Sockpuppet: Book One in the Martingale Cycle (27 page)

It was easy to be lulled by Gramma’s meandering and think she’d lost the plot; then out of nowhere she’d lob a precisely targeted question at her one-girl audience. Bethany shook her head.

‘The worst form of snobbery is to deny information: to anyone at all. Always remember that. Bad as it is to look down on another human being: to act as censor? Unforgivable.’

Beth sipped her Coke with reverent slowness. Gramma began to dry her meat knife – whose blade was, in Bethany’s memory, at least two foot long.

‘Of course it didn’t start in that courtroom. You know Darwin?’

The really scary thing about Gramma’s lectures was the speed of her gear changes. Bethany gulped her Coke and nodded through bubbles – though in fact all she knew was a kind of family tree with monkeys. Science was an overgrown patch in the garden of her schooling. Her mother seemed to take pride in how little attention Layling Girls’ paid to it.

‘Then you will know how religious folk responded to his ideas as they emerged. Understandable, in the march of ideas. But the other day I came across the words of some bishop’s wife – Worcester, I believe. Here, I made a note.’

She lifted her reading glasses from their string and set them on her squashy nose. Knife in hand she flipped the ratty pages of a foolscap pad.

‘Yes, Worcester. She said, quote,
Let us hope that what Mr Darwin says is not true; but if it is true, let us hope that it will not become generally known.
Unquote.’

The spectacles were held at bay as she inspected Beth for signs of comprehension.

‘Do you see, dear? Such a silly cow. Darwin’s ideas can no more be constrained by such priggery than this would be stopped by the bishop’s flabby stomach.’ Beth’s eye’s widened as Gramma handled the blade, before placing it back on the countertop. ‘Remind me to review evolution with you some time, by the by.’

She came and settled by Beth, giving off a waft of talcum. Her rheumy eyes were drilling instruments.

‘Do you see, dear? There is no high priesthood that can hold the scrolls of knowledge for long. The walls are cracking and they can’t stop it.
It is in the nature of information to make itself free.
As I have been known to say on a fair few occasions.’

Indeed she had. As Bethany later learned, this was one of the soundbites that made Elyse’s name, emblazoned in red block capitals across the yellow dustcover of the original edition of
The Electronic Radical.
Bethany had passed through university in the afterglow of that book, which was still famous – and rather less infamous – in the eighties. A tattered copy held place on the shelves of each of her hard-left Political Science tutors. Bethany, for her own part too compliant to wish destruction on the instruments of state, had been a disappointment to these wing-armchair radicals, but the inherited aura was enough to light her in their favour; and when she started to be known in uni political circles, she was never sure to what extent she’d made her own reputation. Everyone wanted to hear her rouse for the demolition of the state. What she gave them was more measured.

No, she’d taken her own message from Elyse and from her manifesto. It was the one imparted to her at the age of eleven, on that hard but comfortable kitchen bench (the same bench her boys now sat on to eat their motherless dinners). Everyone had a right to information, and when they had free access to it they, too, would be free. An informed citizen was an empowered citizen. Education and labour would open to them as the gates of academy crumbled. Markets could not exploit them, because they had the power to judge and decide how to exercise their economic muscle, however modest. Society more free by regular degrees.

This was all she had sought to achieve, compromised and complex though the process was. Now she was on the point of achieving it, she refused to accept the irony: that it might be a stream of unrestricted information that would scupper her dream. Information made free could be a goad, as well as a spur.

But things would proceed, she was determined of it.

This resolution accounted for the dreadnought set of her jaw as she waited for Karen Arbiter in another dry Whitehall room. Beside her Krish sat still and silent, though Bethany could almost hear his mind heaving on with the same momentum that had driven him all day, fielding calls, stirring action, batting media aside.

Bethany stretched out her fingers over the plastic file on her lap. She regarded her wedding and engagement rings. So plain: as she and Peter had decided together. Life, too, had been plainer then. So many ambiguities and hidden traps these days, so little time or energy left for her three fellas. All the fronts she had to fight on, leaving open such narrow supply lines to real life.

