Dylan was regaling Ramita again with his abduction account, but kept going off on tangents so it was harder to follow than usual. It didn't help that he was now freaking out about the dictaphone app she was using to record him this time.
"Did you check the permissions attached to it before you installed?" he asked, staring at her smartphone.
"No, not really."
"Man, no one ever does. That's how the world sleptwalked into hyper-surveillance. It started with licence agreements. Anything longer than three paragraphs on your computer screen and your frontal lobe decides to take the rest of the day off. It's scary."
"Dylan, can we get back to what happened at the squat?"
He scratched his head, his eyes darting about warily, and she wondered again what, if any, medication he might be taking.
"The squat. Fullerton Road, Wandsworth. Three bedrooms, but really tiny. The garden was a mess. Nisha and Harry tried growing potatoes, but..."
"Dylan, tell me about the night you met the thief. That's the night it happened, right?"
"Right. Harry brought him in. Said he was a friend of his brother's. He had a lot of cool stuff, but when I asked him about it he just laughed. He laughed at me, Ramita."
"That must've been very hurtful. What sort of cool stuff did he have?"
"Vintage. Things I hadn't seen for years, but in mint condition. Sennheiser headphones from the '70s, but they looked brand new. A Philips Walkman. And he filled the 'fridge with Double Diamond."
"He put two diamonds in the 'fridge?"
"No, it was beer. In bottles. Crazy, 'cos they stopped making it ages ago."
"Okay, Dylan. Tell me what happened that night."
"I borrowed his coat. Everybody wanted chips. And pizza. And it was cold, so I borrowed his coat." He paused, tears forming in his eyes. "I just borrowed his coat 'cos it was there. Man, I wish I hadn't."
"So you left the squat wearing the thief's coat?" Dylan nodded. "And that's when it happened?" Another nod. "Tell me about it."
Ramita handed her 'phone to Anderson.
"You'll need to edit the file. There's a lot of extraneous crap in there, but about twenty minutes in he gives a detailed description of Donal and the three man team sent out that night."
"Detailed?"
"Savant-style detail," said Ramita. "It's like talking to Rain Man. Did we get a GP report for him?"
Anderson shook his head.
"He's not registered. Anywhere. Hell, he doesn't even have a blog."
"That's not really surprising. He's on the other side of paranoid. We were lucky."
"Yeah, well, I'll put that down to your people skills. Any leads on Corinne?"
"No. Donal was alone when he turned up at the squat."
Anderson looked disappointed.
"So this is a dead end after all. Damn."
"Not necessarily." She nodded at the 'phone in Anderson's hand. "Fast forward to twenty seven minutes and fifty seconds, and hit play."
Dylan wiped his eyes again with the tissue Ramita had given him.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologize. It was quite an ordeal they put you through."
"And I never got the chips. Harry said I missed the fortune telling as well."
"Fortune telling?"
Dylan nodded, smiling for the first time that day.
"He told Nisha all about the stock market crash, and the tech collapse. Even who would resign to cover it all up. Then a week later... It was amazing, apparently. Of course, they didn't take it seriously until it happened."
To be continued.
Wednesday 27 November 2013
Friday 22 November 2013
Another Perfect Blonde - Part One: Case Chase and Knife Life
"Well, this is embarrassing," said Murray, handing back the package. "I realise you've come a long way, but I'm afraid your journey has been wasted." He semi-shrugged apologetically, rocking on his heels as he looked from one to the other. Corinne frowned, passing the carefully bound items to Donal, and rested a fist on Murray's desk.
"I'm not sure I understand..."
"She's retired," explained Murray. "Long gone, apparently. Your information is quite out-of-date if you were hoping to meet her here."
Donal hefted his shoulder bag and studied the ornate light fittings, deciding to let Corinne deal with this one. He was tired and desperate for a coffee. They'd passed a place on the way there, briefly discussed stopping, but carried on regardless. If regret had a flavour, he decided, it was probably derived from an absence of beans.
"Do you have a forwarding address, or the name of a contact? Anything?"
Murray sighed.
