty five years before

  In the two weeks after the party, and that experience with Fiona, my initial optimism was draining away. In fact, I felt worse than I had before. I had been shown a glimpse of another life, a life of money and sex and good living – I could be that guy with the gorgeous blonde on my arm – and was now being reminded that it wasn’t for me after all.

  Mum had been pleasantly surprised by my gift of the tenner. She was less impressed on the following Friday when I asked to borrow it back. She’d insisted we go back down to the school, together, to try to get me back in to repeat my Highers. I knew what would happen, and it did. The assistant head gave me the same sarcasm as before: pointless if I came back, attitude was wrong, wasting my potential, blah blah blah. Where I had ridden out the storm last time, I now saw mum becoming upset, and I got angry and shouted at him – I think I told him to stick his fucking school up his fucking arse, to which he spread his hands as if my outburst vindicated his opinion of me.

  What I was keener on was finding a job fixing computers and helping people who had problems with their software, or just couldn’t work out what to do with what they’d bought. Davey and I roamed the west end and beyond, finding wee computer shops t
hat had sprung up offering the services we wanted to offer, asking for a job. On Argyle Street, around Finnieston, there were several of these shops, mostly staffed by Indian or Pakistani guys. We chatted to them, got on with them, but their businesses were tight: they had no need for extra staff, no room to expand. These were all one- or two-man operations. They were apologetic, but firm: no deal.

  My mum seemed to appreciate that I was making an effort to find something, but we both silently agreed it was hopeless. As I stared out of my bedroom window at the greyness around me, visualising myself joining the men on the corner with their fags and cider to do nothing and talk about nothing, I was nearly in tears. Mum would do OK without me: she had her job as a secretary at the health centre, and I knew that there was money from dad in the bank.

  Early one afternoon I was woken by a persistent ringing at the doorbell. I took a peek out of my bedroom curtain, and saw a big man in a suit at the front door. There was a black Mercedes-Benz at the kerb, and the groups of men from the estate were being drawn in by its gravitational attraction. I chapped on the window and the man looked up and saw me; I indicated I was coming down. I threw on yesterday’s clothes and staggered downstairs.

  The big man had wandered back towards the car, and was talking to a couple of local guys. I recognised them but didn’t know their names: they were small, skinny, dirty – aged forty but looking sixty. He was saying something to them, and they were nodding, holding their hands up in supplication, then backing away from the car. The big man turned to me, smiling as he lit a cigarette.

  He looked about thirty or so: his hair was reddish and receding, cut to a stubble. He was clean-shaven. He was taller than me, and bigger – partly fat, but mostly muscle; he stood with his feet slightly apart, balanced, braced.

  ‘Martin McGregor?’ The voice was deep, the Glasgow accent heavy.

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m Sandy Lomond. I work for Ken Talbot. He’d like to see you.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Now,’ he added. ‘If that’s convenient.’

  ‘Oh – right. Can you give me five minutes – I need to go for a… I mean, I need to have a quick wash.’

  ‘No problem, Martin.’

  Ten minutes later I was pulling the door shut behind me. Sandy stood smoking by the car, looking round, his face impassive. When I appeared, he threw his cigarette away and got in and started the engine. I climbed in the front, marvelling at the leather seats, the dials. Mum didn’t drive, so we’d sold dad’s wee Fiesta after he died, after it had lain unused for a year. This car was much bigger, silent and comfortable.

  We picked up Davey from his place – same estate, identical house – and the two of us were driven, baffled and overawed, back to that big house in Bearsden, where Sandy reversed into the driveway and we all climbed out into the damp afternoon. Sandy opened the front door, and took us upstairs to the study we’d been in before. The memories of the party came back, and the anguish of not getting enough detail on Fiona to be able to track her down; I looked up to the bedroom where we’d been.

  ‘Hello boys.’

  We nodded. ‘Hi, Mr Talbot,’ I said. Davey was looking at the Amstrad, head bowed.

  Ken Talbot stood in the middle of the study, wearing smart casual trousers and a diamond-pattern sweater over a blue polo shirt. He patted the monitor of the Amstrad. ‘This fuckin’ heap of shite isn’t working. It was slow as fuck, kept asking me to insert this fuckin’ disc and insert that fuckin’ disc, and now it’s fuckin’ broken. The shop that sold it to me won’t come and fix it, and I sure as fuck am not taking it to them. I’d like you two boys to have a go. If you need to get any bits or bobs for it, or anything else, Sandy here will drive you, and he’ll pay for it. Clear so far?’

  I looked to Davey – this was probably mainly a hardware problem – and he bobbed his head. ‘Yes, fine,’ I clarified for Talbot. ‘We’ll have a go.’

  ‘Good. I’m off to play golf – Sandy will come back here after dropping me off. It would be really good – really good – if this was working by the time I got back.’

  ‘We’ll sort out what we can. Have you got the disks that came with the machine?’

