right now I’m drinking for two.
“In the fridge, top shelf on the left, there’s an open bottle of wine,” I say, standing and making for the cupboard to root out some glasses. “You guys didn’t drive, did you?”
“That would be irresponsible, Bob,” Pinky says soberly. “Is this the right bottle . . . ?”
“Give it here.” I pause for a moment, bottle poised over an inviting glass: “Boris doesn’t have anything to do with this, does he? You’re quite sure it was Iris’s idea?”
“Don’t be silly, Bob,” says Brains, taking the bottle (and the glass).
“Boris is on detached duty with the Dustbin this year. Here, take this. How about a toast? Confusion to the enemy!”
I raise my glass. “What enemy?”
He shrugs: “IT, Human Resources, the grim march of time—whoever you want, really.”
“I’ll drink to that!” says Pinky, and I nod.
It’s going to be a long evening, but it was going to be a long evening anyway and at least this way I don’t get to spend it brooding on my own.
THE NEXT MORNING, I AWAKEN TO FIND THAT MY MOUTH TASTES as if a rat used it for a bed and breakfast, and Mo still isn’t here. I roll over, reaching across her side of the bed. Empty. It’s early but I yawn and sit up, then visit the bathroom to change the rat’s bed linen before stumbling downstairs. The kitchen sink is full of empty bottles, and someone left a JesusPhone on the kitchen table, plugged into my laptop—
I switch the kettle on and run a comb through my hair, wondering if I can take the bloody thing back.
There’s a handwritten note next to it. I read it with a sinking heart: HI BOB HOPE YOU LIKE THE EASTER EGGS BRAINS.
No, I can’t take it back. Not until I find out what Brains did to it. I rack my memories for any hint of details, but it’s all a bit of a blur. I remember him saying something about evaluation work.
I turn the radio on just as the kettle rises to a rattling, rolling boil and shuts off. I pull the cafetiere out of the cupboard and spoon coffee into it, pour water and stare at it, as if that’ll make it brew faster.
It is just occurring to me that today is a Thursday and I am not expected to—no, scratch that, I am expected
The radio is blatting on about the news: Prime Minister talking about the need for faith schools, something about a UN Population Fund meeting in the Netherlands, an idiot footballer getting an idiot multimillionpound handshake from an idiot football team . . . all the usual cheerily oblivious rubbish we listen to in order to feel connected. Right now it sounds like it’s bleeding in from another world.
I carefully lower the plunger on the cafetiere—it’s balky, and has a tendency to squirt hot coffee grounds everywhere if you don’t do it
It doesn’t take me long to find out: the icon that looks like a tumble drier is a bit of a giveaway, come to think of it. I groan and stab the thing with my thumb, and a whole bunch of new icons show up.
Brains has unintentionally taken a huge stinking shit all over our security frontline, installing classified software on an unapproved and unauthorized device. It was just an obvious misunderstanding and no harm’s come about, and as soon as I can smuggle the phone back into the New Annexe and get him to wipe the fucking thing back to factory condition we can pretend it never happened; but until then, I’m going to have to carry the thing on my person at all times and defend it with my life. Well, that or I can set Operational Oversight on him—but my life doesn’t need the excitement of being the subject of two simultaneous boards of enquiry.
“Jesus, Brains,” I murmur. “Is it something in the water?” I poke at the Options set up in OFCUT admiringly. He’s done a thorough job of porting it—this is almost as tightly integrated as the old version I used to have on my Treo, before they pulled it because it violated our RoHS waste disposal statement.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, MY OLD AND UNWANTED MOTOROLA rings. I pick it up and see WITHHELD on the display. Which means one of two things: a telemarketer, or work, because I’ve put my unclassified desk phone on call divert.
“Yes?”
“Bob?” It’s Andy, my onetime manager. Nice guy, when he’s not stabbing you in the back.
“What’s up? You know I’m on—”
“Yes, Bob. Er, it’s about Mo.” I sit down hard. “She’s flying into London City from Amsterdam on KL 1557”— my heart starts up again—“and I think it would be a really good idea if you were to meet her in. She’s due to land around nine, you can just get there if you leave in the next ten minutes—”
“Nothing,” he says, too quickly. “Look, will you just—”
“I’m going! I’m going! I’m dragging myself from my sickbed groaning and limping in my nightgown to the airport, okay?” I look round, trying to locate my shoes: I dumped them in the hall the night before—“Are you
“Not entirely,” he says quietly, and hangs up.
I’m dressed and out of the house like a greased whippet, round the corner to the tube station and the train to Bank and then the DLR line to London City Airport, out in the east end near Canary Wharf. I remember to grab the JesusPhone at the last minute, shoveling it into an inside zippered pocket in my fishing vest. I’m at the DLR platform waiting for a train before I realize I’ve forgotten to shave. If Andy is yanking my chain . . .
All doubts fade when I get to Arrivals at ten to eleven and see KL 1557 on the board, on schedule for fifteen minutes hence.
But she won’t be. At least, not physically. In her line of work, if something goes wrong, it’s probably fatal; at best she’d be clogging up a hospital high dependency unit, and I’d be on my way out to see her with many hand- wringing apologetics and a complimentary budget-price ticket from Human Resources.
Hanging around in an airport Arrivals hall is not a good thing to do if you’re nervous. I can feel the cops’ eyes on the back of my neck, wondering what the unshaven agitated guy who can’t keep his feet still is doing. The minutes and seconds trickle by with glacial, infuriating slowness. Then the Arrivals board changes the flight status to
She pulls back after a couple of seconds. “Get me home. Please.” She sounds—low.
“Andy said—”
