Want You Gone Read online

  ‘What about my exams? What about going to uni?’

  Mum holds out her palms in a display of frustration, indicating her situation.

  ‘I don’t know if you noticed, but circumstances have changed.’

  This is Mum all over. She acts like this is something that simply happened, and happened to her rather than something she brought upon herself.

  ‘If you want it so badly, you’ll make it work. Change your application to somewhere in London, find a part-time job. Plenty of other students manage.’

  ‘And I could too, but not if I have to be there for Lilly. Dropping her off every morning, picking her up every afternoon, staying around the house all the time she’s home.’

  ‘Welcome to my life, before this happened. You don’t think I could have spread my wings if I didn’t have Lilly to think about?’

  Well, no, I don’t say. You definitely didn’t spread them very far all the times you had me looking after her, running to get to school on time after I dropped Lilly at hers, sprinting again to be there for her at the end of the day. Those wings never seemed to take you past your dealer’s house, and half the time they never lifted you from the sofa.

  The hardest part is that I remember my mum being someone different, someone who was always in control. She was never passive, feeling sorry for herself and acting like a victim. She was full of energy and ideas, looking for every angle she could play.

  That was before Dad died, though. Everything turned to shit after that.

  ‘You’re her mother.’

  ‘And you’re her sister.’

  ‘It’s not the same. I’m nineteen.’

  ‘What, and I’ve had my time, is that what you’re saying? I can’t believe you sometimes, Samantha. You’re so selfish. What would Lilly think if she heard you talk about looking after her like this, as though you want rid of her.’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘It’s what I’m hearing.’

  I look down at the manky, fag-burned table. I can feel Mum’s glare burning into me. I am cowed, defeated.

  How did it come to this, that I could sit here and be guilt-tripped by the person who fucked everything up?

  ‘I’m just saying, this is all falling on me, Mum, and it’s a lot to handle. They’re sending someone to do an assessment.’

  Mum stiffens.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Social services. They need to check out the situation, make sure Lilly’s being looked after properly.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t she be?’

  ‘If we can’t make the rent and I’ve no Carer’s Allowance and her mum’s in jail and I’m struggling to put food on the table, they might not view that as an ideal situation.’

  ‘And that would suit you, wouldn’t it? That’s what you want. If they took her away.’

  ‘No, I’m only—’

  ‘You’ve always acted as if she was a burden, as if you wanted rid of her, and now you’ve got your chance. Is that what you came in here to tell me? Is that why you didn’t bring her, so she didn’t have to hear you say it?’

  I can feel myself start to cry: the swelling in my throat, the trembling of my lip. The idea of Lilly ending up in care is horrifying, the furthest thing from what I want. But it is the thought of Lilly hearing that I don’t want her around that is really slaying me.

  It isn’t true, but it isn’t entirely untrue either. How do you make someone like Lilly understand that you want to have a grown-up life?

  ‘That’s not—’

  ‘I didn’t want this for you. I wanted you to have every chance, Sam. But I can’t help the fact I’m stuck in here.’

  No, Mum, I don’t say. You can’t help it now, but you could have helped it when you made the choices that saw you end up in this place. Instead you’re framing it, like you frame everything, as part of the ongoing martyrdom of Saint Ruth.

  ‘You got to promise you won’t let them take her, Sam. I couldn’t handle that, after everything that’s happened to me. It would be the end. I grew up in those places. I know what they’re like. Promise me, Sam. You have to promise me.’

  I wipe my nose and my eyes with the sleeve of my jumper.

  ‘I promise.’

  THE LAST TO KNOW

  Parlabane rings the doorbell a second time, hearing music from inside but as yet no sound of footsteps, no cry of ‘Be right with you’. He has been blowing around London like an empty crisp poke, and now he’s stranded on a stranger’s doorstep, quite probably until the song ends and a third ring stands a better chance of being heard.

  He is staying – or intending to stay – at his friend Mairi’s place in Hoxton. She is out of the country but she told him he was free to crash there when they spoke on Skype yesterday. She said he could pick up the keys from her next-door neighbour, though he wouldn’t be home until the evening.

