Digital Circumstances

by BRM Stewart

  ‘Maybe it’s worse that there’s hope. Maybe it would be better if I just knew.’

  ‘Listen. Listen. Don’t. You must keep hoping.’ I held her tight.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without Davey.’

  ‘I thought the same about Fiona. But life moves on. Anyway, you’re not in that position. You must keep hoping.’

  She forced a wan smile onto her face. ‘Thanks, Martin. You were always a great pal for Davey – his only pal, really.’

  ‘Same for me. It was always me and Davey at school, the geeks who did all right, to everyone’s amazement.’ I remembered some stories about school, and she laughed and cried as I told her them.

  I prised myself away eventually, and went back along Argyle Street to my flat, wishing Elizabeth wasn’t at that conference in London, that she’d managed to get out of it. The flat was empty without her. In fact, the flat was empty without Fiona – that thought came from nowhere, and shook me.

  I poured myself a whisky and sat in the lounge, only one light on, and remembered Fiona. And I thought about death, and the nothingness that was there. Fiona had been Catholic, so maybe she was up there, but I didn’t believe. If there was a God, then he was one vicious bastard.

  I dozed on and off through the night, becoming almost fully awake around four in the morning, standing up stiffly and undressing. Then throwing up in the toilet, and falling face down onto the bed, back into the dreams and the nightmares: dreams of Fiona, the life we’d had – strange how I hadn’t remembered her so clearly for so long – and nightmares of Charlie with her in heaven, his cock out – ‘C’mon hen, just a wee suck.’ And Davey on life support, me beside him willing him to live.

  I woke up around ten in the morning, absolutely exhausted, my mouth dry and foul. I made myself some cereal and a cup of tea, and was sick again, then got dressed and sat it the lounge. I texted Elizabeth, asking how she was and hoping for some words of comfort, but she didn’t reply. A phone call went to voicemail – I hung up without leaving a message. I didn’t really know what to say to her, what to ask from her, what help she could give me.

  I slept in the chair, in front of daytime TV, till the early afternoon, then began to feel more like my normal self. I headed out, and went to a café for a large latte and a panini. When that stayed down, I reckoned I was probably OK, so I walked on aimlessly, my thoughts on the past.

  I found myself at the Kelvingrove Museum – I hadn’t been there for years. I went upstairs to the art exhibitions, and walked aimlessly from room to room, sometimes sitting gazing into the middle distance, memories swimming towards me. Gazing at the big Dali, Christ of St John on the Cross.

  Then I came through a doorway and saw Fiona.

  Fiona. Standing at there with her short dark hair and her dark clothes, a smile on her lips, no different. Fiona.

  ‘Woa – careful.’ ‘Steady.’ ‘Catch him!’ ‘Give him some air.’ ‘Hold on – get him upright.’ ‘No, put him on his side.’ ‘On the chair, head forward.’

  I was sitting on a chair, and Fiona was crouching in front of me while two women held me straight. ‘You OK?’ she asked. My breathing was shallow, I felt clammy and shaky.

  ‘Fiona?’

  She frowned. ‘I’m Helen,’ she said. ‘Who’s Fiona?’

  And of course, she wasn’t Fiona. I could see that now. But she looked so like her, and sounded like her.

  They got me a taxi which took me back to my flat, and I lay on my bed, bathed in complete embarrassment and self-pity.

  I tried phoning Elizabeth, but got her voicemail again. I asked her to ring me. Then I managed to sleep, off and on, waking up very hungry and desperate for a drink. It was well into the evening, streetlights on outside.

  I phoned Elizabeth again.

  ‘Hi darling.’ There was a babble of voices around her, glasses chinking, laughter. ‘Just having a brilliant time here – heaps of contacts, lots of meetings set up. I’ll be another couple of days. How are you?’

  ‘I was at the funeral,’ I said.

  Her voice became sad. ‘Oh, of course. How was it?’ Then, her voice fainter, ‘Yes please – white – that’s fine; thank you.’

  ‘Pretty grim,’ I said.

