Nicola Barker - Behindlings

And the upshot, finally? Ted grew to mistrust the computer. He touched it with trepidation. He kept things to a minimum. He didn’t chat, he didn’t shop, he didn’t surf. He was furtive. He kept all his interaction strictly professional and clean and neat and minimal.

The computer was such a girl, after all (a lady? Never). The computer was, in actual fact, one of those awful schoolgirl secretaries who’d tormented him so much as a teenager, but she was older now, and wiser: with her sharp tongue and her big breasts, her high heels and her bright lips, her painted nails and her mini. But a virtual secretary. An almost bully.

And she was temperamental — like all girls could be — and very demanding: questions popping up, with relentless alacrity. Shall I do this? Do you want that? Always needing answers. Always wanting them immediately.

She could be a cow. Refuse him things if he was clumsy, and for no good reason, either. She was extremely unreliable, entirely unpredictable; she was… she was cheap and mean and nasty.

Ted treated her cautiously. Couldn’t ever turn her on — turn her on? (Where had all this gender stuff sprung from?) without the powerful suspicion — all too often validated — that Leo might’ve set him up with something suitably revolting — a sound, a picture, a short film, a message — as a joke (but not so funny with clients waiting, peeking over his shoulder every time he pressed a button, hanging out for a phone number, or an address, or an asking price, or a surveyor’s report, or a written contract from a tardy solicitor).

It had speakers. Leo had wired them in. Speakers which made noises like that implement at the dentist which sucks spittle from the patient’s mouth during a polishing with the hygienist: messy, sexy, dirty noises.

And he hated them. He hated the noises. He hated the pictures, the porn, the obscenity. He hated that bloody computer. And he hated Leo, especially. But above everything and everybody else, he hated himself. Because he was weak and hunched and soft and silly. Because if it wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t be here: with Bo and Katherine and — God knows who else — after him. With everybody depending and yet not depending. And with Wesley knowing about the sewing and everything. With Wesley…

Two-thirty p.m. Ted glanced about him, then sat down at the computer (Leo was completing his Spot The Ball coupon: he made twenty choices, daily, and soon he’d be sloping off to deliver them… Yup. Sure enough, he was up and he was out of there…).

Ted checked his watch. He now had fifteen minutes leeway — if he was lucky.

He quickly kicked the switch on the plug with his foot, pressed power (the computer fizzed into life, hiccuped quietly, like she’d had too many Snowballs in the pub at lunch, then ran through some setting-up data, with an officious buzzing)… Right… uh… hang on a minute…

Ted hunted around on his desk for a scrap of paper, found one, scribbled down the time. Two-thirty-one. Wrote;

Leo, I’m using the computer for a short while…

Thought for a few moments, hand poised in the air, added, Thanks, signed his name and dated it.

He turned towards the screen again. The computer blinked back at him, flirtatiously. He firmed his resolve.

‘I’m gonna go…’ he muttered to himself, gingerly, ‘I’m gonna go… online… ’

He grabbed the mouse and clicked it, cautiously — Oops

— the computer refused him — point-blank — on his first attempt — Damn

Forgot to connect the phone-line

Ted scrabbled with the wires for a moment, unplugged the phone, plugged up the…

Okay

… tried the same manoeuvre a second time.

The computer churlishly demanded the password. Wouldn’t do a single damn thing without it, Buster. Ted tapped it in, then listened, slightly worriedly, as she processed his request, sent out feelers, made a muffled ringing sound, purred awhile, boinked…

The screen went blank then lit up again. Okay, okay…

Ted looked for the right box then silently typed in… uh… now what was the address he was after? Uh… www — uh… yes… www.behindlings.co.uk.

He’d noticed it on Bo’s print-out, earlier. He’d memorised it, surreptitiously — not that he’d intended… Not that… It was only…

Survival? Realism? Morbid bloody curiosity?

Ted sniffed, self-consciously. He wasn’t proud of himself. There was something… not wrong, no, and not unnatural, either… something… well, kind of… invasive? Was that it?

But this was for Katherine (he told himself). Yes. It was for Katherine and it was… he had to be honest, it was for the pond thing. Pond. That great pond story. Two unconnected matters, somehow — inexplicably — connecting here, with him.

I mean, to steal a pond and everything… That had to be worth…

The computer buzzed. He jumped, then shuddered, guiltily…

That had to be worth … uh…

Fantastic. He’d made contact with the site already — the graphics began downloading… (This was a Wesley-specific site. The main one — the real caboodle — and impressively professional-looking, too, all things considered… which in itself was, he supposed, slightly… hmmn, well, slightly creepy …) and — yes — things were going fine — hadn’t seen the pond stuff yet, but there was information on Wesley’s general whereabouts over the last seven days and a hotline … uh…

Click

A tiny click. That was it. Nothing bigger or louder or stronger or fiercer.

Just a click. Like an old-fashioned camera taking a picture. Like the sound of a handset placed down onto a receiver –

Click

Then the whole thing just went… just went… just… wrong… no… just went…

Ted reached out his hand.

Just went… Christ…

Just went…

HAYWIRE!!

Screen filled up with a strange, red lettering, repeating and repeating and repeating and repeating. Computer made a kind of strangled squeak (a yelp?) like it was being suffocated, slowly. Or rapidly. Or kind of… kind of… kind of curdled…

Ted frowned. He released the mouse and moved a hesitant index finger towards the keypad, pressed the space-bar, nervously. Nothing happened. He got more emphatic. Slammed the keypad. Nothing. Just chaos — continuing — and more red — and more chaos.

He tried not to panic. Was this a crazy happening of Leo’s devising? But it didn’t seem like Leo’s kind of… didn’t… Ted continued tapping, ever more frantically.

Now even the mouse wasn’t working. It’d quit. It’d been swallowed. It’d been mauled… devoured by… by… what was this thing? Was it his fault? Was it outside? Was it contagious? Was…

Fuck. Everything just jamming and then this spew of information, awful red, then jamming again. Then that terrible last gasp, that choke, that horrible sinking feeling that you sometimes got at the cinema when there was a problem with the projector and the film reel started… started melting… and then… and then… and then…

Virus.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

Ted yanked out the plug at the wall — saw the computer die literally split seconds before he killed its power (he pretended he didn’t see it) like that machine in a hospital which monitors your heart and goes, and goes… blip, blip, blip, blip, blip, blip, blip… then… zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.