Web Site Story

Derek heaved himself into the vertical plane. That would be -why the world had all turned upside down. He'd been lying, fully clothed, on his bed, flat on his back with his head hanging over the end.

Not the way he usually slept.

Which was all tucked up beneath his Star Wars duvet.

'Oh what happened?' Derek groaned, and slumping down upon his bed, he placed his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. 'I got drunk, that's what happened,' he mumbled. 'What did I do? Did I do something terrible?'

Circuits meshed in Derek's head. No, he hadn't done anything terrible. He'd got drunk. Wandered about. Met up with Mad John and Mad John had brought him home. That wasn't too terrible, although his mum wouldn't be smiling at him this morning over the cornflakes. 'It's all her fault,' mumbled Derek. 'That Kelly. She's got inside my head. Oh damn it. I really am in love with her. Oh God, what am I going to do?' Derek peered at his wristwatch. It was nine thirty. He should have been at the offices of the Brentford Mercury half an hour ago.

Derek dragged himself over to the dressing table and peered at his reflection in the mirror. It was grim. A boggy-eyed unshaven face peered back at him. 'Oh God,' mumbled Derek once more. 'I've really fouled up this time. Those horrible sods from Mute Corp will be sitting at Mr Shields's desk waiting for me. I have to go.'

Derek did pathetic little pattings-down at his hair, muttered something about designer stubble coming back into fashion, opened his bedroom door and stumbled down the stairs. And he almost made it to the front door too.

'Is that you, Derek?' called the voice of his mum.

'Yes Mum,' called Derek. 'Who else would it be?' He picked up a folded piece of paper from the doormat. It was addressed to him in Kelly's handwriting. But as Derek had never seen Kelly's handwriting, he didn't recognize it.

'Well, aren't you going to give your mother a goodbye kiss before you go off to work?'

'Oh,' went Derek, shrugging, then, 'OK,' he said.

Derek thrust the folded and unread piece of paper into his trouser pocket, then he bumbled along the passageway to the kitchen. Past the framed photograph of the Queen Mother, presently celebrating her one hundred and twenty-second year. Past the framed photograph of his dad, possibly celebrating something up in Heaven. And past the framed photograph of himself as a baby. The Derek of today was in no mood at all for celebration.

'Morning, darling,' said Derek's mum, beaming at him from the kitchen sink, where she stood drying her hands on an oversized brown gingham tea towel.

'Morning, Derek,' said Mad John, looking up from the breakfasting table.

Derek stared at Mad John. Mad John was wearing Derek's dressing gown.

'Give your mum a kiss,' said Derek's mum.

'And you can shake my hand if you want,' said Mad John. 'But no kissing please, it makes me want to shout.'

Derek made that face you make, when you find out that some vagrant loony's been having it off with your mum. It's a very specific sort of face, it doesn't really apply to any other situation.

'And what kind efface is that?' asked Derek's mum. 'The last time I saw a face like that, your father was making it. Shortly before he met with his tragic accident.'

'I… I… you… you… he… he…' went Derek.

'What kind of language is that?' asked Mad John. 'Is it Runese?'

'You… him.' Derek pointed to and fro.

'Give us a kiss then.' Derek's mum puckered up.

'No,' said Derek. 'No, no, no,' and Derek left the house.

Derek staggered and stumbled along the sunlit streets of Brentford. Streets that, had he noticed it, were looking rather spruce. There were sweepers sweeping these streets and painters on scaffolding, painting the houses. There were cleaners cleaning the lampposts and there were dustbin men and the dustbin men were emptying dustbins and whistling while they worked. In fact everybody was whistling while they worked. The sweepers and the painters, and the cleaners and the dustbin men, all whistling gaily as they worked. And all of these whistlers had one thing in common, well two if you counted the whistling. But the one thing in common they had most in common, was in the way they were dressed.

One-piece, all white, zip-up overalls, with a big fat Mute Corp logo on the back.

Whistle whistle whistle went the whistlers as they worked.

'Shut up!' shouted Derek, then he clutched at his hung-overed head.

There was scaffolding up outside the offices of the Brentford Mercury and whistling men swarmed upon this scaffolding, renovating here and titivating there.

An old chap with long grey hair, leather trousers and a lacy flouncy shirt, who had once been popular on the tele, was directing operations. 'I'm going for a retro feel,' he was telling a whistler. 'An homage to the twentieth century.'

'Anything you say, Mr Lawrence, guv,' said the •whistling workman, continuing to -whistle as he worked.

Derek stumbled and staggered up the stairs to the offices. There in that of Mr Shields were the two men from Mute Corp. Little Mr Speedy and bigger Mr Shadow. Bigger Mr Shadow was looking at his watch. 'I'm docking you an hour's pay,' he told Derek. 'If you're late again tomorrow, then you're sacked.'

'Tomorrow?' Derek wiped at his cold and clammy brow. 'But tomorrow's Saturday. I never work on Saturday.'

'You do now, and Sunday too. Everything has to be online for Monday. That's when Suburbia World Plc opens to the public.'

Mr Speedy tapped at keys on his briefcase laptop jobbie. 'We went out on the World Wide Web at nine this morning,' he said. 'Projected figures suggest that we'll have at least ten thousand paying visitors on the first day alone.'

'Ten thousand?' Derek sank onto the unpacked box of Mute Corp computer parts.

‘I’d rather you didn't sit on that,' said Mr Speedy. 'That's going back to the company. And I'd like to know the whereabouts of the rest of that consignment.'

'Search me,' said Derek, dismally. 'But ten thousand visitors? How can that possibly be? If you only went online half an hour ago?'

'Make that closer to an hour. There's a whole world out there,' said Mr Shadow. 'Beyond the boundaries of Brentford. A whole world of PC users, logging onto the Web, ever anxious for something new. Something special to entertain them.'

'But there's nothing special about Brentford,' said Derek and then, realizing just how stupid that remark really was, he buried his face in his hands.

'There's a certain magic here,' said Mr Speedy. 'I'm surprised that you, as a resident, have never noticed it yourself.'

Derek made awful groaning sounds.

'So,' said Mr Shadow. 'There is much to discuss. Where are the crad barges? Where are the five miles of perimeter fence?'

'And the steam train,' said Mr Speedy. 'I'm really looking forward to seeing the steam train. I've never actually seen one before. What do they run on, petrol?'

'Petrol?' Derek made further groanings and meanings.

'Well, whatever,' said Mr Speedy. 'I'm looking forward to that and also to seeing the Brentford Griffin. Old-fashioned holographies can still draw in the public. What time should I schedule a demonstration for? Shall we say three p.m.?'

Derek made a pitiful sound.

'You're not going to let us down, are you, Derek?' Mr Speedy asked. 'We'd be very disappointed