The following week passed without incident. That is, without incident apart from the delivery of the music album I’d managed to win at auction and the quiet satisfaction I enjoyed in her attempts to hide her enthusiasm when it arrived. I’d received an update msg from Stu, ominously in the coded format of the company’s internal cipher that instructed me to sit tight while he worked out the particulars of the contract negotiations, but otherwise the whole job was still up in the air.
I tried to dig a little deeper into the background, which gradually became less unpleasant as the ongoing headaches and tinnitus began to subside. Before getting too far into poring over one company profile after another I sent a msg back, asking for Stu’s permission of sorts, to avoid unknowingly stepping into some industrial espionage scandal or similar. He assured me that as long as I stuck to the publicly-viewable information, which was a given since any software needed for more ambitious searching was currently locked in behind a firewall on our office server, it wouldn’t land any of us in any hot water.
Whenever I had trouble understanding something during exam revision at college I used to stubbornly re-read certain passages until I grasped it; this unsophisticated ‘brute force’ approach to learning was tedious and time-consuming, but I carried the habit on into the workplace. It now seemed to be paying off here too, because as I read screen after screen of ‘About Us’, ‘What We Do’ and ‘Our Goals’ I was starting to see patterns. Or, at least, I imagined I was.
I figured that the trick was in making connections between the sub-companies that formed parts of the main conglomerate or, to put it another way, discern what they had in common. The only way to do this, really, was the hard way. I hoped that a common thread would begin to form in my head, and even if it was nigh-on impossible to explain with words the gut feeling that it was there would at least offer a general outline of what I needed to look for.
There was the marketing company we’d signed a contract with, which was connected to one of the few surviving major music labels who had weathered the storm of bankruptcies and mutual finger-pointing that marked the implosion of the mainstream industry during the previous decade. Another was a subsidiary outfit involved in social media and trend monitoring – I’d actually had more contact with them than the organisation who’d officially hired us, due to the content of the programme I’d been running – and yet another was a management firm for bands and other artists.
Curiously, also on this rapidly-growing list was a contractor who provided “competitive, dynamic and flexible electronics solutions for military and medical audio applications…” which struck me as a bit odd. I mentally filtered out these vague, unhelpful buzzwords of their About section and continued to read into what they were doing and how they’d end up dealing with marketing companies and managers of pop groups. It was apparently modest in size but had a global reach, which in real world terms meant the same management-speak waffle padded out the online profiles of all their regional sites.
After realising I was wasting my time using the browser translator on sub-pages that were, in all probability, out-of-date I followed the links to their headquarters and added its name and address to the list.
*
As soon as I felt well enough to leave the flat I suggested that, since we were sharing a kitchen for the foreseeable future, it would make sense to take turns preparing meals. A few days of silent rivalry ensued, with increasingly impractical dishes that flew in the face of common sense and were starting to become financially irresponsible…and in one particular case a potential fire risk as well. Before long we settled on taking turns with just the shopping and sharing the responsibility of cooking it equally each evening. I didn’t mind this since I was turning into a complete shut-in, and ‘kitchen time’ was starting to be the nearest I could get to social interaction, and was now the highlight of my day as a result.
Taking advantage of the fact that she was working late that particular evening I set out to the local supermarket for some fresh vegetables and a couple of other minor ingredients that seemed to be chronically lacking in her cupboards. This took me through a particularly dreary area of town that had somehow managed to hold on to the 1960s architectural travesties that had avoided recent development and regeneration initiatives. I often wondered how these grey, blocky lichen-encrusted mistakes of town planning had not yet been replaced by cleaner-looking buildings that were easier on the eyes and were, I’m sure, more in line with current energy efficiency legislation.
The darkened windows, devoid of all light and colour, looked like lifeless eyes observing me as I made my way along a footbridge that took me over a dual carriageway and to the small shopping street on the other side. I was less than a third of the way over when my handheld alerted me of an incoming msg. Assuming it was an automated reminder to pick up the food I was already on my way to buy, I let it ring.