  ‘Poor you.’ Then again she was saying something to someone near her, and he laughed.

  ‘So,’ I said dully. ‘See you in a couple of days.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. I’ll phone tomorrow. You get some rest.’ Waves of laugher in the background and then silence.

  I put the mobile away in my pocket.

  Chapter 19

  May - Ploesti

  The Sunday went as planned. Gheorghe spent most of it on his mobile, often outside at the back of the building in the car park, smoking. Tudor and Bianca were working on different projects, and I split my time between them, Coralia glued to my shoulder, whispering translations, her lips millimetres from my ear, her perfume mixed with stale cigarette smoke. Today she was wearing combat-style trousers and a thin jacket which zipped up the front.

  We had the usual pause for lunch, and general chat about the UK. They hadn’t travelled much. Tudor had once been to Dublin, for some kind of conference, and he spoke about the Guinness and the pubs, but sadly I had never visited. Bianca spent all her time in Romania, holidaying at the strip of Black Sea coast that belonged to her country, or in the mountains – Transylvania.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘Dracula.’

  ‘Vlad the Impaler, from the Dracula family – not like the vampire fiction,’ they laughed. ‘He lived when Transylvania was Hungarian, so is not our responsibility.’ But he confessed they did milk it for tourism.

  Again, when I got back to the hotel, I was exhausted. I Skyped Sandy, and we spoke about the weather – glorious here, wet and cold in Glasgow, no surprises; apparently this was the best time of year to be here in Romania: winter was too cold, summer too hot. We also chatted about what was going on.

  ‘Seems OK,’ I said. ‘Have you got anything you’re worried about?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing this end. You finish up and get home on Tuesday as planned.’

  ‘I bumped into that wee blonde Charlene,’ I commented.

  He ignored that. ‘See you back here on Tuesday, Martin.’ And he disconnected.

  I shut down my laptop and stared at my face reflected in the empty screen. I’d have been happier if Sandy had said he was worried, if he’d mentioned a contingency plan. But he hadn’t. So what the hell was Charlene up to?

  I had my dinner –the waitress’ skirt was, impossibly, getting even shorter – and then sat in the bar area with my laptop, surfing and just generally passing the time, drinking beer and nibbling snacks. There were no smokers around tonight, so I could breathe. Only one more night after this, I thought.

  Two young women came into the bar area: one sat on the leather couch beside me, and the other sat on the leather chair at the end of the low table. I looked up.

  Beside me was a very thin girl, dressed in a diaphanous green blouse and a short leather skirt. She had a pretty face with high cheekbones, framed by light brown hair. The other woman was Coralia, smiling at me as she crossed her legs – she was wearing the same clothes as she had been earlier that day, the zip of her top pulled down slightly to show some cleavage.

  ‘Martin, this is Rodica.’

  The thin girl smiled at me. On first impressions she looked about sixteen, but I could now see under the make-up that she was a little bit older – maybe mid-twenties. She gave me a limp, slightly nervous handshake, but said nothing.

  The barman appeared and spoke Romanian to them, and they replied. Then he looked at me: ‘Large beer?’ I nodded and he turned away.

  ‘How are you enjoying your visit?’ Coralia asked.

  ‘Very interesting,’ I said, ‘but I’ve had very little time to explore the city.’ I closed my laptop and put it down by my chair.

  ‘Have you visited the Pussycat Club? Rodica works there.’

  I gave
her another look and she smiled back, and I shook away the too-obvious thoughts.

  Our drinks came, and we managed some small talk. Rodica seemed to relax. She said nothing to me, but offered a comment in Romanian to Coralia from time to time, and both women giggled. As we had another couple of drinks – I moved onto gin and tonic – Rodica seemed to lean closer to me, her body touching mine, our thighs together. We traded anecdotes about tourists, speculations about what other countries were like, what famous people were like, all the time Rodica never speaking English.

