Darker Terrors Page 2

  So now you know.

  The following Tuesday I got up bright and early and made my way to the VCA for my first morning’s work. England was doing its best to be Summery, which as always meant that it was humid without being hot, bright without being sunny, and every third commuter on the hellish tube journey was intermittently pebble-dashing nearby passengers with hay fever sneezes. I emerged moist and irritable from the station, more determined than ever to find a way of working that meant never having to leave my apartment. The walk from the station to VCA was better, passing through an attractive square and a selection of interesting side-streets with restaurants featuring unusual cuisines, and I was feeling chipper again by the time I got there.

  My suppliers had done their work, and the main area of VCA’s open-plan office was piled high with exciting boxes. When I walked in just about all the staff were standing around the pile, coffee mugs in hand, regarding it with the wary enthusiasm of simple country folk confronted with a recently-landed UFO. There was a slightly toe-curling five minutes of introductions, embarrassing merely because I don’t enjoy that kind of thing. Only one person, John, seemed to view me with the sniffy disdain of someone greeting an underling whose services are, unfortunately, in the ascendant. Everybody else seemed nice, some very much so.

  Morehead eventually oiled out of his office and dispensed a few weak jokes which had the – possibly intentional – effect of scattering everyone back to their desks to get on with their work. I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves and got on with it.

  I spent the morning cabling like a wild thing, placing the hardware of the network itself. As this involved a certain amount of disrupting everyone in turn by drilling, pulling up carpet and moving their desks, I was soon on apologetic grinning terms with most of them. I guess I could have done the wire-up over the weekend when nobody was there, but I like my weekends as they are. John gave me the invisibility routine that people once used on servants, but everyone else was fairly cool about it. One of the girls, Jeanette, actually engaged me in conversation while I worked nearby, and seemed genuinely interested in understanding what I was doing. When I broke it to her that it was actually pretty dull, she smiled.

  The wiring took a little longer than I was expecting, and I stayed on after everybody else had gone. Everyone but Cremmer, that was, who stayed, probably to make sure that I didn’t run off with their plants, or database, or spoons. Either that or to get some brownie points with whoever it is he thought cared about people putting in long hours. The invoicing supremo was in expansive mood, and chuntered endlessly about his adventures in computing, which were, to be honest, of slender interest to me. In the end he got bored of my monosyllabic grunts from beneath desks, and left me with some keys instead.

  The next day was pretty much the same, except I was setting up the computers themselves. This involved taking things out of boxes and installing interminable pieces of software on the server. This isn’t quite such a sociable activity as disturbing people, and I spent most of the day in the affable but distant company of Sarah, their PR person. At the end of the day everyone gathered in the main room and then left together, apparently for a meal to celebrate someone’s birthday. I thought I caught Jeanette casting a glance in my direction at one point, maybe embarrassed at the division between me and them. It didn’t bother me much, so I just got my head down and got on with swapping floppy disks in and out of the machines.

  Well, it did bother me a little, to be honest. It wasn’t their fault – there was no reason why they should make the effort to include someone they didn’t know, who wasn’t really a part of their group. People seldom do. You have to be a little thick-skinned about that kind of thing if you work freelance. There are tribes, you know, everywhere you go. They owe their allegiance to shared time (if they’re friends), or to an organisation (if they’re colleagues): but they’re still tribes, just as much as if they’d tilled the same patch of desert for centuries. As a freelancer, especially in the cyber-areas, you tend to spend a lot of time wandering between them; occasionally being granted access to their watering hole, but never being one of the real people. Sometimes it can get on your nerves. That’s all.

  I finished up, locked the building carefully – I’m a complete anal-retentive about such things – and went home. I used my mobile to call for a pizza while I was on route, and it arrived two minutes after I got out of the shower. A perfect piece of timing, which sadly no one was on hand to appreciate. My last experiment with living with someone did not end well, mainly because she was a touchy and irritable woman who needed her own space twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day. Well it was more complicated than that, of course, but that was the main impression I took away with me. I mulled over those times as I sat and munched my ‘Everything on it, and then a few more things as well’ pizza, vague-eyed in front of white noise television, and ended up feeling rather grim.

  Food event over, I made a jug of coffee and settled down in front of the Mac. I tweaked my invoicing database for a while, exciting young man that I am, and then wrote a letter to my sister in Australia. She doesn’t have access to Internet e-mail, unfortunately, otherwise she’d hear from me a lot more often. Write letter, print letter, put it in envelope, get stamps, get it to a post office. A chain of admin of that magnitude usually takes me about two weeks to get through, and it’s a bit primitive, really, compared to ‘Write letter, press button, there in five minutes’.

  I called my friend Nick, who’s a freelance sub-editor on a trendy magazine, but he was chasing a deadline and not disposed to chat. I tried the television, but it was still outputting someone else’s idea of entertainment. By nine o’clock I was very bored, and so I logged on to the Net.