  After his brunch in Shoreditch, Parlabane really wanted to head all the way home to Edinburgh but he didn’t have any return travel booked. He had told himself this was to keep his options open: maybe look up a few people, refresh some old contacts socially and professionally. But the embarrassing truth – one that fortunately he doesn’t have to admit to anyone else – is that he had actually been hoping Broadwave would offer him a job on the spot, so that if they asked when he could start, he would be able to answer: ‘Right away.’

  Jesus, whit a riddie.

  He recalls the polite smiles, the sterile ‘We’ll be in touch’, an assurance as valuable as ‘We’ll keep your details on file’.

  Concerned that the music might be a DJ mix with no gaps, he gives the door a few firm thumps: not quite polis strength, as he doesn’t want to be rude, but voluble enough. It works.

  All Mairi told Parlabane about her neighbour is his name and that he works as a make-up artist. The door is opened by a tall, attractive and flamboyantly camp man with Latin features and a Hispanic accent. He initially regards his visitor with surprise and suspicion, but before Parlabane can say anything, his face flashes with realisation and he smiles.

  ‘Are you Jack?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is you been standing there long? I’m so sorry. I been cooking, and with the extractor fan and the music . . . Come on in. You want some chicken?’

  ‘Oh, no, no. I don’t want to impose. I just need the keys . . .’

  ‘Come on in, it’s nothing. I made too much anyways. It’s the marinade: I can’t get the quantities right if I do like a reduced batch, so I end up making a ton and I’m eating it for days. Come on, if I got company I got an excuse to make caipirinhas.’

  Parlabane is feeling about as sociable as a jihadi in a synagogue. He wants to go next door and pull a quilt over his head, but this guy is doing him a favour as well as extending his courtesy, so he ought to be polite. Besides, a drink sounds pretty good right now.

  ‘That would be most welcome. You’re very kind. Han, isn’t it?’

  Han leads him into the flat, its layout a mirror image of Mairi’s, though it doesn’t seem as cramped and tiny due to being less chaotically cluttered. Parlabane would confess he was expecting décor tending towards the fabulous, but instead he finds himself in something of a geek cave; though undeniably a tastefully curated geek cave. There are models and figurines on glass shelves, several autographed movie stills framed on the walls. Upon closer inspection he sees that they are not commercial prints but on-set photographs.

  Parlabane thought Han worked in a salon. Mairi neglected to specify that he was a visual effects make-up artist.

  ‘Alejandro,’ he explains. ‘Han for short. Who doesn’t wanna be Han?’ he adds, nodding towards a classic Star Wars poster.

  Parlabane follows him to the minute kitchen, but waits in the doorway as there is barely enough room for two people to stand in there. The chicken smells great. Han mixes him a drink.

  ‘How long you known Mairi? You guys worked together? You in the music biz too?’

  ‘I’ve known her about thir
ty years, though with a gap of about fifteen without seeing her. She was my friend’s little sister once upon a time.’

  Han pauses as he is about to take a mouthful from his caipirinha.

  ‘Oh, wait. I know who you are. You’re the guy, you’re the journalist.’

  Han’s eyes bulge with enthusiasm, simultaneously delighted and impressed. Unfortunately it only reminds Parlabane of Lee Williams’ fangirling this morning. He doesn’t feel like he’s ‘the journalist’ today. He certainly doesn’t feel like ‘the guy’.

  ‘She told me all about you. Well, she told me what she was allowed to, because I know there was some NDA shit went down that nobody’s supposed to know. But whatever you did, you were her hero, man. Oh, yeah, she likes you.’

  Parlabane can’t help a bashful smile. There is something irresistibly warm and endearing about Han; perhaps it’s that he is so unselfconscious, albeit bordering on indiscreet. He makes Parlabane feel a little bit gay; or at least makes him flirt briefly with wishing that he was. Would it all have worked out better for him that way, he wonders.

