Martin’s house
was turquoise. His dad had said he
would get round to painting it as soon as they’d settled in but hadn’t. That was four years ago. They’d got used to it anyway, to the
point where Martin couldn’t image living in something that wasn’t turquoise. And it stood out well, which was handy
when giving directions to visiting clients.
He parked his
car at the back of the house along side the mouse pens and went in through the
back door. His pigeon hole
contained the usual stack of hastily scribbled fault registration sheets and PC
magazines. He thumbed briefly
through the sheets before tucking them under his arm and heading for the
stairs. The stained glass window
half way up radiated a rainbow of water-coloured smudges across the wood chip
walls.
“Is that you
Martin?” called his father from the kitchen.
“Yes.”
“Watch out for
Patrick on the stairs.”
Martin had
already found Patrick and was in the process of maneuvering round the
gray-green reptile that seemed to have become inexorably tangled in the
banisters.
“I’m letting
him have a run around before I feed him.”
Martin squeezed
his eyes tightly shut as he felt the dry sandpaper skin of the aging snake
against his neck. The lizards and
frogs were okay. It was the snakes
he couldn’t stand. The way they
writhed and wove themselves around the white banisters like an
intestine-tangled rib cage.
They knew he didn’t like them, which was why they always seemed to be in
his way, tripping him on the stairs or piling up against his office door in a
knot of serpentine muscle to stop him escaping. He’d had to go to work through his window on several
occasions.
Patrick was the
biggest of the snakes and always seemed to be by himself. He was the one Martin was least afraid
of because you always knew where he was, unlike the others who regularly stowed
away in his sock drawer, or flopped onto him from the top shelf of the airing
cupboard. And when it came to
slithering items, the ones that were too big to get up your trouser leg, down
your neck or generally invade through any other available orifice were always
preferred.
“I’ll bring
your tea up if you want to get started,” called his father. He could hear the sound of cutlery
being deposited onto his favourite tray for its trip upstairs.
“Okay.”
A gheko hurried
across the ceiling and into the shadows as he approached his bedroom door. He reached for the handle and
hesitated:
“Where’s the
comodo?” he called downstairs.
“In the bath
the last time I looked.”
That was okay
then. The previous night he’d had
to put up with the thing staring down at him from the top of his wardrobe, its
tongue licking the dry dead air rising from his PC. No wonder he’d found it so hard to concentrate on his games. What with that and Debbie.
But tonight,
something new had crowded into his head all but obscuring the lustful yearnings
of the previous evening. Today in
the branch he’d caught a glimpse of the full picture. Now, more than ever before, he got the sense that he was
living in his own past tense. The
tedious days in the branch and long nights staring at his PC monitor served no
purpose other than to hold off the future until he was ready for it. Or, perhaps, until it was ready for
him. Now he knew who he was going
to be
as well as who he was going to be with.
“There’s
nothing you guys do that we are not going to get into,” he said into the oval
mirror hanging above his fireplace.
He fixed himself with the most piercing stare he could muster. “Spit in the street, guess who
you’re gonna hit?”
Angling his
head slightly from side to side he gave himself a detailed, if laterally
inverted, guided tour of his room; the ironing board with the pile of hankies,
the sink in the corner with the union jack hung above (wouldn’t one of those
Dukes of Hazard red crosses with white stars look better there?), the padlocked
box with the portable TV inside, the card table with the R2-D2 salt and pepper
and tube of pringles, the Michael Jackson poster and, of course, in the middle
of the room, facing his mother’s favourite armchair, the PC. Tearing himself away from himself he
looked down to his hi-fi enthroned in the fireplace, complete with dancing
flower and a free-standing CD rack containing the complete output of Dire
Straits and the youngest Jackson.
“Cool”.
Would his room look much
different? Doubt it. Perhaps the odd baseball bat and a
scattering of those delicious-looking takeaway food cartons. And, of course, a very big fridge
containing an infinite number of chilled bears and scrummy chicken leftovers. Where did they come from? You never saw them cooking enough to
meet their immediate nutritional needs, never mind produce enough extra to keep
them in midnight feasts for months to come. Oh and his computer would probably be bigger and better as
well. And louder. And it would be clean. Very clean. And there would probably be two seats at the card table
instead of just one. And Debbie
would be sat in the other one, leaning across to him with chopsticks in her
hand and a dreamy look in her eyes.