  Probably because I was bored, and feeling a bit isolated, after I’d done my usual groups I found myself checking out alt.binaries.pictures.erotica. ‘alt’ means the group is an unofficial one; ‘binaries’ means it holds computer files rather than just messages; ‘pictures’ means those files are images. As for the last word, I’m prepared to be educational about this but you’re going to have to work that one out for yourself.

  The media has the impression that the minute you’re in cyberspace countless pictures of this type come flooding at you down the phone, pouring like ravening hordes onto your hard disk and leaping out of the screen to take over your mind. This is not the case, and all of you worried about your little Timmy’s soul can afford to relax a little. Even if you’re only talking about the web, you need a computer, a modem, access to a phone line, and a credit card to pay for your Internet feed. With Usenet you need to find the right newsgroup, and download about three segments for each picture. You require several bits of software to piece them together, convert the result, and display it.

  The naughty pictures don’t come and get you, and if you see one, it ain’t an accident. If your little Timmy has the kit, finance and inclination to go looking, then maybe it’s you who needs the talking to. In fact, maybe you should be grounded.

  The flipside of that, of course, is the implication that I have the inclination to go looking, which I guess I occasionally do. Not very often – honest – but I do. I don’t know how defensive to feel about that fact. Men of all shapes and sizes, ages and creeds, and states of marital or relationship bliss enjoy, every now and then, the sight of a woman with no clothes on. It’s just as well we do, you know, otherwise there’d be no new little earthlings, would there? If you want to call that oppression or sexism or the commodification of the female body then go right ahead, but don’t expect me to talk to you at dinner parties. I prefer to call it sexual attraction, but then I’m a sad fuck who spends half his life in front of computer, so what the hell do I know?

  Still, it’s not something that people feel great about, and I’m not going to defend it too hard. Especially not to women, because that would be a waste of everyone’s time. Women have a little bit of their brain missing which means they cannot understand the attraction of pornography. I’m not say
ing that’s a bad thing, just that it’s true. On the other hand they understand the attraction of babies, shoe shops and the detail of other people’s lives, so I guess it’s swings and roundabouts.

  I’ve talked about it for too long now, and you’re going to think I’m some Neanderthal with his tongue hanging to the ground who goes round looking up people’s skirts. I’m not. Yes, there are rude pictures to be found on the net, and yes I sometimes find them. What can I say? I’m a bloke.

  Anyway, I scouted round for a while, but in the end didn’t even download anything. From the descriptions of the files they seemed to be the same endless permutations of badly-lit mad people, which is ultimately a bit tedious. Also, bullish talk notwithstanding, I don’t feel great about looking at that kind of thing. I don’t think it reflects very well upon one, and you only have to read a few other people’s slaverings to make you decide it is too sad to be a part of.

  So in the end I played the guitar for a while and went to bed.

  The next few days at VCA passed pretty easily. I installed and configured, configured and installed. The birthday meal went pretty well, I gathered, and featured amongst other highlights the secretary Tanya literally sliding under the table through drunkenness. That was her story, at least. By the Monday of the following week everyone was calling me by name, and I was being included in the coffee-making rounds. England had called off its doomed attempt at summer, or at least imposed a time out, and had settled for a much more bearable cross between spring and autumn instead. All in all, things were going fairly well.

  And as the week progressed, slightly better even than that. The reason for this was a person. Jeanette, to be precise.

  I began, without even noticing at first, to find myself veering towards the computer nearest her when I needed to do some testing. I also found that I was slightly more likely to offer to go and make a round of coffees in the kitchen when she was already standing there, smoking one of her hourly cigarettes. Initially it was just because she was the politest and most approachable of the staff, and it was a couple of days before I realised that I was looking out for her return from lunch, trying to be less dull when she was around, and noticing what she wore.

  It was almost as if I was beginning to fancy her, for heaven’s sake.

  By the beginning of the next week I passed a kind of watershed, and went from undirected, subconscious behaviour to actually facing the fact that I was attracted to her. I did this with a faint feeling of dread, coupled with occasional, mournful tinges of melancholy. It was like being back at school. It’s awful, when you’re grown-up, to be reminded of what it was like when a word from someone, a glance, even just their presence, can be like the sun coming out from behind cloud. While it’s nice, in a lyric, romantic novel sort of way, it also complicates things. Suddenly it matters if other people come into the kitchen when you’re talking to her, and the way they interact with other people becomes more important. You start trying to engineer things, try to be near them, and it all just gets a bit weird.

  Especially if the other person hasn’t a clue what’s going on in your head – and you’ve no intention of telling them. I’m no good at that, the telling part. Ten years ago I carried a letter round with me for two weeks, trying to pluck up the courage to give it to someone. It was a girl who was part of the same crowd at college, who I knew well as a friend, and who had just split up from someone else. The letter was a very carefully worded and tentative description of how I felt about her, ending with a invitation for a drink. Several times I was on the brink, I swear, but somehow I didn’t give it to her. I just didn’t have what it took.

