Stephen Fry - The Stars’ Tennis Balls

‘Okay, okay … only, look.’ Albert grinned. ‘You’ve arrived at a historic moment. The formal opening of the world’s first anti-Cotter site. Watch this.’

Albert sat down at this computer again and his mouse started skating.

‘See? www.ihatecotter.co.au. Here’s the welcome page. “Welcome to my parlour.” That’s Cotter in the centre of this web, I’ve made him look like a spider. You move the mouse over the spider and he scuttles from one part of his web to the other. When you click, it tells you about each part, see? And you can look at different areas, like cupboards in the parlour? Here’s a “Slap Cotter” page. When you click over his face, he gets slapped and it plays this sound. Hang on.’

The cartoon sound of a ringing slap came from the computer speakers followed by a treble ‘ouch!’

‘Pinched them from the Simpsons actually, but whatever. There’s a gossip page. As people log on they can add their own stories. See? I’ve put in stuff like “he only drinks milk”, “he dyes his hair”. He’s trying to buy into the establishment. He’s been giving money to St Mark’s in Oxford. To the MCC as well, so he can jump the queue and become a member, so I’ve got links to the official MCC and St Mark’s sites so real members can campaign against him from within.’

‘Darling, you can’t do this. He’ll sue.'

‘Let him. Let him bloody sue. That would be brilliant. How would it look? Suing a seventeen-year-old whose father he has been smearing in his papers? I don’t think so. Even if he got some sort of injunction or whatever, imagine what it would start. You know what the net is like. His name would be mud in days. He’d be the hate figure of all time. Share price would go frrfrfrfrffrfrrr… Check this out, this is a page of Conspiracy theories. Cosima Kretschmer, okay? This says how she was acting under orders to expose Barson-Garland. She was his girlfriend. That kind of stuff. Oh, and you’ll love this. Here’s a page of photos with him bald … you know like that kids’ magnet man with the iron filings? You can give him beards and moustaches and different hair colours to see if he’s actually a wanted criminal or something. You never know, someone may recognise him. That’s the thing about Simon Bloody Cotter. Nobody knows who he is. Maybe he’s a Nazi war criminal. Tell you what, let’s make him Aryan blond…’

‘Darling, he’s a bit young to be…’

Portia broke off, very suddenly. Albert turned to look at her. She was staring at the screen, absolutely transfixed.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Mum. What is it?’

Portia closed her eyes for a second.

‘Mum?’

‘Come on, let’s see you eat those sandwiches, right now.

‘Yeah, yeah. But what do you think?’

Portia leant forward and kissed her son, amazed that she could speak so calmly. ‘It’s brilliant of course, darling. I can’t begin to imagine how you could do such a thing.’

‘Should I show it to Dad?’

‘Not just at the minute, my love.’

‘Is he…? Where is he?’

‘Here, in the dining-room. He’s in good shape, don’t worry. There’s a board meeting next week. They want to give him a chance to explain. He’s preparing his…, his…’

‘Defence?’

‘Well, it’s not quite like that. The board believes him completely.’

‘I should bloody well hope so.’ Now that Albert had started eating he found that he was extremely hungry. ‘Top sandwiches, Mum.’

‘But there’s obviously a lot of pressure from shareholders.’

‘He’s never going to resign?’

‘Well he thinks it may be in the best interests of the company. Its reputation and share price.

‘But that’s like saying he’s guilty! He can’t resign!’

‘Well, that’s the point of the board meeting. To find a way of his stepping down that doesn’t look like an admission of guilt. The whole board wants to help. Do you want me to make you some more?’

‘These are fine. Thanks, Mum.’

‘All right. I’m going out now. I shall – ‘ Portia cleared her throat to hide the tremble in her voice ‘- I’ll be back later and I expect to find you in bed, asleep. You understand?’ She leant forward and kissed him, clenching her fists to cover the shaking. ‘I do love you very much. You know that, don’t you?’

Albert had turned back to his screen and he replied through a mouthful of chicken sandwich. ‘Love you too, Mum. Love you too. Hey, look! I’ve already got an email from someone. Look at that, it’s got an attachment. “I hate Cotter too.” Wonder what it is.

Albert double-clicked. Instantly the screen went black.

‘What the fuck?’

A ribbon of bright red text chugged along the screen.

YOU WANT A DUEL? YOU’VE GOT IT.

ALL FILES INFECTED. GOODBYE.

‘No … no!’ Albert switched his computer off and started it again.

‘Darling, what’s happening?’

‘It’s him, it’s him! He’s sent me a fucking virus. I can’t believe it. He’s destroyed the whole system. Oh, Jesus.’

‘But he can’t have done…’

‘He must be running a permanent search. He’s found the Australian site and knows it’s from me. Shit!’

‘All right, Albert. Calm down.’

‘I’ve still got my laptop. He can’t touch that. I’ll start again. Do it even better. Take it to a cybercafé. This is just the fucking beginning. Everyone’s equal on the net.’

‘Albert…

‘Can’t talk, Mum. Work to do.’

Portia closed the door and walked slowly to the kitchen.

The whole terrible truth had come crashing into her mind.

Ashley and Rufus Cade. She should have made the connection before and been on her guard. Ashley and Rufus Cade. And Gordon next.

A noise like a farmer turning hay with a pitchfork came through the kitchen hatchway. Gordon was sitting at the dining-room table shuffling through a heap of faxes. Portia thought she had never seen him looking so energised and alive. She preferred not to remember the dread she sometimes saw in his eyes.

‘We will fight on until my husband’s name is cleared.’

How many times had she heard that over the years from the spouses of Aitken, Hamilton, Archer, Clinton, Nixon and countless others who had faced scandal while their wives ‘stood by them’?

She knew that Gordon was not a wicked man. Like most people, he was a child anxious to be loved and like most men, a boy desperate to prove himself in the world. She could picture him doing so many bad things for so many good reasons. He had spent most of his life trying to catch up: A second choice husband living off the earnings of a wife who had married him out of pity and her own despair. At the start of their marriage everything had come from Hillary’s money. Portia had been the brilliant young student with the doctorate and academic tenure, Gordon had been the American outsider who never quite managed to fit in. Ten years of bluff talk to friends had taken their toll on his pride.

‘I’m in the financial advisor game at the moment.’ He was selling endowment mortgages on commission. Somehow worse, in Portia’s opinion, than double-glazing or herbal remedies.

‘A franchise opportunity has opened up. Looking at that quite keenly. Quite keenly.’ He considered managing a Seattle style coffee bar.

‘Business consultancy, as matter of fact.’ Nothing.

‘Broking soft commodities.’ Trading in coffee futures on the residue left by Hillary after she died. And losing it too.

And one last throw. The idea had come from Portia in fact, though he chose not to remember it. She had heard a programme on the radio about the low world prices being fetched for tea and coffee, a subject Gordon had been kvetching about for years.