She opened the file, which was labelled
MoS-CabOff Thurs
. Inside was a written statement from Mondan stating that, whatever the Parley proffers insinuated, Bethany had known nothing of any hack or of the DigiCitz pilot users getting piggy-spam on their computers. She turned pages, not reading, Krish looking on. If she were to ask herself, was it right to bring Sean into this huge and important thing, overruling all advice, she might balk. But no good would come of questioning whether the thing was good. It was necessary. And the necessary becomes part of the good it helps create.

Would her grandmother agree? The answer was not so negative as it might appear. Without Elyse’s pioneering work, midwifing the modern computer, it’s hard to see how an entrepreneur like Sean could have prospered. Radicals and capitalists are not so different – why else would one so often turn into the other?

Bethany closed the file and checked her watch. Karen was fifteen minutes late.

‘Well, I think this is enough. It needs to be enough.’

Krish did not reply.

‘This,’ said Karen, ‘goes very hard against my better judgement.’

That was promising from the start. Karen’s better judgement would be to string Bethany up from St Stephen’s Tower, entrails on display for the edification of future ministers.

Karen dropped the report on the desk as though it contained violent pornography. Then the glasses came off and she set her face into its most disappointed look. Judging by this pantomime she was not ready to concede without delivering a dressing down. It was going Bethany’s way. Perhaps.

‘Good report, Beth. I have to confess, I half-thought Perce might leave you to the wolves. Certainly enough here to quiet the media to tolerable levels. Press Office will use this to pull back the wilder claims.’

Bethany said nothing, wary of a trap. If she thanked Karen too readily, she’d seem blasé if there turned out to be a
but.
There would certainly be a
but.

‘However,’ said Karen.

Bethany could not resist a half-smile, even as her heart sank
.
Had she ever been this powerless? Here was the lesson of this dismal week. Only when you reach the high point of your career do you know enough to realise you’ll never really change a thing.

‘However,’ repeated Karen, ‘I have another report.’

Her eyes darted to Krish, sitting to Bethany’s right. He shifted in his seat. Bethany did not look his way.

‘I had my own team clarify certain aspects of your conduct in this business with Mondan—’

‘Mine?’ said Bethany. ‘You mean the department’s?’

‘The report has quite a wide-ranging scope.’

Bethany’s turn to shoot a glance at Krish. She’d only agreed to let in Karen’s slimy wonks on his say-so. Karen extracted a file from her pile of papers and affected to peruse it, glasses a long way down her nose.

‘So may I see this report about me?’ asked Bethany.

Karen, absorbed in the report, waited a few seconds before looking up.

‘Hmm? Oh, no,’ she said, ‘no, I don’t think so.’ She closed it and placed a hand on its cover. ‘This is a draft. And it is marked
Cabinet Office Confidential.
’

Stupid, childish mistake to ask. Deep breaths. Tummy muscles.

‘Though even in draft,’ said Karen, ‘it makes disquieting reading.’

‘Such as?’

The two women’s eyes were locked on one another’s.

‘Well. You do seem to have had a lot of meetings with Sean Perce before and during the contract negotiations, Bethany. Meetings not always, it would seem, arranged by your officials.’

Oh, God. Oh, no. Bethany heard her own breathing grow denser.

‘Sean has been kind enough to offer informal support and advice,’ she said. ‘On a number of occasions. Pro bono advice, at a considerable saving to the public purse.’

Karen’s gaze could penetrate four inches of steel. It darted between Bethany’s eyes. By colossal effort of will, Bethany kept her eyes trained on Karen’s overstated eyeliner.

‘How astonishingly public spirited of him,’ said Karen.

Somewhere below Bethany’s sternum, a fortnight’s worth of brewing frustration ignited. A year’s worth.

‘If you have something to say to me, Karen,
say it!
’

The last words ripped from her mouth by the force of it.

‘And what
am
I saying?’ said Karen.

‘If you think former Terasoft board member Andrew bloody Carpenter is Mister Independent-From-Business-Influence—’

‘What on earth has Andrew to do with  –?’

Bethany was standing now, using her limited height. Karen a still point, centred in Bethany’s heaving field of vision.

