Robert Rankin - Web Site Story

'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 if you let us down.'

'We'd have to dismiss you,' said Mr Shadow.

'And turn you in to the police, over that nasty business of the stolen computer games,' said Mr Speedy.

'And there'd be questions asked about Derek's expenses,' said Mr Shadow. 'Which would probably lead to further prosecutions.'

'Undoubtedly,' said Mr Speedy. Td see to that.'

'All right, stop!' Derek hauled himself to his feet. Til get it all done. Everything's in hand. Just leave it to me, I won't let you down.'

'Good,' said Mr Speedy. 'Then off about your business. Pacey pacey, chop chop and things of that nature generally.'

Derek turned painfully to take his leave. And then he stopped and turned right back again. 'No, hold on,' he said. 'What about the paper? It's Friday. The paper is supposed to come out today. Oh my God. The paper. The paper.' Derek tore at his hair, Mr Speedy and Mr Shadow watching him tearing at it.

‘I’ll bet that really hurts,' said Mr Speedy.

‘I’ll just bet it does,' said Mr Shadow.

'Oow!' said Derek, ceasing to tear at his hair. 'It does hurt, I can tell you. But oh my God again. How could I have let this happen? There's no Brentford Mercury. In one hundred and fifty-two years, we've never missed an issue.'

'You don't look that old,' said Mr Speedy.

'You know what I mean!' Derek shouted, and then he clutched once more at his head. 'The paper must come out today. It must. It must.'

'And it has,' said Mr Speedy. 'Trust us, it has.'

'Has?'said Derek. 'Has?'

'It's already on the news-stands and in the paper shops.'

'And popped through the letter boxes,' said -Mr Shadow.

'No,' said Derek. 'What are you talking about?'

Mr Speedy picked up a newspaper from the desk and handed it to Derek. 'We took care of everything,' he said. 'Mute Corp always takes care of everything.'

Derek stared at the paper in his trembling hands. Its five-inch banner headline ran:

JOY, JOY, HAPPY JOY

HAPPY, HAPPY JOY

'Uplifting isn't it?' said Mr Speedy. 'That has to be a first in headlines, doesn't it?'

Derek's jaw was hanging slack, his numb hands numbly turned the pages.

GREAT DAYS AHEAD

ran the headline on page two.

BRENTONIANS TO RECEIVE MASSIVE

CASH FUNDINGS: ALL WILL PROFIT

HUGELY FROM KINDLY CORPORATION'S

CARING CASH CONTRIBUTIONS.

'Note all that alliteration,' said Mr Shadow. 'That was my idea.'

'Very professional,' said Mr Speedy. 'Very Sunday Sport.'

'What's this?' asked Derek, pointing, pointing, pointing. '"BRENTFORD SHAREHOLDERS' BIG BUCKS BONANZA.'"

'My idea too,' said Mr Shadow.

'Very professional,' said Mr Speedy once again.

'Yes,' said Derek. 'But what does it mean?'

'It's an incentive,' said Mr Shadow. 'You see, once, back in the early 1980s, there was this Waterman's Arts Centre project. The locals made a right old fuss. So much so that the backers pulled out and left the Arts Centre for the locals to do with as they pleased.'

'I've read all about it,' said Derek, and here a tone of pride entered into his voice. 'I am a Brentford Poet.'

'Then you'll know what happened. A wise old man called Professor Slocombe, I believe he still lives here on the Butt's Estate, persuaded the locals to build the Arts Centre themselves and all become shareholders. The Arts Centre stands here today. No fuss. No bother. We've just done the same. All Brentonians are now shareholders in Suburbia World Plc. They've been allocated one share each. I'm sure that after they receive their first generous dividend, they'll be buying a lot more shares.'

'It's all corruption,' said Derek. 'All of it. Bribery and corruption, blackmail and extortion.'