Authors: Liz Jensen
– Don’t worry, he smiled down at her. He’s white-collar.
– But I, Hannah began. Then stopped. It was pointless. He knew her problem but he was ignoring it – no, worse, he was rubbing salt in it. Or rather, the Boss was. Via him. Odd the way more and more she confused the two of them.
Then with no warning, he touched her on the cheek.
– I told you there was people-work involved, he said slowly.
A shudder ran from her face directly down to her groin,
where it settled, burning. – Relax, Pike murmured. He’s just a man. He won’t rape you.
– I have Crabbe’s Block, she found herself saying aloud, as she glanced in the mirror in the toilet where she’d gone to splash water on her face. Its pale oval, framed by wisps of thin, almost translucent hair, looked ghost-like.
A social handicap
rather than a mental one, Dr Crabbe had said. The place where Pike had touched her still burned.
She had always wondered what sex might be like. She had a sort of idea. As a child, she had paid close attention to the diagrams, though they horrified her. In the bad old days, when everyone had a car, the way you filled it with fuel seemed similar. Channel-surfing, she’d flipped past bits of soft porn – she’d never stayed to watch a whole scene. It had always aroused and appalled her at the same time.
– It’s a social handicap, rather than a mental one, she told her reflection. And watched it blush back. Work would fix things. Didn’t it always?
She began on the Family Project methodically, by skimming through global case studies and reports on Multiple Personality Disorder, but she found little about proxies that didn’t fit into a voices-in-the-head model. The further she hunted, the more she became aware of how rare this man’s pathology must be. Harvey Kidd didn’t believe he
was
all these separate but connected people. No; they lived apart from him, as semi-detached alter egos. They were even, in limited fiscal terms, functioning as individuals. The fraud evidence – which formed the bulk of the data on the discs and in the Libertyforce file – made that clear. But the fragments puzzled her.
My father believed that the Hogg family was real
, ran Tiffany Kidd’s statement.
Ever since I can remember, he spent time alone with them in the Family Room, rather than
with me and my mother. He preferred their company to ours and would often spend a whole night in there, working …
Hannah called up shots of the ‘Family Room’. It could be any home-worker’s office: the jar of pens, the coffee-making equipment, the mini-fridge studded with novelty magnets, the unhealthy but tenacious cheese-plant. There were two desks, an office chair, a sofa, a coffee table, three computer terminals, two telephone/fax machines, several piles of stationery and application forms, and all the accoutrements of electronic paperwork: discs, printers, mouse-pads, stacks of cartridges, a scanner. But then Hannah noticed the walls. They were clad in a bizarre and garish wallpaper featuring bits of a coral reef. Or perhaps, she thought, peering closer, it was a technicolour mould, brought on by damp.
She blew up the images on her screen and drew in her breath.
Not coral. Not mould. The Family Room, from floor to ceiling, was festooned with photographs of people. Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands. But not just any people – the same people. Over and over again.
She enlarged the images further. The family shots were set against an array of backgrounds ranging from the Himalayas to a cobbled back street in what might have been Paris, or Prague. The people seemed to be smiling or laughing, mostly. Over and over again, the same faces – a woman, two men and two teenage children – dotted the walls. Kidd must have scanned in assorted pictures of families from a disc, and graphically doctored them, replacing the heads with –
So here at last were the famous Hoggs.
Hannah bit her tongue in concentration as she selected a section of the wall and blew it up to the maximum. It crossed her mind that bird-spotters might feel this way, when they glimpsed a rare species of tern.
