Robert Rankin - Web Site Story

Kelly barely suppressed a yawn. hellcab was standard stuff in her personal opinion. Hardly wonder boy or altered beast. But then she loved the old-fashioned games. They had a certain, well, humanity, if such a thing can ever be said about computer games.

'speedo,' said Mr Pokey and speedo hovered in the air. 'big truck rumble, fight night fifty, dog tattoo and maggot farm.' And up they came and dangled in the air.

'You know them all,' said Mr Pokey. 'And of course the search is on for even better and better. Better, faster, trickier, more challenging for the game-player. Back at the turn of the century everyone was placing their bets upon virtual reality. But what of that now? When was the last time you ever saw a player in a headset?'

'Yes that's true,' said Kelly. 'Why do you think that was?'

'Fashion,' said Mr Pokey. 'Plain and simple. As with clothes, music, cars, art, architecture, home furnishings, everything. You don't have to go on inventing things. Coming up with new things all the time. That's not necessary. You have Retro. Retro music, retro fashion, retro architecture. It's an homage to the greatness of the past. That's what made Remington Mute, he made computers big and comfortable again, the way they used to be. The way that people got nostalgic over. And the games. They were like the old games. Only better.'

'What makes them better?' Kelly asked. 'Is it the Mute-chip?'

'Mute-chip?' The big fat smile faded from the face of Mr Pokey. His gaze left Kelly's breasts and fixed itself upon her eyes. 'What do you know about the Mute-chip?'

'Well, nothing,' said Kelly hurriedly. And remaining very demure. 'I overheard two men talking about it, when I came into the building.'

'Did you indeed?' said Mr Pokey, leaning across his desk.

'I've no idea what it is. I thought it was only a Web Myth. Is it real? Is it something special?'

'Just product,' said Mr Pokey. But Kelly could see that he was pressing lighted pads that were set into his desktop.

'Anyway,' said Mr Pokey. 'I'm sure you'll learn all about the Mute-chip in the fullness of time. When you have risen to sufficient status within the company. But I wouldn't mention it in public if I were you. I am just replaying the CCTV footage of your arrival. If I can identify the two operatives, I will have them dismissed for their indiscreet talk.'

'No, please,' said Kelly. 'I wouldn't want that to happen because of me. They were whispering, actually. It's just that my hearing is very acute.'

'I wonder if you're lying,' whispered Mr Pokey.

'I can assure you I am not,' said Kelly. 'Now please tell me all about the job.'

'The job in hand', said Mr Speedy, 'is to promote Suburbia World Plc. Naturally this will be done mostly across the World Wide Web. But here, in this Luddite backwater, it must be done through the borough's official organ, the respected Brentford Mercury.'

'It's a newspaper,' said Derek. 'Not an advertising circular.'

'But this will bring jobs to the borough.'

'We don't have an unemployment problem here,' said Derek. 'And we don't have any homeless people sleeping on the streets. Well, we do have one, Mad John. But every borough has a Mad John, it's a tradition, or an old charter, or something. He sleeps in a hedge and he shouts at shoes.'

'Shoes?' said Mr Shadow.

'Shoes,' said Derek. 'He roots them out of the black bin liners that people of a charitable persuasion leave outside the charity shop on a Sunday night. Mad John gets the shoes out and puts them on parade upon the pavement and gives them a good telling-off.'

'Why?' asked Mr Speedy.

'Because that's what he does. He's a local character.'

Mr Speedy had his tiny briefcase laptop jobbie open. He was pressing tiny little jobbie keys on it. 'Sunday evenings, you say?' said he. 'Outside the charity shop. That would be the one on the High Street would it? The sfsasbisoagh. The Society for Small and Shoeless Boys in Search of a Good Hiding.'

'What are you doing?' Derek asked.

'Putting it on the schedule,' said Mr Speedy. 'All we have down for Sunday evenings so far is', he pushed more keys and peered at the screen, 'watching Old Pete plant sprouts in Allotment World…'

'Allotment World?' said Derek.

Mr Speedy read from the screen. 'Enjoy a real-life safari across Brentford's very own horticultural kingdom and wild-life preserve. Can you spot the giant feral tomcat of legend? Identify twenty-two different species of sprout? Find the spot where the sacred mandrake grows…?'

'Mandrake?' said Derek. 'It grows in Brentford?'

'A character called Old Vic grows it. We have a file on him. He used to be a prisoner of war.'

'I know,' said Derek, burying his face in his hands.

'So we'll add in this Mad John,' said Mr Speedy, punching keys. 'He shouts, you say? Is he violent?'

'Perhaps you should check that out for yourself.' Derek peeped up through his fingers.

'We will,' said Mr Shadow. 'We check everything out.'

'It's not a safe area, you know,' said Derek, straightening up. 'There was a big riot in the Arts Centre last night. I was in it. There was blood, I have bruises, would you like to see them?'

'I have bruises of my own,' said Mr Speedy. 'Mine are far more impressive than yours.'

'I'm sure they're not,' said Derek.

'Our company has a division that specializes in urban pacification,' said Mr Shadow. 'Any trouble from the locals will be swiftly dealt with.'

'Oh yes?' said Derek, the tone of sarcasm ringing in his voice. 'So what will you do, put a big fence around the borough as well?'

'Naturally,' said Mr Shadow. 'We can't have anyone sneaking into Suburbia World without paying.'

'Regarding pay,' said Kelly. 'You mentioned a certain figure yesterday that seemed very generous, particularly as the nature of my job here was somewhat unspecific. You mentioned a contract, has that been drawn up?'

'The figure stands, the contract has been drawn up. You will find the job itself challenging. It should appeal to you. You impress me as a young woman with highly competitive instincts. We at Mute Corp are always •working on new games. And we're always looking for qualified participants, players, to test the systems.'

'All right,' said Kelly. 'Well I'm up for it. I've played a lot of computer games in my time…'

'We're well aware of that,' said Mr Pokey.

'You are?'

'Of course. We have files on everyone.'

'Everyone?' said Kelly. 'You can't have files on everyone.'

'Mute Corp manages the Government's mainframe, which is linked to the armed services and the emergency services mainframes. Mute Corp manages the communications network. Mute Corp manages all of the World Wide Web.'

'You have to be kidding,' said Kelly.

'Oh no,' said Mr Pokey. 'And it's all there for the public to see. The Freedom of Information Act, you know. Check the Mute Corp web site. We have no secrets.'

'So tell me about this Mute-chip of yours.'

'The corporation's business dealings and interests are not a secret. Obviously the technology we develop is.'

'And so your files on me said that I had potential as what? A games tester?'

'Absolutely. Your university career. Your access to the games library, at the university. You have a natural aptitude towards the playing of computer games. If your natural aptitude lay with mathematics we'd employ you in the accounts department. We only employ operatives according to their specialized skills. And everybody's skills are all on file. Everything's on file. Your whole life's on file. I can tell you the address where you are currently lodging. You wrote out an old-fashioned paper cheque for your landlady, Mrs…' Mr Pokey tapped keys, 'Mrs Gormenghast, and she's on file too, bought two pots of puce paint, serial number 10A/BC444 from Homebase in Chiswick last week. Everything is computer-linked. Everything. Surely you are aware of this?'