  He waved his hand to a box high on a shelf of the bookcase. ‘Do you need anything before Sandy takes me to golf?’

  Davey cleared his throat. ‘Just a couple of screwdrivers – flat-head, cross-head – and an adjustable spanner,’ he said, to the carpet.

  ‘And a cup of tea.’

  We got all of that, and then Sandy vanished with Talbot and we took a deep breath and got to work. Apart from using the toilet a couple of doors down, we didn’t go anywhere else in the house; we didn’t dare.

  The machine wasn’t starting up at all. We delved into it – the guts of the machine were all inside the monitor case, which made it all tricky. We found a couple of leads which had come away, and re-attached them, thinking we’d done the job. Now the machine started up, but the disk drives didn’t do anything. Back into the monitor, and a decision that the disk drives were faulty. I knew that this model had a single-sided and a double-sided drive, which were stacked sideways to the right of the monitor screen, and wondered how easy it would be to get replacements.

  Sandy returned at some point during all of that, and sat impassively on an armchair in a corner of the room, reading the Glasgow Herald and looking across every now and again.

  ‘We think we need to replace the floppy disk drives,’ Davey said loudly to Sandy, but looking at me.

  Clearly having no idea what we were talking about, Sandy drove us to a computer shop on Argyle Street – one of the places we’d tried to get work. The Pakistani guy there sold us a box of floppy disks, which Sandy paid for, but didn’t have a spare 3” drive. We had a little small talk, but he seemed nervous of Sandy. ‘You guys found some work?’ ‘Yes, thanks.’ ‘Good – really sorry I couldn’t use you here.’ ‘I understand.’

  At another shop we bought two new 3” floppy drives that would fit the Amstrad, but were only single-sided – I didn’t think that would matter. Again Sandy paid, and again we got the same apologetic story that they couldn’t take on me and Davey, but were pleased we’d found work.

  Back at the house, we replaced the disk drives, and everything worked. Then we copied all the system disks and the data disks as backup, explained to Sandy how valuable this process was, and then wrote out instructions of how and when to do subsequent backups, and how to label and store the disks. ‘Keep them in the filing cabinet,’ I suggested, indicated the big, grey locked monster in the corner.

  When Talbot got back after golf – it seemed he had won – we showed him a working system, and his joy was unbounded. He took us down to the kitchen and gave us a beer each, unsteadily pouring a large whisky for himself into a giant crystal glass.

  ‘What do I owe you, boys?’ He fished his wallet out of his back pocket.

  I did the maths. A tenner last time, but this had taken longer, and we were invaluable to him – this was important work we had done for him. Surely we could ask for more. But how much…

  ‘You decide,’ I suddenly heard myself saying. ‘You know how much your machine and your data mean to you, what would happen if you lost it. So you decide what our work was worth.’ I could feel Davey staring at me – he wanted that tenner.

  ‘OK.’

  And he put his wallet away in his back pocket. I groaned inside, imagining what Davey was going to say when we got out.

  Talbot took a sip of his whisky, and seemed to be thinking. Davey and I drank our beer. Shit, shit, shit.

  ‘What did you boys say you were up to? Left school?’

  We nodded.

  ‘University? College?’

  We shook our heads. ‘Didn’t pass the exams.’

  ‘So you’re good with computers but fuck all else.’

  ‘That’s about it,’ I said. I tried to force a smile, but it didn’t work.

  He paused, and sipped the whisky again. ‘Tell you what
I’ll do, boys.’

  We were listening, but couldn’t imagine what he was about to say.

  ‘I’d like to talk about a business proposition with you, but I need to sort out a few things first. You boys can fix computers, that’s for sure. Any experience of selling?’

  We shook our heads. ‘We’ve tried to get jobs in computer shops, but they’re all very small – no room for extra staff. And the big shops wouldn’t touch us without formal qualifications.’

  Talbot looked like he hadn’t heard, was still thinking his own thoughts. ‘We’ll pick you up Friday, 1pm.’

  Davey looked at me, and I asked the question: ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not sure yet. I have to work out some details.’ He looked at his big wristwatch. ‘Right. Sandy will take you home now.’

  I stood up, and coughed. ‘Eh – about the payment for today’s work, Mr Talbot - ’

  He smiled. ‘Look on it as an investment, my boy. And a lesson.’ He clapped me on the shoulder, a little too hard.

  *

  Talbot took us to an empty shop in Argyle Street around Finnieston, down from two computer repair shops where we’d tried to get work in the previous weeks and where we’d bought the stuff the other day. We were not far from the really rich parts of the west end, but this was a thriving area in its own right: small shops of all kinds, restaurants, and some interesting pubs, all of it changing as the shipyards were swept away.

  The shop had been a Pakistani grocer’s, and was set up that way, smelling of spices and dust. It consisted of a large rectangular floor space, with a tiny toilet, washroom and a storage room at the back. Davey and I stood in the middle of the floor and looked at each other, then at Talbot.