I made my way around the supermarket aisles quickly, adding a couple of pots of self-heating soup to the basket as an afterthought. These are neat little instant meals intended for campers and lazy students that heat themselves automatically when you pull a small tab near the base of the pot. I’m not sure about the mechanics of it, but I’d discovered that, ever since my recent mishaps, they’re just as handy when you’re too ill to cook proper food.
I loaded it all into a couple of carrier bags – fortunately I’d remembered to bring my own, avoiding a choice between carrying it all loose and buying more bags – with only one pot of self-heating soup failing to fit. While walking around I spotted two or three shifty-looking guys with the half bored, half observant look as they sloped around the shelves that’s usually only seen on military types and urban dogs or foxes. Most shoplifters are drug addicts but since these ones didn’t look nearly emaciated enough, the store detectives didn’t pay them much attention; even so, the two uniformed security guards breathed a collective and barely-detectable sigh of relief when they left without buying anything or causing any sort of trouble. I swiped my cash card at the automated till, pretended to be interested in the adverts and other posters on the display near the door to give the trio of Suspicious Buggers a head start and headed back out.
Looking around nervously, the warm summer wind carried the alcoholic aroma of a distant biofuel plant mixed with the malty tang of the raw materials; the immediate area was devoid of life. Living in a large city seemed to have given me a sense of heightened suspicion at all around me but at the same time every day that passed without me getting mugged made me a little more complacent. Silently cursing myself for not going to the other nearby shopping street that was on a main road and gave me fewer jitters, I started back home as quickly as I could.
It’s a common misconception that we’re naturally heroes. When I moved here after university Stu and his sister gave me the same piece of advice: the accepted social etiquette of London – namely that of ignoring people you don’t know – was now accepted in most urban areas so when you’re approached by intimidating strangers, avoid eye contact and walk away. If they start to follow you, gradually pick up speed and try not to think about the indignity of it. When that fails, set your handheld onto ‘fingerprint recognition vs. auto-fry’ mode to deny a potential mugger the satisfaction, and run like hell.
The urge to do just that kicked in roughly a minute and a half after I spotted the same three dodgy bastards outside the supermarket, eyeing me up like I’d just cracked a joke about their mum. I’ll admit that I’m no hero and as such, my first thought was, “oh shit. I’m going to get beaten up again.” Thanks to my paranoia I had programmed my handheld to automatically ping the top five members of my contacts list as to my whereabouts via GPS, along with a vague semi-humorous tagline of ‘can’t answer the phone due to possibly being in a spot of deep shit’ or words to that effect. My thumb simultaneously went to the ‘fingerprint recognition vs. auto-fry’ button too, naturally.
My first move, before what I expected to be a complete breakdown in my rational reasoning, was to drop my two shopping bags down where I stood. If they were simply junkies they might be distracted by the sight of free food and I’d be able to make a run for it, but unfortunately they were blocking my route back across the bridge so I’d have to make a detour via the next street.
I started my dignified retreat with my three new acquaintances reacting almost instantaneously. So much for them being bored junkies, then. I’d made it almost half a klick before they really started to gain on me; as out-of-shape as I am due to the fact that the great British weather doesn’t lend itself well to outdoor training, adrenaline can be a good motivator at times.
It wasn’t long before I realised that I wasn’t going to be able to outrun these guys, who apparently were decidedly fitter than average (I have no shame in admitting that I am just that: average in terms of physical condition). I was almost back at the flat, but something in their determined running gaits told me that they’d probably drag me back even if I was halfway up the stairwell. I was hoping that the GPS tracker was working as advertised and that someone I knew happened to be in the neighbourhood because I didn’t fancy my chances at all.
Not a word had passed between the four of us but I had to admit that the game was up. Resigned to the fact that I’d done all I could, I took one last burst into a broad residential street with open-plan lawns that was less than three hundred yards from the flat. I figured that, if I was to be beaten up again I wouldn’t have far to take my bruised body home.
They were now closing in on me in a broad semicircle, their breathing ragged. I took some small satisfaction in seeing they’d had to push themselves to get me cornered like this, as I tightened my grip on my handheld in my left jacket pocket. My right hand closed around a bulkier object that, in my act of single-mindedly legging it, I forgot I still had.