In the family portrait on the screen before her, the one who jumped out at you was the teenage girl, because her
breasts were huge. In some shots they were covered by wafty fabric or peeking out from a
décolleté
neckline, but in others they were bare. They had large dark nipples. The face was pretty and confident, with brash teeth. This must be Lola. Next to her stood the father, Rick – the man Harvey Kidd called ‘Dad’. He had a cardboard handsomeness, but there was weakness in the cheesy smile. He was too young to be the father of anyone Kidd’s age. Behind Rick and Lola stood a woman: Gloria. She was young too; svelte and charismatic-looking. The man standing to Gloria’s left must be Rick’s brother, Uncle Sid. He was more rugged than Rick, less earnest, and you could imagine a roguish, slightly louche side. Cameron stood a little behind, to the left of Gloria. He wasn’t as good-looking as the others, and wore a less classically happy smile. Hannah moved the mouse to view some of the other pictures. Gloria and Lola on a tandem, with tulips in the background. Cameron and Sid wielding drills, in a workshop heaped with wood-shavings. The whole family beaming around a tinselled Christmas tree, a log fire in the background and gifts stacked high. Gloria in a Hawaiian hula-girl outfit. Lola, naked breasts to the fore, riding on a camel in the desert, with the rest of the family, tiny identikitted faces attached seamlessly to the bodies, following behind. As Hannah scrutinised Lola – there was no avoiding those breasts – something tightened inside her. It was unnerving to peer into a stranger’s private world like this. Embarrassingly intimate, like seeing a soul – or a bottom – laid bare.
Harvey Kidd was clearly sick in a unique way.
That night, as she lay in bed, the image of his private Family Room kept coming back to her. It was like a shrine – but not a shrine to the dead. A shrine to people who were, in some very disturbed manner, alive.
But something had grabbed her. When she woke the next morning, her throat was constricted with it.
* * *
She was so engrossed that Leo Hurley had to ring the buzzer twice before Hannah heard. His eyes were still sunk back and depressed, like dim bulbs.
– Got a minute? He was clutching something in his hand: an envelope. Leo closed the door behind him, cleared a space on a chair, and sat.
– You still look ill, said Hannah. It worried her, this new unkempt look of his. It wouldn’t be long before Personnel had a word.
– So who are these? he asked, taking in the family portraits on the screen.
While she told him, Leo focused on Lola’s naked breasts.
– And d’you know why you’ve been asked to do it?
It annoyed Hannah, the way even when he was addressing her, his eyes kept sliding back to Lola. She seemed to mesmerise him.
– No. Well, maybe because I know about proxies and –
– No, I meant, what’s it for, Leo interrupted. What does the Boss need it for? Don’t you ever want to know the outcome of any of these projects? Don’t you – He broke off, exasperated.
– Not really, said Hannah, defensively. Anyway, I’m finding it interesting. I feel I’m beginning to know them as – well, as
people
.
– But you don’t
like
people, Hannah! He said it almost indignantly; for a brief moment, he sounded like Ma. – You
know
you don’t. Didn’t you say it was part of the syndrome you’ve got? The Crabbe’s Block thing?
– Yes, but maybe these people … they’re different. I mean, they’re not
real
, are they.
– No. Leo looked down at the scuffed, grubby suede of his shoes and they sat in silence for a moment. – Look, there’s something I need to ask you, he began, shifting the envelope about in his hands. It’s about what’s going on. The thing I told you at the party. Look, I printed something off. You
don’t need to know what’s in here, but –
– What?
– Just – can you send it out for me? To somewhere on the outside?
Hannah flushed, and reached for a strip of bubble-wrap.
– Where?
– Just somewhere. An address. Any address on the outside.
There was a short silence while this sunk in.
– I wouldn’t be asking you if it wasn’t important.
– But it’s completely off code, she said, flushing. I could be questionnaired! She popped more bubbles frantically. – Anyway, why me?
– Because no one will suspect. Then if something happens to me, he said.
– What?
– If I disappear or something.
– Oh, please, she snapped. That’s just stupid. And, and
melodramatic
. You’re not in some
movie
, you know. How would you disappear? Down a crater, I suppose?
– People do.
– Only on the outside, said Hannah. Only Marginals.
They didn’t count.
– Listen. If you try to find me and I’m not there – I want you to get hold of this envelope again and read what’s in it.
– No. She was surprised at her own anger. – I won’t. Nothing’s going to happen. You’re paranoid. You’re turning into a Munchie.
That was it. Munchhausen’s Syndrome. He needed attention. Libertycare code was succinct. Your first loyalty is to the customer.
Betray the customer, and you’re betraying yourself
.
That night, Hannah lay awake for hours, thinking about the Hogg family, the criminal called Harvey Kidd, and what she should do about Leo. When she finally drifted into a foggy
sleep, she dreamed that Lola Hogg came alive behind the computer screen. She was trapped inside it like a small, pixilated insect. Her pretty teenaged face looked anxious, desperate even. She was waving Leo’s envelope, mouthing silent silver words. Whatever she wanted to say seemed increasingly urgent. Her breasts wobbled as she tried to communicate with Hannah.