And the chopsticks would drop away as their lips touched. And as they pushed their seats back and
stood up grappling roughly with each other’s clothing the camera would swing
away coyly to the window and the larger-than-life moon suspended outside. The sound of the card table falling
over and at least one R2-D2 rolling onto the hearth (careful!). Where’s the bed? asks Debbie. No she doesn’t. Surely he would have a very big bed at hand to go
with his very big fridge…
Enough. Time for revenge. Slipping a Ferrari Team baseball cap on
he flopped into the armchair and switched on the computer. It was getting dark outside and the room
was lit only by the watery luminance of his computer monitor as he counted out
fifteen Cream Cheese and Chive Pringles.
“Going for the
world record,” he said, exhaling though his teeth to produce a sound roughly
equivalent to a stadium full of cheering people. “Yes!” He
stuffed them into his mouth and then fed the computer a CD.
F1 Challenge
Mode:
professional
Hardness:
very
Lives:
one
Second
Chances: none
Hovering above the starting line he revved
his engine gratuitously. As he
lived, so would he die. In a world
of his own with his mouth stuffed full of Pringles.
Swooping down into cockpit view he observed
the line of slightly pixilated dancing women by the side of the track. Especially the one with the blue suit
with ‘Pirelli’ who looked like Debbie.
“Grieve not for me Quark Maiden. For today I shall meet mine end…”
Engines roaring. Heart pounding.
Fingers twitching. Five
greens and they’re off. A
spectacularly good start for the new Ferrari driver - ahead of the field by the
first corner, a spectacularly timed downward gear shift and perfect line
through the first bend then up to 200 mph for the long straight and into the
forest. Trees piled up ahead and
around like quivering jelly cubes, the cars buzzing between them like demonic
hornets.
This was more like it. Give him pit stops not pensions. Forget rubber stamps. Give him rubber skid marks across
seared tarmac. Give him Moet
& Chandon on the podium, not decaf in the staff room. This was living. Was
living.
As he lived so would he die. Horribly.
Easing his foot off the gas he could almost
feel his safety harness bite into his ribs as he slowed from 200 mph to a crawl
in a matter of seconds. The other
cars flashed past, taking millions of ogling eyeballs with them into the virtual
distance. And he stopped, engine
idling, quiet. Ever so slowly he
turned the car, reversing back into the sand. Then he urged it forward like a splayed falcon taking
flight, quickly gathering speed as he raced back towards the starting line.
I’m Martin Crossley. You don’t know about me, we haven’t
met. I don’t have a private jet or
a garage full of super cars. I
also don’t have a breathtakingly perfect girlfriend - at the moment but -
unfortunately for you, I do have a pirated copy of F1’96 and the best graphics
card currently available. But when
we do meet, you’re not going to
forget me in a hurry. There’s
nothing like the sharp end of a Formula 1 car entering your helmet at 400 mph
to leave a lasting impression.
That’ll wipe the pearly smile off your face.
He entered the main stand at a moderate 120
mph and was greeted by an uproarious welcome from the crowd.
Hope you said goodbye to your
breathtakingly perfect girlfriend before the race. Dangerous having one of those with maniacs like me on the
road. Looks like we’re going to
see some smudged mascara and dark sunglasses pretty soon, doesn’t it guys. But don’t worry, it won’t last long. She only wanted you for your
money. She’s already eyeing up
that guy second from the left with the quiff who doesn’t say much but looks
great in a pair of leather pants.
And anyway, F1’s meant to be
dangerous. If a couple of you
weren’t shredded every year you’d end up sucking every penny out of the planet
leaving the rest of us with fuck all – or even more fuck all than we’ve already got.
Perfect timing. Schumacher was the first to hit, bouncing over his car like
an inflatable tuna fish.
That surprised you - team mate!
Then Coulthard, then Irvine, Hakkarnen and
Hill. Martin was shunted
back into the stand wall as the remaining cars streamed past. And it was over. Sporting legend had been made that
night. The most spectacular and
carefully positioned carve up in F1 history that go-carters would talk about
for years to come.
But they didn’t even stop the race. And Schumacher was back in. In second place already. As he lived, so would he die. Unsuccessfully. Might as well catch up with the back
markers and try and knock them off…
As his father entered the room Martin stood
up in an attempt to hide what was on the screen from him.
“Hi dad. Had a good day?
Just getting ready to start…”
His father stood with his back to Martin,
held the tray a few inches above the table and let it drop. Martin stood perfectly still in the
silence that followed the crash.
His father turned.
“Hey son, relax. Why you so worried.
It’s just me – I’ve brought your tea up. It’s your favourite.”
“Thanks dad.” He still didn’t move, but watched his father’s every move as
though he were a venomous cobra about to strike.