When I said that we ordinary people aren’t heroes, I meant it. Instinct comes first and rational thought follows with degrees of promptness that vary from individual to individual. I’m no superman and even in this situation I was working my way down a list of priorities from shopping to personal property then self-preservation. The self-preservation part was the crunch point where I thought, what the hell. Anything’s better than nothing and my mind suddenly enjoyed a moment of cool lucidity in the face of inevitability, like a plane passing into the eye of a hurricane.
The first one of the three was about two feet away when I popped the lid of the self-heating soup pot; I’d already yanked the tab with my thumb as he’d started his advance and by the time the flick-knife appeared I realised that I was pretty much fucked and any defensive move was a viable option when faced with losing a body part or worse. For the record it was ham and mixed vegetable flavour with some nice big chunks of carrot and swede that really retains that freshly-reheated warmth…and coincidentally sticks very well to things like skin.
I really dig extra-thick soup because it feels marginally less cheap than the usual runny swill when you eat it. When contained in the likes of that particular brand of extra-instant self-heating packaging that promises to be “…piping hot within FIVE seconds!!!” it also doubles up as edible napalm, because the way it stuck to his face on impact and caused him to yell out loud and take a couple of steps backwards would’ve been very satisfying to watch had I not been so preoccupied with saving my own sorry arse.
The other two wasted no time in taking stock of the situation, and formed the Plan B of whatever their motivation happened to be. Ignoring their comrade completely, they moved on me together, presumably to grab both of my arms before I could mount another form of defence. It was then my turn to be surprised, because one suddenly stopped in his tracks, holding his hands to his ears and screaming with a mixture of surprise and genuine pain.
The other carried on regardless but a swiftly-moving shape bolted out the corner of my field of view to my left, lunged between us and jammed something into the general region of his solar plexus before rebounding backwards. I had just enough time to push this newcomer aside before punching Mr Screaming-and-holding-his-ears full on in the face, giving a satisfying crack as his nose broke. I’m not naturally violent by any means, but at this point I wasn’t really feeling like myself any more.
The newcomer to this little altercation was back in front of me, presumably in an effort to finish the job of repelling the third and final assailant, which he did with ruthless efficiency by jamming one knee unceremoniously into the hapless fellow’s groin. As the mental adrenaline fog began to clear I realised that the newcomer only measured five foot two and wore an all-too-familiar curtain of waist-length hair and expression of half-amused exasperation.
“Seriously mate, what the fuck have you been up to this time?”
*
The short dash home naturally felt rather surreal, and my body had decided that it had had enough of being the UK’s answer to Chuck Norris and started to metamorphose into a quivering geriatric instead. I tried to take my mind off the sudden urge to use the toilet and the feeling in my legs that they had turned to jelly by asking her what the bloody hell it was that she’d used back there.
“This,” she proudly proclaimed as she held out a small black object, “is an ordinary Taser. It has pretty much the same effect as kicking someone in the balls, but I did both just to make sure. The other,” she whipped out the grey object, roughly the size of a ladies’ can of deodorant, “is a rape alarm with a directional function.”
“I didn’t hear it at all though,” I countered stupidly.
“Of course not. I flicked it to directional mode to nail that gobshite in front of you. You’d be writhing on the floor like an idiot if I hadn’t.”
“How did you know I was there, anyway? I had to do a detour.”
“I got the GPS ping from your hanheld,” she answered. “Since this is just the sort of shit you’ve been getting yourself lately, I put two and two together when I got your auto-msg and, since I was on my way home in any case, I tried to track you down. I figured something like that was going to happen.”
“So,” I started slowly, trying to follow her logic, “you legged it out with a taser and a…a directional rape alarm to come and get me?”
“Well, yeah. I didn’t stop to think really. But hey…you didn’t get the call from my mum earlier? She says she’s buying us dinner again tonight, and since you just threw yours over someone’s face…”
I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve all this, but as I showered and changed I realised it probably was for the best that Mrs K. had invited us out again: our own dinner was dumped outside a twenty-four hour Tesco Express half a mile away.