  Time wore on, more drinks came, punctuated by visits to the toilet by me, and I suddenly realised I was incredibly drunk – really bad. I was swaying in my seat and laughing like an idiot as Rodica lightly stroked my thigh and I spilled my drink and bent to lick it from her knee. I tried to calculate how much I’d drunk – not too much, surely. But god, I felt great. I reached over to pull open the front of Rodica’s blouse and peek down, and we all laughed like drains.

  Then I fell sideways on my seat and struggled to get up, still laughing like a crazy man the whole time. ‘I really have had too much to drink,’ I slurred.

  They laughed too. ‘We help you to room.’

  Which they did. I opened my eyes and I was at the lift door, then when I opened them again I was outside my room and they were searching for my keycard in my pocket, and then I was lying on my back on the bed, with Rodica standing at the foot of the bed, taking off her blouse and the short skirt. I looked at her tiny breasts, the pale skin, the narrow strip of pubic hair. Someone else was pulling off my trousers – my, what an erection I seemed to have developed.

  Rodica knelt on the bed and leaned over me, holding my penis. ‘We have good time, Martin.’

  I smelt the perfume and cigarette smoke from her, and heard myself groan and slur the words: ‘Yes, please, Sam.’

  Chapter 20

  The 2000s - Glasgow

  Elizabeth relocated to Glasgow and started her online business. She kept the shop in York: the retail side of it specialised in travel and local history books, but was also a showcase for some of the online stuff, getting tourists hooked in; most of the building was now a warehouse for the online selling. She needed finance for the online business, and I supplied that, and did most of the work on it. I didn’t want B&D to have anything to do with it, and didn’t even have myself named in her business documentation.

  Things started slowly, but kept building up. She was busy, and enthusiastic, and it rubbed off on me.

  The flat in Finnieston really wasn’t her style, so we looked around and settled on a place off the top of Byres Road: a much more upmarket area, and much more expensive. Elizabeth’s house in Yorkshire would sell for a lot, but there was a reluctance in her to sell it. Sandy spoke to Ken Talbot, and the Finnieston flat could be sold and B&D could buy half of Byres Road. All the economics of that left me baffled, but I went for it.

  It turned out that Elizabeth’s reluctance hinged on commitment. So we got married before we closed the deal and moved into the Byres Road flat. The wedding wasn’t a big affair, just work colleagues, Davey’s wife Jane, my mum and Alan, and Elizabeth’s mum and dad – they were a very elderly couple, very polite, very correct, very dull. We honeymooned in Florida, on the Gulf coast. I learned to drive.

  We developed a circle of friends, largely through her work: literary agents and publishers, but also neighbours. We went on the occasional trip together, where she would go and meet people, and I would be a tourist. We made love regularly.

  Life was just fine.

  Davey was out of hospital, but they said he was badly brain damaged, would never walk again, could barely move his arms and hands, and could hardly communicate. I went to see him when I had time, but I hated it, watching him stare at me, his brain locked away, his hands useless, having to be fed and toileted. Jane kept smiling, but as I left she would hold me tight and cry. My visits got less frequent – I would find any excuse – and I hated myself for it.

  Another customer – a jewellery shop – phoned B&D with a story of customers being ripped off. I went down, investigated, found it was the same story as before; I sorted it again, and went in to talk to Colin Strachan.

  He looked nonchalant as we drank coffee and I explained that we needed to up our security.

  ‘There’s no need, Martin,’ he finally said.

  I frowned. ‘We can’t allow these breaches in security – it’s not fair on our customers. We’re leaving them and their customers exposed.’

  He looked tired, his skin pale, eyes bloodshot. It looked like stress to me. I could see him try to think of something to say, like he was arguing with himself. ‘Ah, fuck it,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  He ran his hands roughly over his face. ‘Martin, we’re not leaving them open to breaches of security: we are the breach in their security.’

  I tried to work that out for a minute. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes you do – you know all about Internet fraud.’

  He looked at me and I looked back, still not understanding.

  He lifted his mobile and dialled. ‘Hi, Sandy. Could you come over? ASAP. Martin is here, and we’re having a serious chat. He’s found out what’s going on.’ He switched off the call and put the phone down. ‘We build in the security breaches, Martin. Those rich clients of the retailers we target, those are the ones whose credit card details get stolen. It’s how we make the real money.’