“Scampi snacks,” his father said. He didn’t take the cutlery off the
tray.
“Do you know what I’m thinking Martin?”
“No dad.” Martin searched his fathers eyes for a trace of something he
hadn’t seen since his mother left.
It wasn’t there. He knew
exactly what his father was thinking.
“I’m thinking how odd it is that you
haven’t started working on those test sheets yet. Isn’t that odd?”
“Yes dad. I wanted to check a piece of functionality in F1 – I thought
that might help.”
“Okay, I see that’s fine. Mind if I take a look?”
“I don’t think there’s any need…”
His father leant over and took the
mouse. He clicked on the ‘Replay’
button. From a helicopter view
point they both stood and watched a red Ferrari take off from the starting line
and power away from the rest of the cars, before unexpectedly stopping, turning
round and heading back to the stadium.
The roar of the crowd competed with the heavy rock sound as the car
entered the stadium, maneuvered into the middle of the track and slowed.
“What exactly is it you’ve been checking
then? You been checking what
happens when an ill-disciplined psycho starts acting like a twat instead of
getting on with his work. Is that
what you’ve been checking?”
“Yes dad.” Schumacher appeared and ploughed into the now-stationery
racing car.
“Well I’ll tell you what happens. What happens is jobs don’t get
finished, clients get pissed off and we go out of business. Then it’s no more fuckin’ scampi snacks. And we all get hungry – including the
fellas. And you know what they’re
like when they get hungry.”
It was the last time the snakes got hungry
that Martin vowed never to sleep in his bedroom again and dismantled his bed.
“So what I suggest you do is stop fuckin’
about and face up to your responsibilities. I get the jobs, you code ‘em. You know how lucky you are to be doing this – on equipment
this good – instead of spending all night down a mine or in a factory. Adel’s son next door lays fuckin’
railway lines all night in the freezing fuckin’ cold – for a few quid a
week. Does that sound more up your
street?”
No.
He wanted to be the guy who decided where to lay them. That was where the skill lay.
“No.”
His father suddenly came off the boil. “I know this is a tough one son,
but we’re nearly done. A few more weeks
and we’ll be ready for Beta testing – then you can have a weekend off while
it’s at the labs.”
He took the cutlery off the tray. Martin relaxed a little, as his father
put his arm round his shoulder, eased him into the armchair and positioned
himself beside him on the arm. He
picked up the F1 CD case.
“This any good?”
“Yes.
I think there’s a lot I can learn from it. I’ve been looking at the auto-replay functionality and also
some of the view point options are quite good…”
“Good, good. I’m glad you’re taking the time to look at other people’s
work. It’s the only way of
developing yourself. I’ll tell you
want I’ll do. I’ll get you a copy
of F1 2000.”
“You’re joking me dad. Brilliant! But that’s not out yet for years is it?”
“I’ve got a contact who can put a beta copy
our way, don’t worry about that.
You heard about that game yet?”
“No, Gaming Universe previewed F1’96 the
other week. Supposed to be dead
realistic – with real blood and proper explosions. I think they said it goes into standby every time you crash
for as long as it would take you to recover – I bet you can get round it…”
“Let me tell you about F1 2000 – The
Ultimate Racing Experience they call it.”
“Nice one dad.”
“Idios
– who are producing it – have set up a support desk manned by a few old
mates of mine from the Service. A
real bunch of mean bastards – toughest there is. Anyway, if you act like a pillock and run it into something
then they’re automatically sent a unique injury ID – you’re very own – and
they’ll come round and dish out the very same injury that you would have got
from the crash. Take your arm off,
break your jaw, burn your hair off – what ever. Brilliant, eh?
And you get as many goes as you like.”
“H-how do they know what you’ve done? I mean…what they need to do to you?”
“Telephone.”
“What, you ring them up? You could lie. Or not ring them at all.”
“No, it’s not you that rings – it’s your
PC. That won’t lie. It doesn’t give a toss about you.”
“Jesus.”
“Precisely. So would you like me to get you one of those instead
then? Instead of this fuckin’
pansy fodder? Something that’ll
make you fuckin’ face up to fuckin’ reality? Eh?”
“No thanks dad. I think I’ll keep off those games for a bit. Just concentrate on Quark Maiden.”
“Too fuckin’ right you will.”
He stood and put the cutlery back on the
tray. “Too fuckin’ right you
will.” He emptied out five
Pringles onto the table and put the tube next to the cutlery.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” He took up
the tray and left the room, locking the door behind him.
Martin turned back to his screen. PC’s that could use the phone. Cool.