Читать книгу It’s Not Me, It’s You - Mhairi McFarlane, Mhairi McFarlane - Страница 20

‘We’ve had a major security breach and this Peshwari Naan pest has ratcheted up to Threat Level: Amber,’ Roger barked at Delia, causing everyone to look at them both, obviously wondering how words in their native language could be strung together to form something so incomprehensible. ‘There have been some developments.’

Delia looked at him blankly.

‘Are you, or are you not meant to be updating and monitoring our Twitter feed?’

‘Yes,’ she said, bewildered.

‘When did you last tweet?’

‘Erm, an hour or so ago?’

‘Then log on to our account,’ Roger said, leaning over Delia and heavy-breathing decaf Caffe Hag down the neckline of her sweater. He adopted the hand-on-hip lean-in pose, with the self-importance of a security spook briefing the POTUS at a COBRA meeting.

Delia obliged, feeling a significant prickle of fear. Should she mention the Naan emails yet?

She brought up the council’s timeline and instantly clenched her jaw to keep the muscles in her neck from spasming in laughter.

It was full of fake tweets.

Comrades! It’s Awards Season Again! Please nominate in the following categories …

Ugliest Planning Decision

Most Harrowing Public Toilet Experience

Hottest Councillor

Best Dogging Spot

Delia said: ‘Oh dear,’ and cleared her throat. Do not laugh, do not laugh …

‘You hadn’t seen this?’

‘Of course not!’ Delia said, hastily moving to the Edit Account Settings section. ‘I’ll change the password right now.’

‘We’ve been hacked?’ Roger said, pushing his science teacher glasses up his nose.

No. I thought it might be fun to pretend the council has an award for Most Specific Graffiti.

‘How do we know it’s Peshwari Naan?’ Delia said.

‘Same M.O.’ Roger took the mouse from Delia and scrolled down the page. ‘The fictionalised quotes.’

Coun. Janet Walworth said: ‘The awards are a chance for you to tell us which of our policies really twat you off.’

‘This has never happened before. That password change may hold him off for now but in light of this, I wonder how many vulnerabilities the system has. I will put our I.T. team on it. Now, please take a look at what’s happening over at the Chronicle.’

Roger was absolutely loving this, Delia realised.

Delia pulled up the Chronicle site and under Roger’s guidance, put ‘city council’ into its search engine. The first story that came up was about an unemployment seminar.

Delia scrolled the comments, not expecting to see anything, but there, third down was Peshwari (did this person really have a job?).

Hey guys: got to let you know that the Powers That Be and pen pushers up at City Hall are on to me. Guess some people don’t like The Sheeple to see with their own eyes. I’ve been asked to ‘mind my manners’. Well, this truther won’t be silenced! The chief executive sits on a throne of lies. And signs off expenses for big platters of Ferrero Rocher at receptions. This genie is OUT of the BOTTLE.

Roger’s lips moved as he read the words, and cogs turned. He looked at Delia with scarily maniacal eyes, like a Blue Meanie in Yellow Submarine.

‘Thoughts?’

Delia had very little time to decide what to do. In the brief window afforded for calculation, she concluded that playing completely dumb was not going to work. The Naan was describing her approach, right after Roger had asked her to make it.

‘I had … opened a dialogue,’ she said.

‘How?’ Roger said. The air of menace could be cut with a potato peeler and Delia knew every single one of her colleagues were watching the show avidly.

‘On email. I …’

‘Forward me the correspondence!’ Roger bristled. Literally bristled. He looked like a Quentin Blake illustration: scribbly hair, beard made of hay, thunderous brow, pinprick eyes, magnified behind thick, square teacher glasses.

He stalked back to his screen to await the evidence and Delia felt sick.

The playful exchange between her and Naan only looked acceptable on two conditions: 1) she had time to present it carefully and sympathetically and 2) Naan had indeed backed off.

Given neither applied, she was fucked.

