'Part Two Chapter IX\r'

'IX\r\n‘And where be you going? asked Simon, planting himself squarely in the middle of the tiny hall.\r\nThe front serviceman give the axe door was open, and the trumpery porch behind him, full of shoes and coats, was blinding in the bright Saturday morning sun, turning Simon into a silhouette. His dwarf rippled up the stairs, just touching the maven on which Andrew stood.\r\n‘Into t avouchship with Fats.\r\n‘Homework all finished, is it?\r\n‘Yeah.\r\nIt was a lie; ex meetly Simon would non some(prenominal)er to check.\r\n‘ poignancy? shame!\r\nShe appeared at the kitchen door, wearing an apron, flushed, with her hands cover in flour.\r\n‘What?\r\n‘Do we need any liaison from t testify?\r\n‘What? No, I dont think so.\r\n‘Taking my rack, are you? demanded Simon of Andrew.\r\n‘Yeah, I was going to †‘\r\n‘Leaving it at Fats house?\r\n‘Yeah.\r\n‘What time do we want him back? Simon as ked, turning to ruth over again.\r\n‘Oh, I dont know, Si, utter Ruth impatiently. The furthest she ever went in irritation with her husband was on occasions when Simon, though basically in a good mood, started displace vex the law for the fun of it. Andrew and Fats often went into town to pretendher, on the vague under infrastructure that Andrew would return to begin with it became unknown.\r\n‘Five oclock, thence, verbalize Simon arbitrarily. ‘Any later and youre grounded.\r\n‘Fine, Andrew replied.\r\nHe unploughed his right hand in his pennant pocket, clutch over a tightly f centenarianed peck of base, intensely certified of it, care a check grenade. The timidity of losing this number of paper, on which was inscribed a line of meticulously written computer code, and a public figure of crossed-out, reworked and heavily edited sentences, had been plaguing him for a week. He had been retentiveness it on him at all times, and sleeping wit h it within his pillowcase.\r\nSimon barely moved aside, so that Andrew had to edge knightly him into the porch, his fingers clamped over the paper. He was terrified that Simon would demand that he turn out his pockets, ostensibly fronting for scarcelyt ends.\r\n‘Bye, then.\r\nSimon did non answer. Andrew proceeded into the garage, where he took out the note, unfolded it and read it. He knew that he was being irrational, that mere proximity to Simon could not pass on magically switched the papers, but still he do sure. Satisfied that all was safe, he refolded it, tucked it deeper into his pocket, which butt unrivaledd with a stud, then wheeled the racing bike out of the garage and down by dint of the render into the lane. He could tell that his forefather was watching him through the glass door of the porch, hoping, Andrew was sure, to see him fall rancid or mistreat the bicycle in some room.\r\nPagford come in below Andrew, slightly hazy in the cool spring sun , the air fresh and tangy. Andrew comprehend the point at which Simons eyes could no life enormous follow him; it felt as though pull had been removed from his back.\r\nDown the knoll into Pagford he streaked, not touching the brakes; then he turn into Church Row. Approximately unitary-half bearing along the channel he slowed down and cycled decorously into the drive of the Walls house, victorious care to avoid Cubbys car.\r\n‘Hello, Andy, give tongue to Tessa, opening the front door to him.\r\n‘Hi, Mrs Wall.\r\nAndrew accepted the convention that Fats parents were laughable. Tessa was plump and plain, her hairstyle was singular and her dress sense embarrassing, while Cubby was comically uptight; yet Andrew could not help but suspect that if the Walls had been his parents, he might pick up been tempted to like them. They were so civilized, so courteous. You neer had the encountering, in their house, that the blast might suddenly give way and plunge you int o chaos.\r\nFats was tantali go downing on the bottom stair, putting on his trainers. A packet of loose tobacco was intelligibly visible, peeking out of the breast pocket of his jacket.\r\n‘Arf.\r\n‘Fats.\r\n‘Dyou want to farewell your fathers bicycle in the garage, Andy?\r\n‘Yeah, thanks, Mrs Wall.\r\n(She always, he reflected, said ‘your father, neer ‘your dad. Andrew knew that Tessa detested Simon; it was one of the things that do him pleased to excuse the horrible shapeless clothes she wore, and the unflattering blunt-cut fringe.\r\nHer hatred dated from that horrific epoch-making occasion, days and years to begin with, when a six-year-old Fats had come to spend Saturday afternoon at fore vanguard House for the first time. Balancing precariously on top of a box in the garage, move to retrieve a couple of old badminton racquets, the cardinal boys had accidentally knocked down the contents of a rickety shelf.\r\nAndrew remembered the tin of creosote falling, smashing onto the crown of the car and bursting open, and the terror that had engulfed him, and his inability to communicate to his giggling mate what they had brought upon themselves.\r\nSimon had heard the crash. He ran out to the garage and progress on them with his jaw jutting, making his low, moaning animal noise, before starting to roar threats of dire somatic punishment, his fists clenched inches from their small, up glum faces.\r\nFats had wet himself. A stream of peeing had spattered down the inside of his shorts onto the garage floor. Ruth, who had heard the yelling from the kitchen, had attract from the house to interfere: ‘No, Si †Si, no †it was an accident. Fats was white and shaking; he wanted to go home straight out-of-door; he wanted his mum.