  I looked at him like he was insane. ‘This business runs on honesty and trust, and good faith, and… and… and providing good backup services.’

  ‘Absolutely. They trust us, which is how we get away with it. And if we’re found out, we provide backup – we fix the retailer’s software.’

  ‘How about the clients’ money?’

  ‘They get that back from their credit card companies and their banks. Nobody loses. We gain.’

  His breath-taking lack of any sign of remorse or shame left me stunned. ‘Are you doing this?’ I couldn’t believe he had the knowledge.

  ‘I have contacts and they have contacts. The systems are set up leaving holes, and down the line credit card numbers and bank accounts get syphoned off.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s really not difficult.’

  I wanted to get angry and kick something, or shout or swear. ‘So who knows about this?’

  The door had opened as I spoke, and now it clicked shut again, and Sandy sat down beside me, and lit a cigarette. ‘Who knows? Just Colin, and me. And Ken, of course. And the people down the line.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m out. I don’t want to be any part of this. Just give me my share of the business and I’ll leave you to it.’ I stood up, catching their eyes. They didn’t look rattled like I’d thought they would. ‘I mean it, I’m out. I can’t be part of this.’

  Sandy leaned further back in his seat. Colin sat forward, elbows on the desk, head in his hands.

  ‘Sit down, Martin,’ Sandy said. His voice was mild, and I did what he said. ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he added, looking at me carefully.

  ‘I won’t do it.’ The words poured out of me, without any thought behind them: ‘I want to sell my side of the business. I’ll leave you to it. I won’t tell anyone what’s going on, but I can’t do this kind of work.’

  Sandy pursed his lips, shifting his big frame in the chair. ‘Do you ever read the small print on those contracts, Martin?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ No, I didn’t read the small print, never had. I just knew I had plenty of money coming in, plenty in the bank, few outgoings, and part-ownership of various businesses, but I probably couldn’t have named any of them.

  Sandy nodded. ‘You have a lot of assets, Martin. On paper. You are a director and shareholder in businesses ranging from cafes to restaurants to car dealerships to garages to scrap metal dealers and taxi firms, all over Central Scotland – and some of these businesses actually exist, they trade. But you also have liabilities. And, if you want to get yourself an
accountant – and he’ll need to be fuckin’ good to track through all of this – he’ll find that your liabilities vastly outweigh your assets. It could easily happen that some of those businesses folded or vanished, and your assets would disappear – leaving your liabilities. Could easily happen, Martin. And where would that leave you? Flat broke. Mid-thirties, no qualifications, no money – and probably a very poor credit rating, and maybe even a criminal record.’ He paused. ‘It could easily happen.’

  I recognised his words for the direct threat they were, and I was stunned. All of my successful life was an illusion: I hadn’t been successful at all – Sandy and Ken Talbot had fixed everything behind my back. I had no money, not really. ‘So all of this…’ I flapped my arms and watched him give a grim smile.

  ‘Then there’s poor Davey,’ he went on.

  ‘What about Davey?’

  ‘This company pays for his care: for all the technology in his wheelchair that’s helping him to talk to the full-time carers that make life tolerable for his wife and their wee boy. If you go, he goes. He’s in the same financial boat as you are.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. The silence lay amongst us. Colin looked at me, Sandy lit another cigarette.

  Finally Sandy stood up. ‘Go home, Martin. Have a think. Take a day off. When you come back we’ll carry on exactly as before, and pretend this conversation never happened.’

  *

  I visited Davey. Jane was glad to see me, didn’t complain that I hadn’t visited for so long. He was in a hi-tech wheelchair which he could move and steer. He was learning to operate the voice synthesiser, and spoke to me for the first time since the day before the accident.

  ‘We need touch screen,’ he said, in the American robot voice. And he lifted a finger to show how he would operate it.

  The nurse who was there smiled. ‘He’s getting really good at using this – I have to unplug him to get peace.’ We laughed, tears in my eyes. ‘He seems to understand the technology.’