  When he spoke to Mairi yesterday, he couldn’t help but feel there was a weird vibe between them; not awkwardness, but not as comfortable as it was before. She was friendly enough – she had offered him the use of her flat, for God’s sake – but there was a strange sense of her keeping her distance. It was almost like he had recently made a move and she’d said no, and this was their first time talking since.

  Maybe this is how it goes, he told himself. He had his chance back in Berlin, but chose not to take it, partly because he felt responsible for her at the time, but mainly because he was still in denial over the terminal state of his marriage. He had suggested they see if they still felt the same after she returned from accompanying Savage Earth Heart, the band she managed, on tour. It was a mature and rational decision, and had reaped the rewards it deserved. Whoever said love worked out for them because they had been rational and mature?

  ‘She told me she really thought something was gonna happen there,’ Han goes on. ‘But then you friend-zoned her.’

  He gives Parlabane a curious look: part scrutiny, part admonishment.

  ‘We had been through some scary stuff. People sometimes get confused about their feelings at times like that. Plus I knew she was going to be jetting off all over the globe for months at a time. All in all, it seemed the . . . sensible thing.’

  Han nods like he understands, though he may not agree with Parlabane’s choices.

  ‘She’s off travelling again,’ continues Parlabane. ‘She’ll be gone for weeks. Australia and New Zealand, then twenty more dates in the US. Apart from Skype calls, I haven’t seen her in months.’

  ‘Oh, I hear you. I ain’t hardly seen her much either, though they was back for a couple days last week.’

  ‘They?’

  Parlabane feels something tighten inside him. If he was previously unsure whether he really did have feelings for Mairi, then the verdict just came in.

  ‘Yeah. Her and, you know, ah, what’s his name, yeah, like in that movie about the devil kid.’

  Parlabane takes a gulp of the caipirinha. He needs to swallow so that he can deal with the lump in his throat. He also needs the alcohol.

  ‘Damien?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. He’s the guitarist, right? Got that whole broody dark thing going on? Handsome, sure. I like that little bass player, though. He cute.’

  Parlabane needs another gulp.

  ‘She was with Damien? Like with with Damien?’

  ‘What, she didn’t say nothing?’

  ‘No, but it’s, you know, her business.’

  ‘Shit, though, maybe she keeping it quiet because he’s in the band. Guess I shouldn’t be telling you, then, if you’re a journalist. You’re a friend though, so you ain’t gonna blab. Plus if she wanted to keep it quiet, she should have kept it quiet, if you know what I’m saying. Walls in this place are paper-thin. Or come to think, maybe she never said nothing because it’s a new thing; they was certainly going at it like when it’s a new thing.’

  Parlabane is still standing in the kitchen doorway, a few feet from Han, but he suddenly feels like he is a thousand miles distant. They are in the same place but not in the same moment. The one mercy is that Han doesn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Gonna be an issue if they’re on tour, you’d think. I mean, if he’s in the band and she’s the manager, there could be problems ahead. I guess he’s not so sensible, though.’

  Ouch.

  ‘Anyway, Mairi said you were in town for an interview. How’d that go?’

  HIGH JINKS AND EXPLOITS

  This is mission control for #bankjob. Everybody good to go?

  I am already hard.

  Package is prepped.

  So we’re really doing this?

  No, we’re running Bank Hack Simulator. It’s on Steam Greenlight if you want to grab yourself a copy. WTF. Yes we’re really doing this. You pussing out?

  I’m good to go. Just thought this might be a good time for everybody to take a moment to consider what we’re about to get into here. We’re talking about a bank.

  These RSGN skrubs are a bank? I thought they were a farming collective. Buzzkill, why didn’t you tell us this?

  I’m just making sure everybody understands that this is a new line we’re crossing. We should savour it, but we should also be under no illusions about how deep the shit is here. This will be big. They’ll be bitching about stock prices dropping tomorrow, the knock-on effect in the markets, all that shit. And they will come after us for this, like we never saw before.

  I sure hope so. I’m shorting RSGN shares.

  Internets is serious business.

