But the children would still be waiting.
They are not
in
the window but beyond it. And they have not yet had blood. They have picked me. I do not know why, perhaps there is no reason, but they have picked me. They have me in their sights. I am to be the victim. They have been poised on the brink of this all my life.
Wherever I hide the window, they will be waiting. And if I break the glass into my own world, then nothing will have changed for them in theirs. They will stand in stasis in that hidden city and wait, and wait, and I am afraid of when and how they might find me.
They are just out to see how far they can go.
But if I watch, and strike at the right moment, if I am fast enough, I will take the fight to them.
I will strike a blow for old men.
If I can shatter the glass when their alley waits beyond, if I can smash it into
their
city, then things might be a little different. It might be a way in.
I want to emerge from the ruins of that window and drop (a short drop if you hang from the rim) into the alley (into the ghostland, immersed in the dead city, but I will not think on that) and I will wave my stick and run for them.
Bloody little
hooligans.
If please God I catch one I shall lay it over my knee and by God I shall give it a hiding, a bloody good hiding, I shall teach it a bloody lesson, I will, I will thrash it, and that will, it will put an end to
all this nonsense.
I can't run away. I have to put a stop to this. They need to be taught a lesson.
(Oh but even as I write that, I feel so stupid. It is an idiot's plan. Insane. I catch a glimpse of the rucked skin on my old hand and I know that I can no more climb from the window and drop to the ground in that other city than I can leap mountains. What can I do? What can I do?)
I will try. I will do my damnedest.
Because the alternative is untenable.
I know what they are gearing up to. I know their plan. When the window changes, I will look out once more over that dingy alley, and their message, their chalk threat, will still face me. And I
must
make it up and out and at them tonight because if I do not, if I hesitate or I am slow, if I fail, if they are faster, if
I
do not go
out
.
.
.
They will come in.
AN END TO HUNGER
I
met Aykan in a pub sometime late in 1997. I was with friends, and one of them was loudly talking about the internet, which we were all very excited about.
“Fucking internet's fucking dead, man. Yesterday's bullshit,” I heard from two tables away. Aykan was staring at me, gazing at me curiously, like he wasn't sure I'd let him crash this party.
He was Turkish (I asked because of his name). His English was flawless. He had none of the throaty accent I half expected, though each of his words did sound finished in a slightly unnatural way.
He smoked high tar incessantly. (“Fucking national sport: they wouldn't let me in fucking 'Stanbul without sufficient shit in my lungs.”) He liked me because I wasn't intimidated by him. I let him call me names and didn't get my back up when he was rude. Which he was, often.
My friends hated him, and after he'd left I nodded and murmured agreement with them about what a weirdo, about how rude and where he got off, but the fact was I couldn't get worked up about Aykan. He told us off for getting moist about email and the web. He told us wired connection was dead. I asked him what he was into instead and he took a long drag on his stinking cigarette and shook his head, dismissively exhaling.
“Nanotech,” he said. “Little shit.”
He didn't explain that. I left him my phone number, but I never expected to hear from him. Ten months later he called me. It was only luck that I still lived at that address, and I told him that.
“People don't fucking move, man,” he said, incomprehensibly.
I arranged to meet him after work. He sounded a bit distracted, a bit miserable even.
“Do you play games, man?” he said. “N64?”
“I've got a Playstation,” I told him.
“Playstation licks shit, man,” he told me. “Bullshit digital controls. I'll give you the ads, though. Playstation ads sing sweet hymns, but you want a fucking analog control stick, or you're playing once removed. You know anyone with N64?”
As soon as we met he handed me a little grey plastic square. It was a game pack for a Nintendo 64 system, but it was rough-cast and imperfectly finished, its seam bizarrely ragged. It had no label, only a sticker scrawled with illegible handwriting.
“What's this?” I asked.
“Find someone with N64,” he said. “Project of mine.”
We talked for a couple of hours. I asked Aykan what he did for a living. He did that dismissive smoking thing again. He muttered about computer consultancy and web design. I thought the internet was dead, I said. He agreed fervently.
I asked him what nanotech stuff he was doing, and he became ragged with enthusiasm. He caught me with crazy looks and grinned at odd intervals, so I couldn't tell if he was bullshitting me.
“Don't talk to me about little miniature fucking arterial cleaning robots, don't fucking talk to me about medical reconstruction, or microwhateverthefucks to clean up oil slicks, OK? That's bullshit to get people on board. What's going to be big in nanotech? Eh? Like any other fucking thing . . .” He banged the table and slopped beer. “The money's in
games.