‘My choices have always been in the public interest. Always. I have never let – let –’

She caught her tongue, a millisecond from disaster. She sat.

‘The whole process,’ she finished lamely, ‘has been completely proper.’

When had she ever let Karen rile her like this? Breathe, breathe.

‘Well, then,’ said Karen. ‘I’m sure you will have nothing to worry about when we get into the boring details. All of this will be examined in due course.’ The glasses came off again. ‘Look, let me be clear. This is a flagship programme. We are keen to protect it.’ Protect
it
,
noticed Bethany.
‘I am not about to stand in the way of tomorrow’s launch event, or of you signing Contract Set Two on Monday.’

‘Oh,’ said Bethany.

What was this? Where had this been going if not towards laying Bethany out to dry?

‘Well, of course,’ said Karen. ‘You should absolutely proceed. I hope you haven’t done anything to slow down preparations for the launch?’

‘No, no. Of course not! Raring to go at eleven tomorrow.’

This was going to be a busy night.

‘Well, then,’ said Karen. ‘Best be getting on?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

Bethany gathered her bits and pieces as smoothly as she could. Standing with her files held against her chest, she said, ‘Thank you again. You won’t regret this. We’re going to make this work.’

Krish stood silently at her side. Karen looked at her for a long time before speaking.

‘I don’t doubt it will be a success for all who remain involved. I’ll be seeing you very soon, Beth.’

¶riotbaby

Get ready . . .

Fifteen

The streets are ripe for confrontation. J-R negotiates a string of unfamiliar corners and blank walls coated with fly-posted eyes. He’s a stranger in his own town. This far east, the lights are dim. London’s bright wash has been diluted. Something has cracked through the surface of its streets and every knock and chatter of its broken pipework makes him start and check over his shoulder. He’s alone and lost and in need of a map. His washed-out Party BlackBerry can’t help him – it’s languishing in a waste bin back at Parley’s offices. Instead he pulls out his barely-used personal mobile; but as he switches it on he finds he no longer wants to locate himself. That’s not what he needs from the night. Instead he turns on the phone’s camera, frames a pre-Victorian run of cottage-fronts and takes a photographic trace of his random walk. Then he remembers that this kind of self-documentation is something he never indulges in; but this is all new; and if the urge is there –?

He walks.

The evening brings up damp embers and charring plastic, like the site of an extinguished house-fire. J-R crosses to avoid a hunting pack of student-age lads, their gunslinger stride and combat jackets a provocation. Three of the five wear T-shirts with the legend
TAKEBACK
. He takes a surreptitious snap from against his chest, building an evidence base towards some as yet unknown conclusion.

The phone stays in his hand as he walks on. Out of his sight it comments.

)) stone commotion ((

His aim, when he walked out of Parley’s building – leaving behind his bag, his folded bike, his coat – was to stretch his legs, refill his lungs and settle his anxiety over Bethany and Krish. Soon though he wandered past the point of easy return. Now he’s simply walking until he reaches a point of resolution. What might he find on these abandoned concrete tracks? If there are answers, he’ll need to coax them out.

The moon in its blue dark rises over butterfly roofs. He photographs it. Some insistent thing presents at the edge of his vision, then vanishes. He takes another angle.

Krish has never turned on him like that, as if he were some tyro journalist in need of discipline. Such mad times. Even before he destroyed his BlackBerry, J-R had become dislocated from his role. He’d spent the week batting off hacks and hearing out Party contacts as they conveyed in their veiled way the message that faith in Bethany was trending downward. He responded like a news anchor reading from autocue. His Party lines had never seemed so two-dimensional. And through it all he devoured each new communique from sic_girl. The Bethany in those mails, gossiping and conniving with Sean Perce, was authentically her; but utterly inconsistent with the woman he knew. A meretricious conniver with no claim on him. Enough to tell him to be out of there but not where he was supposed to be instead.

The wistful, broken persona of sic_girl, fake as it might be, is vastly more attractive to J-R at this time.

Somewhere out of sight a trolley rumbles over paving with the sound of hooves on cobbles; then fades into night. J-R is on a side road with no visible exit. The shutters of industrial units line the street. He catches the scene on his phone.