  Jeez, Buzzkill, that meme is almost as old as you’ll be by the time you get out of prison.

  So you are pussing out.

  It’s an inevitability that one day someone is gonna go Sabu on us and sell us out to the Feds. My money has always been on Stone.

  Damn right. I’m compiling logs on all you motherfuckers. But it would blow my cover if I pussed out of a big op like this, so fuck it, I’m in.

  Buzzkill feels relief reading this, but is kind of annoyed at Stonefish. Why is he making such a big deal over that fact that it’s a bank? It’s just another hack. They’re breaking the same bullshit laws and they’re not hurting anybody. All they’re doing is what they always do: messing with some smug ass-clowns who have seriously got it coming.

  It’s no mystery why he’s antsy, though. Nobody could blame him for that. They’re all nervous. That’s part of the buzz. This is when it gets crazy.

  The weird thing is that technically the hacking is already done. Buzzkill has been up in those servers for days – they all have – since that nice Mr Rockwood whose golf game got interrupted was kind enough to tell Les from IT his password. (Rockwood changed it first thing Monday morning, sensible chap, but by then Buzzkill had already created a ghost account in the system, cloning his access privileges, then shared the login details with the Uninvited crew.)

  There is a crucial difference between penetrating a system and announcing to the world that you’ve done it. It’s kind of a ‘no harm, no foul’ deal, as the whole point is that nobody knows any crime has been committed. In fact, it’s a whole other thrill to go snooping around servers and networks undetected. Buzzkill once read an online interview with Ferox, a legendary hacker from the early days of the internet, in which he admitted that the companies he was known to have penetrated back then were only the tip of the iceberg.

  Buzzkill has had secret logins to certain places for years, and some nights goes back simply for the sake of nostalgia. LulzSec and Anonymous sat on some of their hacks for months, even years. In certain cases it was a question of waiting for the right time to go public; in others it was about patiently watching to see what else an exploit might open up if
they waited for developments; and in still other instances they simply decided, for whatever reason, not to act.

  LulzSec got inside the NHS’s computer system, for example. They quietly sent an email to the network administrators telling them about the vulnerability they had discovered. They said: ‘We mean you no harm and only want to help you fix your tech issues.’

  When you do go public and hit a site, you know you’re probably cashing in your access privileges, but it’s always worth it for the rush.

  So if everybody is lubed up, let’s crime.

  Steady. Tote board is light. Cicatrix, you in or you out?

  Cicatrix? Hello? Paging Cicatrix, come in, over?

  Maybe had to go pee-pee.

  *Buzzkill taps microphone.

  Is this thing on? Cicatrix? You there? Got a major hacking operation about to kick off here. That ring any bells?

  Shit. Sorry. Having issues with my VPN.

  Having issues with a VPL? If you’re worried about a visible panty line, go commando girl.

  Just watch out for those upskirt paparazzi shots.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. No joke. I’m gonna have to bail on this one.

  That blows. You sure you can’t get it fixed?

  What do you think I’ve been doing the past three hours? I can’t risk it.

  Not when we’re hitting a bank.

  What about your files? We need that shit.

  I’ll fire them over to Juice. He knows how to run the install.

  Okay.

  Sorry Buzzkill.

  Shit happens.

  Buzzkill feels for Cicatrix, and is pissed off that they will have to do this without his talents. He has put a lot of effort into this, but he is right not to suit up if he has issues with his VPN. A virtual private network is to a hacker what a mask is to a bank robber. It’s how they hide their locations and prevent their activities from being traced.

  Anonymity is the most valuable currency in the game, and is not to be given up cheaply. They try very hard not to give away personal details, and troll each other if there is ever a hint that they have slipped up. Some hackers even try to cloud their geographic locations, avoiding coming online around the same regular schedule, or deliberately showing up during hours that might be assumed to indicate another time zone. To Buzzkill, online time is too precious to be going dark for the sake of concealing a longitude shared by like fifty million people. That said, talking openly about living in London deliberately dangles the possibility of a double bluff.