”
Aykan had extraordinary schemes. He told me about his prototype. It was crude, he said, but it was a start. “It's old school meets new school,” he kept saying. “Kids with fucking conkers, in the playground.” The game was called Blood Battle, or Bloody Hell, or Bloodwar. He hadn't decided.
“You buy a little home injection kit, like you're diabetic. And you build up your own serum from the pack provided. Like when you play a wargame you choose how many fuckers on horseback and how many artillery, right? Well, you have different vials full of microbots that interact with your blood, each type with different defences and attacks, and there are miniature repair robots like medics, all of these fuckers microsize. And you make yourself a blood army, with electrical frontline, chemical attack forces, good defences, whatever you've decided.
“Then you go to the playground and you meet your little friend who's also bought Bloodwar, and you
prick your fingers,
right, like you're going to be blood brothers, and you each squeeze out a drop into a special dish, and you fucking
mix 'em up.
” I stared at him incredulously while he grinned and smoked. “And then you sit back and watch the blood shimmer and bubble and move about. Because there's a war on.” He grinned for a long time.
“How do you know who's won?” I asked eventually.
“The dish,” he said. “Comes with a little display and speakers in the base. Picks up signals from the 'bots and amplifies them. You hear battle sounds and your troops reporting casualties, and at the end you get a score and you see who's won.”
He sat back a minute and smoked some more, watching me. I tried to think of something sardonic to say, but was defeated. He leaned in suddenly and pulled out a little Swiss army knife.
“I'll show you,” he said intensely. “You up for it? I can show you now. I'm primed. We know you'll lose because you've got no troops, but you'll see how it works.” The knife waited above his thumb, and he gazed at me for the go-ahead. I hesitated and shook my head. I couldn't tell if he was serious or not, if he'd actually injected himself with these lunatic game-pieces, but he was weirding me out.
He had other ideas. There were spin-offs for Bloodwar, and there were other more complicated games, involving outside equipment like airport metal detectors that you walked through, that set off particular reactions from your tiny little internal robots. But Bloodwar was his favourite.
I gave him my email address and thanked him for the N64 pack. He wouldn't tell me where he lived, but he gave me his mobile number. I called it at seven the next morning.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Aykan,” I said. “This game, thing, whatever . . . it's total genius.”
I had been curious enough to rent a console from Blockbuster on my way home, to play the thing he'd given me.
It was utterly extraordinary. It was not a game. It was a totally immersing piece of art, a multilayered environment that passed through anarchic and biting political commentary, bleak dreamscapes, erotic staging posts. There was no “gameplay,” only exploration, of the environment, of the conspiracies being unmasked. The viewpoint shifted and changed vertiginously. There were moments of shocking power.
I was stunned. I had pulled an all-nighter, and called him as early as I thought I could get away with.
“What is this shit?” I asked. “When's it coming out? I'll buy a fucking console just for this.”
“It's not coming out, man,” Aykan said. He sounded quite awake. “It's just some shit I did. Nintendo are bastards, man,” he said. “They'd never licence it. No fucker'd produce it anyway. It's just for my friends. The hardest thing, let me tell you, the hardest thing isn't the programming, it's making the housing. If they read off CDs or whatever, no fucking problem. But putting the software into that poxy stupid little plastic square, and making it so it'll fit in the casing with all the right connectors. That's the hard bit. That's why I'm not doing that shit anymore. Boring.”
I still own it, Aykan's guerrilla software, his illicit work of art. I still play it. Two years on I'm still discovering new levels, new layers. Later, before he disappeared, Aykan translated the scrawled title for me:
We Deserve Better Than This.
Aykan's occasional emails to me often included web addresses for me to look up. I say Aykan's emails, although no name ever appeared in the “Sender” column, and they were never signed. Whenever I tried to reply to them, they would register as coming from a nonsense address, and the messages would bounce back to me. But Aykan never denied the emails were his, and sometimes even asked me if I'd received certain of them. He irritably dismissed questions about how or why he sent them anonymously. If I wanted to contact him, I had to do it by phone.
This was a time when mass-circulation emails were getting out of hand. Every day I'd get one or two urls to look up. Sometimes they were pornographic, with a message like “Did you know that was possible???!!!” from some sad lad or other I vaguely knew. More often they were links to some weird news story or other. Usually they looked too dull to chase up.
Aykan's, though, I always checked. They were pretty extraordinary. Essays, art pieces, things like that.
Sometimes he provided a password to get into hidden pages online, and when I visited them they were incomprehensible internal reports that looked very much like governments talking to governments, or rebel groups talking to rebels. I couldn't tell if they were hoaxes, but if not, I was rather alarmed.