"I'm afraid not. Given the nature of our work here, employees tend not to share those sorts of details." He seemed ready to resume his seat and dismiss them forthwith, but Corinne wasn't prepared to let him do that.
"Listen, Murray is it? Murray. We have come a long way, you're right. I can't even begin to tell you what we've been through just to get this far. It would blow your mind. The petty bureacracies, the data jams, the sheer absolute walls of stone we've had to blow through...to be honest, it'd make a grail quest look like an afternoon spent pursuing a replacement slacks button."
"For a really weird pair of slacks," interjected Donal.
"But we're here now," continued Corinne, "And this is not how it's going to end, do you understand?"
Murray didn't really look as though he understood. If anything, he looked slightly bemused, bordering on perturbed. And when Corinne pulled the dagger from the sheath beside her right hip, he looked downright frightened.
"We need more from you, Murray," said Corinne, slowly waving the dagger in front of the man's face. "More than you've given us so far. Which, to be frank, has been fuck all."
On their way back to the Alfasud 902 in the car park, Corinne wiped the blood off her dagger with Donal's proffered handkerchief, and muttered something unintelligible under her breath.
"Say again?"
"Next time, we really need to consider a combination of torture and logistics courier much earlier in the game. It'd save a lot of time and heartache."
Donal nodded, fishing the keys out of his pocket, and paused to study her.
"Would you like to drive?"
"Hell, no."
"Can we stop for coffee?"
She glanced back at him and smiled.
"Sure."
To be continued.
"I'm not sure I understand..."
"She's retired," explained Murray. "Long gone, apparently. Your information is quite out-of-date if you were hoping to meet her here."
Donal hefted his shoulder bag and studied the ornate light fittings, deciding to let Corinne deal with this one. He was tired and desperate for a coffee. They'd passed a place on the way there, briefly discussed stopping, but carried on regardless. If regret had a flavour, he decided, it was probably derived from an absence of beans.
"Do you have a forwarding address, or the name of a contact? Anything?"
Murray sighed.
"I'm afraid not. Given the nature of our work here, employees tend not to share those sorts of details." He seemed ready to resume his seat and dismiss them forthwith, but Corinne wasn't prepared to let him do that.
"Listen, Murray is it? Murray. We have come a long way, you're right. I can't even begin to tell you what we've been through just to get this far. It would blow your mind. The petty bureacracies, the data jams, the sheer absolute walls of stone we've had to blow through...to be honest, it'd make a grail quest look like an afternoon spent pursuing a replacement slacks button."
"For a really weird pair of slacks," interjected Donal.
"But we're here now," continued Corinne, "And this is not how it's going to end, do you understand?"
Murray didn't really look as though he understood. If anything, he looked slightly bemused, bordering on perturbed. And when Corinne pulled the dagger from the sheath beside her right hip, he looked downright frightened.
"We need more from you, Murray," said Corinne, slowly waving the dagger in front of the man's face. "More than you've given us so far. Which, to be frank, has been fuck all."
On their way back to the Alfasud 902 in the car park, Corinne wiped the blood off her dagger with Donal's proffered handkerchief, and muttered something unintelligible under her breath.
"Say again?"
"Next time, we really need to consider a combination of torture and logistics courier much earlier in the game. It'd save a lot of time and heartache."
Donal nodded, fishing the keys out of his pocket, and paused to study her.
"Would you like to drive?"
"Hell, no."
"Can we stop for coffee?"
She glanced back at him and smiled.
"Sure."
To be continued.
Monday 18 November 2013
My standards probably aren't...standard.
The next scheduled entry here will be Another Perfect Blonde (due on Friday), but in the meantime I have some "issues" with Blogger which might be worth sharing. It's hard to judge with any certainty, because I haven't used the interface for a few years, and there's often a disconnection between my take on things and all the perceived wisdom on such matters (hence the title of this post). Nevertheless, since I'm now unable to promise that the changes made to the Blogger Dashboard won't impact upon my content here at some future point, there's some justification to highlighting my chief concerns - as a warning, if nothing else.