  The computer stuff was going okay, if you’re interested. By the middle of the week the system was pretty much in place, and people were happily sending pop-up messages to each other. Cremmer, in particular, thought it was just fab that he could boss people around from the comfort of his own den. Even John was bucked up by seeing how the new system was going to ease the progress of whatever dull task it was he performed, and all in all my stock at the VCA was rising high.

  It was time, finally, to get down to the nitty-gritty of developing their new databases. I tend to enjoy that part more than the wireheading, because it’s more of a challenge, gives scope for design and creativity, and I don’t have to keep getting up from my chair. When I settled down to it on Thursday morning, I realised that it was going to have an additional benefit. Jeanette was the VCA’s Events Organiser, and most of the databases they needed concerned various aspects of her job. In other words, it was her I genuinely had to talk to about them, and at some length.

  We sat side by side at her desk, me keeping a respectful distance, and I asked her the kind of questions I had to ask. She answered them concisely and quickly, didn’t pipe up with a lot of damn fool questions, and came up with some reasonable requests. It was rather a nice day outside, and sunlight that was for once not hazy and obstructive angled through the window to pick out the lighter hues amongst her chestnut hair, which was long, and wavy, and as far as I could see entirely beautiful. Her hands played carelessly with a biro as we talked, the fingers long and purposeful, the forearms a pleasing shade of skin colour. I hate people who go sprinting out into parks at the first sign of summer, to spend their lunchtimes staked out with insectile brainlessness in the desperate quest for a tan. As far as I was concerned the fact that Jeanette clearly hadn’t done so – in contrast to Tanya, for example, who already looked like a hazelnut (and probably thought with the same fluency as one) – was just another thing to like her for.

  It was a nice morning. Relaxed, and pleasant. Over the last week we’d started to speak more and more, and were ready for a period of actually having to converse with each other at length. I enjoyed it, but didn’t get over-excited. Despite my losing status as a technodrone, I am wise in the ways of relationships. Just being able to get on with her, and have her look as if she didn’t mind being with me – that was more than enough for the time being. I wasn’t going to try for anything more. Or so I thought.

  Then, at 12:30, I did something entirely unexpected. We were in the middle of an in-depth and speculative wrangle on the projected nature of their hotel-booking database, when I realised that we were approaching the time at which Jeanette generally took her lunch. Smoothly, and with a nonchalance which I found frankly impressive, I lofted the idea that we go grab a sandwich somewhere and continue the discussion outside. As the sentences slipped from my mouth I experienced an out-of-body sensation, as if I was watching myself from about three feet away, cowering behind a chair. ‘Not bad,’ I found myself thinking, incredulously. ‘Clearly she’ll say no, but that was a good, businesslike way of putting it.’

  Bizarrely, instead of shrieking with horror or poking my eye out with a ruler, she said yes. We rose together, I grabbed my jacket, and we left the office, me trying not to smirk like a businessman recently ennobled for doing a lot of work for charity. We took the lift down to the lobby and stepped outside, and I chattered inanely to avoid coming to terms with the fact that I was now standing with her outside work, beyond our usual frame of reference.

  She knew a snack bar round the corner, and within ten minutes we found ourselves at a table outside, ploughing through sandwiches. She even ate attractively, holding the food fluently and wolfing it down, as if she was a genuine human taking on sustenance rather than someone appearing in amateur dramatics. I audibly mulled over the database for a while, to give myself time to settle down, and before long we’d pretty much done the subject.

  Luckily, as we each smoked a cigarette she pointed out with distaste a couple of blokes walking down the street, both of whom had taken their shirts off, and whose paunches were hanging over their jeans.

  ‘Summer,’ she said, with a sigh, and I was away. There are few people with a larger internal stock of complaints to make about summer than me, and I let myself rip.

  Why, I asked her, did everyone think it was so nice? What were supposed to be the benefits? One of the w
orst things about summer, I maintained hotly, as she smiled and ordered a coffee, was the constant pressure to enjoy oneself in ways which are considerably less fun than death.

  Barbecues, for example. Now I don’t mind barbies, especially, except that my friends never have them. It’s just not their kind of thing. If I end up at a barbecue it’s because I’ve been dragged there by my partner, to stand round in someone else’s scraggy back garden as the sky threatens rain, watching drunken blokes teasing a nasty barking dog and girls I don’t know standing in hunched clumps gossiping about people I’ve never heard of, while I try to eat badly cooked food that I could have bought for £2.50 in McDonald’s and had somewhere to sit as well. That terrible weariness, a feeling of being washed out, exhausted and depressed, that comes from getting not quite drunk enough in the afternoon sun while standing up and either trying to make conversation with people I’ll never see again, or putting up with them doing the same to me.

  And going and sitting in parks. I hate it, as you may have gathered. Why? Because it’s fucking horrible, that’s why. Sitting on grass which is both papery and damp, surrounded by middle-class men with beards teaching their kids to unicycle, the air rent by the sound of some arsehole torturing a guitar to the delight of his 14 year old hippy girlfriend. Drinking luke-warm soft drinks out of overpriced cans, and all the time being repetitively told how nice it all is, as if by some process of brain-washing you’ll actually start to enjoy it.