“What's all this shit you keep sending me?” I demanded.
“Interesting, huh?” He sniggered, and put the phone down.
Sometimes he directed me to one or another of his online projects. That was how I realised that Aykan was a virtuoso of programming. Once, on one of our infrequent rendezvous, I called him a hacker. He burst out laughing, then got very angry with me.
“Fucking hacker?” He laughed again. “Fucking
hacker?
Listen bro, you're not talking to some sebum-faced little sixteen-year-old geekboy with wank-stained pants who calls himself Dev-L.” He swore furiously. “I'm not a fucking hacker, man, I'm a fucking artist, I'm a hardworking wage-slave, I'm a
concerned motherfucking citizen,
whatever you want, but I'm not a fucking hacker.”
I didn't care what he wanted to call himself. Whatever he thought he was, he left me awestruckâdisbelieving, really, utterly bewilderedâwith what he could do.
“What search engine do you use?” he wrote to me once. “How often does your name come up? Try it now and then again tomorrow morning.”
According to searchsites.com I appeared on seven websites, all of them work-related rubbish. When I typed in my name again the next day, I was nowhere. I looked up my company's website and there I was, halfway down the page. But when I ran my name through searchsites or runbot or megawhere, I had no luck. I had become invisible.
“What did you do, you fuck?” I yelled down the phone. I was excited, though, feigning anger badly.
“How's that, huh? I ran you through my hide engine.” I could hear him smoking. “Don't worry, man,” he said. “I'll take you out of it. But it's good, huh? Tomorrow I think I'm gonna run Jack fucking Straw through it, or maybe every fucking sex-related word I can think of.” He put the phone down.
If he did run those words through his engine, it had stopped working. I checked the next day. But maybe he just hadn't bothered.
I spoke to Aykan several times, but a couple of months went by without me seeing him.
One morning I found another of his unmarked emails in my inbox. “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS FUCKPIG SCUMSUCKING PIECE OF SHIT?”
I had. It was the homepage of an organisation called An End To Hunger. I had been sent it at least twice already, as a recipient on mass emailings.
The site contained low-key, muted, and simple graphics, with a selection of harrowing statistics about world hunger. There were links to the UN Food Programme, Oxfam, and so on. But what made it such a popular site was its push-button charity donation.
Once per day, anyone visiting the site could click a little toggle, and in the words of the website, “feed the hungry.” Alongside the button was a list of sponsorsâall very dignified, no logos or bells or whistles, just the name of the company and a link to its homepage. Each sponsor would donate half a cent per click, which was roughly equivalent to half a cup of rice, or maize or whatever.
It all made me feel a bit uneasy, like corporate charity usually did. When I first saw the site I'd pressed the button. It had seemed churlish not to. But I hadn't visited it since, and I was getting irritated with people recommending it to me.
I called Aykan. He was incandescent.
“I've seen the site,” I told him. “Bit gruesome, isn't it?”
“Gruesome?” he shouted. “It's fucking
sick
is what it is. It's fucking
beyond beyond,
man. I mean, forget âpolitics lite,' this shit couldn't be parodied.”
“I keep getting emails recommending it,” I told him.
“Any motherfucker emails you that reply them right back and tell them to shove it up their arses till it hits the roof of their mouth, yeah? I mean by shit almighty . . . have you read the FAQ? Listen to this. This is fucking
verbatim,
OK? âCan I click the “Give Food” button more than once, and keep making donations?' âWe're sorry!' ” Aykan's voice spewed bile. “ âWe're real sorry! It's a shame, but you can't do that. Our sponsors have agreed for us to count one donation per person per day, and any more would be breaking our agreement.' ” He made a noise like angry retching.
“Fuck 'em, bro,” he said. “They tell us we can't be
naughty
and do it too
often?
” I didn't tell him I had donated that first time. He was making me ashamed.
I murmured something to him, some agreement, some dismissal and condemnation. It wasn't enough.
“This is fucking war, man,” he said. “This one I can't let go.”
“Run them through your hide engine,” I suggested vaguely.
“What?” he said. “What the fuck you talking about? Don't talk horsefuck, man. I want them down and dead. Time for the big fucking guns,
hombre,
” he said, and put the phone down. I tried to call him back but he didn't pick up.
Two days later I got another email.
“Try visiting you shitting know where,” it said. I did, and An End To Hunger would not come up. The browser couldn't find it. I tried again at the end of the day and it was back, with a small, pious note about how sad they were to be targeted by hackers.