– What do you want? Hannah kept asking, as Lola’s breasts became more and more distorted, her gestures more alarming. Lola seemed to be pushing against the computer screen, now, trying to make herself heard. Hannah put her ear close to the glass, and with a sudden clarity, the words came through.
– Let me out! screamed Lola. Why the FUCK don’t you just let me out!
Hannah woke with a jolt, as though a filthy electric shock had passed through her.
What was most unfair about Leo’s visit, she thought, as she tried to wash off the dream under the shower, turning on the jet so hard it stung her, was that he hadn’t given her a chance to say no. He’d just got up and walked out of her office, leaving his brown envelope lying on her table.
It was so thin, she thought, you could tear it up with one swift rip.
The white, blind-windowed skyscraper of Head Office had dominated the Harbourville skyline for as long as I could remember. It was famous. The two silent forcies who’d driven me there whisked me quickly through a maze of glass and bar-coded me into a high crystally dome of sprinkled light, with men and women milling about at floor level. A neon Bird of Liberty shone above, huge and pulsating. I was as familiar with the Bird as any other Atlantican, I guess. I’d never given it a second thought. FREEDOM: THE DREAM THAT CAME TRUE, it said underneath. There were others dotted about the walls, in different colours: SERVING THE CUSTOMER, PUTTING YOU FIRST, GIVE AND TAKE.
At the reception desk, a barrel-shaped guard scanned my paperwork and led me into an elevator, which shot upwards with the force of a rocket, and next thing, we were on the umpteenth floor, treading on milky-green carpeting, past potted ferns and eye-high aquariums of fish with bulgy tumours. It had the same thin atmosphere as the malls I’d go to with Gwynneth, the kind where you could be trapped all day, muzak in the background, hunting for the right thermos or a certain make of lilo, fuelling up at the food court and shoving change into some gonzo experience simulator. We turned a sharp left and the guard nodded me into a large room with a desk and two chairs, which I guess you’d call minimalism because it could’ve done with a carpet.
– Wait there, the guard said, and bowled off.
I stood by the window, trying to fight off the fear of what came next. Harbourville spread far below, glass bits and architecture prinking in the sunlight. The air-crystals were bigger at this height; gritty, flat snowflakes of light. Seeing the trams zigzagging far below like drugged spiders across the web of tracks, I began to connect what I could see with the street map in my head, and inch my eyes towards South District. I’d feel at home if I looked there. I’d feel –
I must have felt her presence because all at once something made me turn.
I’m Hannah Park, she said.
She was small. Maybe thirty, thirty-five. Wispy fairish hair tied up with a rubber band, and her body lost somewhere inside a huge cardigan, which she hugged around her like a sleeping bag. Odd-looking. And those thick glasses – they made her eyes bulge. They weren’t flattering.
She held out a hand.
– Welcome to Head Office, she said, looking away.
We shook hands awkwardly. Hers was small, like a bony little bird, and she pulled it away quickly, as though I might be a sadist who’d enjoy crushing it.
Welcome to Head Office?
I thought. What is this stuff?
– Over twenty-five thousand people work for the Liberty Corporation, she said, still not looking at me and handing me a brochure. It was as though she ran on rails, or had rehearsed what she was going to say to me. – This’ll fill you in, if you have any questions about us.
Questions, about Libertycare? Why would I want to ask questions? They were always telling us stuff about themselves. They had information diarrhoea. So I didn’t look at the brochure, just crammed it in my pocket.
– Let’s sit down, she said, and we pulled out chairs.
– So what is all this? I said, looking round the room. What’s the plan?
She cleared her throat, a small worried noise.
– If you read our brochure, you’ll see that our brief is very clearly laid out. She was still on her rails, no eye contact. – And you’ll be familiar with our mission statement? Now, tea or coffee, er – Harvey? She indicated the vending machine. – Or there’s fruit tea, cup-a-soup, hot or cold Ribena, Frooto, Diet Coke … She stopped, and made a helpless gesture. Our eyes met.