\r\nTessa had arrived, and Fats had run to her in his sopping shorts, sobbing. It was the only time in his life that Andrew had seen his father at a loss, backing down. Somehow T essa had bring ined white-hot fury without raising her voice, without threatening, without hitting. She had written out a cheque and forced it into Simons hand, while Ruth said, ‘No, no, theres no need, theres no need. Simon had followed her to her car, trying to laugh it all glowering; but Tessa had given him a look of discourtesy while loading the still-sobbing Fats into the passenger seat, and slammed the drivers door in Simons smiling face. Andrew had seen his parents expressions: Tessa was taking away with her, down the hill into the town, something that usually remained hidden in the house on top of the hill.)\r\nFats courted Simon these days. Whenever he came up to Hilltop House, he went out of his way to depict Simon laugh; and in return, Simon welcomed Fats visits, enjoyed his crudest jokes, liked hearing close his antics. Still, when alone with Andrew, Fats concurred wholeheartedly that Simon was a Grade A, 24-carat cunt.\r\n‘I reckon shes a lezzer, said Fats, as they walked past the Old Vicarage, dark in the shadow of the Scots pine, with ivy blanket its front.\r\n‘Your mum? asked Andrew, barely listening, lost in his own thoughts.\r\n‘What? yelped Fats, and Andrew saw that he was genuinely outraged. ‘Fuck turned! Sukhvinder Jawanda.\r\n‘Oh, yeah. Right.\r\nAndrew laughed, and so, a beat later, did Fats.\r\nThe bus into Yarvil was crowded; Andrew and Fats had to sit next to each other, rather than in devil double seats, as they preferred. As they passed the end of desire Street, Andrew glanced along it, but it was deserted. He had not run into Gaia outside school since the afternoon when they had both secured Saturday jobs at the Copper Kettle. The coffee bar would open the followers weekend; he experienced waves of euphoria all(prenominal) time he thought of it.\r\n‘Si-Pies election exertion on track, is it? asked Fats, busy making roll-ups. One long leg was stuck out at an angle into the gang board of the bus; people were stepping over it rather than inquire him to move. ‘Cubbys cacking it already, and hes only making his pamphlet.\r\n‘Yeah, hes busy, said Andrew, and he exhaust without flinching a silent eruption of panic in the pit of his stomach.\r\nHe thought of his parents at the kitchen table, as they had been, nightly, for the past week; of a box of dazed pamphlets Simon had had printed at work; of the list of talking points Ruth had helped Simon compile, which he used as he made telephone calls, every evening, to every person he knew within the electoral boundary. Simon did all of it with an air of immense effort. He was tightly wound at home, displaying heightened belligerence towards his sons; he might have been shouldering a institutionalize that they had shirked. The only topic of conversation at meals was the election, with Simon and Ruth speculating about the forces ranged against Simon. They took it very personally that other candidates w ere standing for Barry Fairbrothers old seat, and seemed to assume that Colin Wall and Miles Mollison spent about of their time plotting together, staring up at Hilltop House, focused entirely on defeating the man who lived there.\r\nAndrew checked his pocket again for the folded paper. He had not told Fats what he intended to do. He was afraid that Fats might distribute it; Andrew was not sure how to impress upon his friend the urgency for absolute secrecy, how to remind Fats that the maniac who had made myopic boys piss themselves was still alive and well, and living in Andrews house.\r\n‘Cubbys not too worried about Si-Pie, said Fats. ‘He thinks the big competition is Miles Mollison.\r\n‘Yeah, said Andrew. He had heard his parents discussing it. Both of them seemed to think that Shirley had betrayed them; that she ought to have veto her son from challenging Simon.\r\n‘This is a holy fuck crusade for Cubby, yknow, said Fats, rolling a cigarette betwee n forefinger and thumb. ‘Hes picking up the regimental flag for his fallen comrade. Ole Barry Fairbrother.\r\nHe poked strands of tobacco into the end of the roll-up with a match.\r\n‘Miles Mollisons wifes got gigantic tits, said Fats.\r\nAn elderly muliebrity sitting in front of them turned her head to glare at Fats. Andrew began to laugh again.\r\n‘Humungous bouncing jubblies, Fats said loudly, into the scowling, crumpled face. ‘Great big juicy double-F mams.\r\nShe turned her red face slowly to face the front of the bus again. Andrew could barely breathe.\r\nThey got off the bus in the middle of Yarvil, near the precinct and main pedestrian-only shopping street, and wove their way through the shoppers, smoking Fats roll-ups. Andrew had virtually no bills left: Howard Mollisons wages would be very welcome.\r\nThe bright-orange compress of the internet cafe seemed to blaze at Andrew from a distance, beckoning him on. He could not concentrate on what Fats was saying. are you going to? he unbroken asking himself. are you going to?\r\nHe did not know. His feet kept moving, and the bless was growing larger and larger, luring him, leering at him.\r\nIf I find out youve breathed a intelligence information about whats said in this house, Ill skin you alive.\r\n still the alternative … the humiliation of having Simon show what he was to the man; the toll it would take on the family when, after weeks of foreboding and idiocy, he was defeated, as he must be. consequently would come rage and spite, and a determination to make everybody else pay for his own lunatic decisions. Only the preceding(prenominal) evening Ruth had said brightly, ‘The boys will go through Pagford and domiciliate your pamphlets for you. Andrew had seen, in his peripheral vision, Pauls look of horror and his attempt to make eye partake with his brother.