She looked at the discussion again and tried to tell herself, well at least you’re not outright saying HAHAHA GOOD ONE STICK IT TO THE OLD SCROTES. She didn’t think she came off as issuing the sort of schoolmarm admonishments that Roger’s wrath demanded though, to put it mildly.

Delia hit forward with the heavy heart of the condemned woman and prefaced it:

Hi Roger. As you can see, I am making the first steps in gaining his trust here.

It was a craven ‘Please do not bollock me’ plea. She also offered a brief explanation of staking out Brewz and Beanz. It didn’t really help Delia’s cause that the whole interaction started with the Naan spotting her, not vice versa. Or that Roger’s testicular fortitude as a boss was alluded to.

Some extremely tense minutes ticked past. Roger was hunched over his screen, Delia trying not to look over at him.

Ann said: ‘Was that to do with the things you kept laughing at?’ loud enough that Roger’s head jerked up.

What an absolutely traitorous cow, Delia thought. Ann probably only found natural disasters and jihadist attacks funny.

The appearance at her shoulder took less than fifteen minutes. It felt as if Roger appeared with a gust of icy air and the opening chords of ‘Enter Sandman’.

‘Follow me,’ he said.

Roger took Delia into an airless deserted office down the corridor, full of filing cabinets and an old whiteboard, with FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES = ACTION? -> FACILITATION marker-penned on it.

‘Any idea what I want to talk to you about?’

‘Peshwari Naan?’ Delia said, hoping her tone didn’t sound insubordinate.

‘I’d like you to explain the rationale behind the informal correspondence you’ve entered into with someone who is a declared enemy of this organisation.’

Oh for goodness’ sake, why did Roger always have to talk as if he was in a Tom Clancy? The battle fleet will never be ready!

‘I was winning his trust by speaking to him in his own language,’ Delia said.

‘The impression you gave the Naan – and myself – was that you found the tenor of his contribution acceptable. No doubt emboldening him to commit his latest infraction.’

He was officially the Naan now, like the Zodiac or the King of Pop.

‘I had to be careful about steaming in and saying “You can’t do that,” because technically, he can do that. I thought the softly-softly approach would work better.’

‘We’ve seen how well it worked. Sorry if I wasn’t clear enough, Ms Moss, but as a representative of the council you were not expected to engage in ribald badinage and casually ask he “tone it down a bit”.’

This was so unfair. Roger had said: any means, foul or fair.

‘I don’t think he would’ve responded to a simple cease and desist request or I would have made it.’

Roger’s nostrils flared.

‘You could’ve come to me at several points to have me sign off on what was best to do. Instead you saw the trust I placed in you as licence to indulge in sophomoric sniggering and inflame the situation further. Do you have any idea how this is going to look when I have to explain it to Councillor Grocock?’

And there it was. Roger had a flea in his ear, so he was bloody well going to pass the flea on to Delia. Only by this time, the flea had become the size of a walrus.

‘Do we have to say we’ve been in touch at all?’ Delia said.

Roger went puce.

‘Yes, we do. Your attitude towards what constitutes proper disclosure is extremely worrying. I’m giving you a written warning and it will go on your file,’ Roger said.

‘That’s not fair,’ Delia said. ‘I was working undercover with special rules …’

‘You were not undercover when he contacted you on your email here! Do you have any idea how he knew you were looking for him?’

Delia miserably shook her head.

‘Your achievements are exactly nil. Game, set and match to the Naan.’

It occurred to Delia that the Naan might not have finished making her look bad. The Twitter account hack signalled unlocking a new mischief achievement level.

When Delia got back to her desk, she started as she saw she had an email from the Naan waiting for her. She felt considerable anger towards this invisible architect of her misery, and had absolutely no freedom to say so.

Hey: what if Councillor Hammond meant his bleached bumhole looked like a RUBY grapefruit? Make you think.

She hit delete.