Clothes in place, she dropped a few more items in her overnight bag – USB memory sticks full of pieces of code, little programs, music to code by, codecs that made life easier, and some games in case there were periods of boredom. She zipped up the bag, threw the laptop bag containing Frankie and his accessories over her shoulder, then left the bedroom, dragging the heavier-than-anticipated bag behind her.
Dorian lay on the couch, head on the left arm, feet propped up on the right, left hand holding a cigarette, right hand tapping out something on his phone.
‘Got everything you need?’ he asked, not looking up from his phone. ‘If there’s anything more you need, we’ve probably got it already, or we can get the car to bring you back.’
‘I really don’t need that much.’
He slipped the phone into his pocket, stood, and reached for the overnight bag. He tugged it from her hand even while she protested. ‘Let me be a gentleman, Spyder,’ he said as he lifted it.
She grabbed her wallet as she walked past the entryway table, slipped it into her pocket, and pulled the door closed as she followed him. They walked past the adjacent flats, then down the wide internal staircase to the open lobby. The building had once been a hotel, catering to short stays, but the owner had tired of the upkeep and just taken on long-term occupants, charging a small fraction of what the size of the flats and the location warranted.
Mister Jenkins – who always insisted on the “mister” part and had no first name so far as she knew, had the only ground floor flat, the door of which was open as usual and blaring noises from his television, usually shows from the eighties.
If Dorian’s arrival were a case of the worst of stories, then at least he would not have any problem renting the flat, and the sale of the computer equipment would more than cover the cleaning costs. The cost of fighting the rampaging laundry, however, would probably be out-of-pocket on his part.
Dorian pushed open the door, and she stepped out onto the street, the light nearly blinding her. She cursed the sun, natural enemy, to hacker and geek alike, and blinked until her eyes adjusted. The temporary blindness served one purpose though: It informed her that she was indeed in reality. Terrible, bright, sleep-deprived reality.
The chauffeur of the dark blue town car stepped forwards and took the bag from Dorian, then held out a hand for her laptop bag. She slid it from her shoulder and watched him pack them gently in the boot. The driver opened the door, and Dorian slid in first, then offered a hand to her.
You are allowed to turn back.
I think I’m going to find out if it’s a worst of stories first.
By then it’ll be too late.
She joined Dorian and pulled the door shut so that the chauffeur had one less menial task to do. She put on her seatbelt as the driver climbed into the car, raising the tinted privacy window.
Dorian laid the folder on her lap and pulled his phone from his pocket again. ‘This is only casual business,’ he said as he gave the phone a slight shake. The car pulled off and into traffic. ‘I’m interested as to your first impressions.’
She pulled out the page she had scribbled all over. ‘It’s not a language I’ve seen before. Some of this almost looks familiar, but it doesn’t do what I’d expect, so I think that’s a coincidence unless coincidences don’t exist, in which case it’s just a thing. Other bits, like here’ – she stabbed a finger at the sheet of paper – ‘that’s just…nothing. I have no idea what that bit is doing there. Or that. Or that.’
‘Have fun,’ he said as he looked down at his phone.
She swallowed. ‘I think I have to ask the obvious question of what your stake in all this is.’
‘I’m doing this for the story.’ He caught her expression. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Spyder. I don’t mean it in the way you think. Not a report. Not a news story. Nothing so…tabloid. Literally, for the story. So many lives these days are pedestrian, carbon copies and attempts at copies, emulation, and cliché. The want to be a picture in a magazine. It sickens me.’ He stared at her. ‘It’s a rare chance to be a part of something truly worthwhile. That’s what I get out of this. And I know the financier; I’m doing this as a favour to him.’
She gave him another shrug and went back to the pages of code, scribbling notes in the margins and circling the lines of code that boggled her the most.
Five pages of annotated code later, the car stopped. ‘We’re here,’ Dorian said.
She rolled down the window and stared out at a mansion. The large iron gate rolled open without a sound, and they drove up the circular driveway, giving her barely enough time to take in the grounds and the outlying regions of the huge property.
The driver opened her door, and she stuffed all of the loose printouts back into the folder and stepped out. The mansion rose up in front of her, old – but not too old – and immaculately kept – no chips in the brickwork and no faded paint. The boring kind of big, old house. Big, old houses were only interesting when they contained dust, must, ghosts, secrets, and mysteries that could be solved on a rainy afternoon.
‘The others are on the second floor,’ Dorian said as the heavy front door was pulled open for them. ‘You should have no need of the first floor, as all meals are brought up. If you need something at a non-designated meal time, there should be refreshments lying around, or you can call down to the kitchen.’ He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘And stay off the third floor.’
She gave him a deadpan look. ‘Why, is there a rose in a glass case?’
‘Close,’ he said with a smile. ‘Antique items that we’d rather not have any more exposure than necessary. That and your financier stays up there. He’s a very private man, and he’s rather unwell, so he’d prefer not to be bothered. ’
‘Yeah, okay. I can deal with that.’
‘The others will introduce themselves,’ he said. ‘Some are choosing to operate under pseudonyms adopted especially for this project. You can, too. That’s your prerogative, though I don’t think you have enough of a reputation to tarnish should you fail.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was halfway up the stairs before she could think of anything witty to say. ‘You’re in room five,’ he said. ‘Up this way, Spyder.’
Black-and-white photos stared at her from silver frames, but there was no time to focus on them as he urged her up the stairs. The room was small – barely enough room for the single bed, wardrobe, and desk – but it was a comfortable kind of small.
She lifted her laptop bag from the floor as Dorian handed her the key.
‘All the rooms look pretty much the same, so be careful you don’t fall asleep in the wrong bed.’
She shrugged.
‘I’ll have everything brought to you, printout and digital copy; there’s stationery in the desk; dinner is at seven. Is there anything else you need?’
‘Coffee,’ she said as she turned Frankie on, the fans whirring to life. ‘Lots of it. Something for a headache. Something to eat – nothing heavy, though.’
‘It’ll be sent up in a little while. For what it’s worth, good luck.’
She gave him a little smile, locked the door after he left, then sat on the bed and stared across at Frankie as the desktop loaded.
Two minutes – two minutes, then I’ll get back up and deal with this.
You really don’t need to bother lying to me.
She put her head on the pillow.
Fine. A subjective two minutes then.
She yawned, closed her eyes, and let sleep finally win.
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