The emphasis given to blog statistics, and a bloody great graph showing page views, are things I find both bizarre and distasteful. Presumably there are people out there who care about these, but I'm not one of them. It's an irrelevant distraction and, unfortunately, one that's impossible to remove from the interface. Secondly, and arguably more indicative of the general wrongness now on show, quite high on the list of "helpful" links courtesy of Google is one pointing to information on how to make money from one's blog. Good grief. Is that what this lark has become? It seems hopelessly at odds with both the guiding principles behind weblogging as was, and the utterly amateurish efforts which constitute 99% of people's output in this medium. Having such pathetically self-absorbed and commercially tainted elements shoved in one's face upon logging-in seems grossly unsubtle and downright manipulative.
Hopefully, normality will resume on Friday, with an entry that wants neither your readership nor anyone's cash...
The emphasis given to blog statistics, and a bloody great graph showing page views, are things I find both bizarre and distasteful. Presumably there are people out there who care about these, but I'm not one of them. It's an irrelevant distraction and, unfortunately, one that's impossible to remove from the interface. Secondly, and arguably more indicative of the general wrongness now on show, quite high on the list of "helpful" links courtesy of Google is one pointing to information on how to make money from one's blog. Good grief. Is that what this lark has become? It seems hopelessly at odds with both the guiding principles behind weblogging as was, and the utterly amateurish efforts which constitute 99% of people's output in this medium. Having such pathetically self-absorbed and commercially tainted elements shoved in one's face upon logging-in seems grossly unsubtle and downright manipulative.
Hopefully, normality will resume on Friday, with an entry that wants neither your readership nor anyone's cash...
Wednesday 13 November 2013
Just what the world needs - another blog on an undefined topic, with scant regard for potential readership.
I'll deal with/explain the title first. It's relatively irony-free, but references a recent discussion I had with someone about the pros and cons of adding presence at a Russell Group university to one's CV. Obviously, context is everything, and if you're in the position of not caring, or not wanting to care, about the effect of presumed status upon casual onlookers, then so much the better. There comes a point when interested parties will go out of their way to employ all manner of investigative procedures in an attempt to divine something - anything - about you that is external to the known or knowable public locus, whether that involves spending hours on Google, or ransacking your recycling sacks. If you find it all distasteful, you are not alone. You should also steer well clear of the Internet.
The notion of any kind of privilege being mythical, however, relates to something beyond the scraps of personal intelligence mined for good or ill in the modern world. It precariously coincides with some of Carl Jung's points about "individuation", and if you've been raising your eyes heavenwards at the soap opera concerning Bradley Manning's attempts to transition himself into Chelsea Elizabeth, I have some sympathy for you. The world may be desperately short of heroes, but witnessing freakish confusion and Newtonian fascination played out in a semi-public, media-saturated arena will do little to allay any fears you may have that it's now possible to know too much about anything.
Thus, "Mythical Privilege" isn't just a pseudo-clever starting point for a series of arch examinations of culturally significant tropes and misfires, but a self-aware kick to the crotch of assumed values and social hierarchies. I hope you derive some pleasure from it all, but keeping your expectations low is advisable. You don't know me, I have no idea who you are, and it's probably best all round if we keep it that way.
The notion of any kind of privilege being mythical, however, relates to something beyond the scraps of personal intelligence mined for good or ill in the modern world. It precariously coincides with some of Carl Jung's points about "individuation", and if you've been raising your eyes heavenwards at the soap opera concerning Bradley Manning's attempts to transition himself into Chelsea Elizabeth, I have some sympathy for you. The world may be desperately short of heroes, but witnessing freakish confusion and Newtonian fascination played out in a semi-public, media-saturated arena will do little to allay any fears you may have that it's now possible to know too much about anything.
Thus, "Mythical Privilege" isn't just a pseudo-clever starting point for a series of arch examinations of culturally significant tropes and misfires, but a self-aware kick to the crotch of assumed values and social hierarchies. I hope you derive some pleasure from it all, but keeping your expectations low is advisable. You don't know me, I have no idea who you are, and it's probably best all round if we keep it that way.
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