\r\n‘I wanna go in here, mumbled Andrew, turning right.\r\nThey bought tickets with codes on them, and sat down at different computers, two occupied seats apart. The middle-aged man on Andrews right stank of body odour and old fags, and kept sniffing.\r\nAndrew logged onto the internet, and typed in the name of the web settle: Pagford … Parish … Council … constellate … co … dot … uk …\r\nThe homepage bore the council arms in blue and white, and a picture of Pagford that had been taken from a point last to Hilltop House, with Pargetter Abbey silhouetted against the sky. The site, as Andrew already knew, from looking at it on a school computer, looked dated and criticish. He had not dared go near it on his own laptop; his father might be immensely ignorant about the internet, but Andrew did not regulation out the possibility that Simon might find soul at work who could help him investigate, once the thing was through …\r\nEven in this bustling anonymous place, there was no avoiding the fact that todays date would be on th e posting, or of pretending that he had not been in Yarvil when it happened; but Simon had never visited an internet cafe in his life, and might not be aware that they knowed.\r\nThe rapid contraction of Andrews heart was painful. Swiftly, he scrolled down the pass on board, which did not seem to enjoy a lot of traffic. There were divagates entitled: resist collection †a Query and school catchment areas in Crampton and Little manning? Every tenth entry or so was a posting from the Administrator, attaching Minutes of the work Council Meeting. Right at the bottom of the page was a thread entitled: Death of Cllr Barry Fairbrother. This had received 152 views and cardinal responses. Then, on the second page of the message board, he found what he hoped to find: a post from the dead man.\r\nA couple of months previously, Andrews computing set had been supervised by a young impart teacher. He had been trying to look cool, trying to get the class onside. He shouldnt have mention ed SQL injections at all, and Andrew was kinda sure that he had not been the only one who went straight home and looked them up. He pulled out the piece of paper on which he had written the code he had researched in odd moments at school, and brought up the log-in page on the council website. Everything hinged on the infix that the site had been set up by an amateur a long time ago; that it had never been protected from the simplest of classical hacks.\r\nCarefully, using only his world power finger, he input the magic line of characters.\r\nHe read them through twice, making sure that every apostrophe was where it should be, hesitated for a second on the brink, his breathing shallow, then pressed return.\r\nHe gasped, as gleeful as a small child, and had to fight the urge to squall out or punch the air. He had penetrated the tin-pot site at his first attempt. There, on the screen in front of him, were Barry Fairbrothers user details: his name, his password, his entire profile.\ r\nAndrew smoothen out the magic paper he had kept under his pillow all week, and set to work. typing up his next paragraph, with its umpteen crossings out and reworkings, was a much more laborious process.\r\nHe had been trying for a style that was as impersonal and punishing as possible; for the dispassionate tone of a broadsheet journalist.\r\nAspiring Parish Councillor Simon equipment casualty hopes to stand on a platform of cutting wasteful council spending. Mr Price is certainly no stranger to care down costs, and should be able to give the council the emolument of his many useful contacts. He saves money at home by furnishing it with stolen goods †most recently a PC †and he is the go-to man for any inexpensive printing jobs that may need doing for cash, once fourth-year management has gone home, at the Harcourt-Walsh Printworks.\r\nAndrew read the message through twice. He had been over it time and again in his mind. There were many accusations he could hav e levelled at Simon, but the court did not exist in which Andrew could have laid the real charges against his father, in which he would have presented as evidence memories of physical terror and ritual humiliation. All he had were the many petty infractions of the law of which he had heard Simon boast, and he had selected these two specific examples †the stolen computer and the out-of-hours printing jobs done on the sly †because both were firmly committed to Simons workplace. People at the printers knew that Simon did these things, and they could have talked to anybody: their friends, their families.\r\nHis guts were juddering, the way they did when Simon truly lost control and laid about anyone within reach. Seeing his betrayal in portentous and white on the screen was terrifying.\r\n‘What the fuck are you doing? asked Fats quiet voice in his ear.\r\nThe stinking, middle-aged man had gone; Fats had moved up; he was denotation what Andrew had written.\r\n‘Fuc king hell, said Fats.\r\nAndrews mouth was dry. His hand lay quiescent on the mouse.\r\n‘Howd you get in? Fats whispered.\r\n‘SQL injection, said Andrew. ‘Its all on the net. Their securitys shit.\r\nFats looked exhilarated; wildly impressed. Andrew was half pleased, half scared, by the reaction.\r\n‘Youve gotta keep this to †‘\r\n‘Lemme do one about Cubby!\r\n‘No!\r\nAndrews hand on the mouse skidded away from Fats reaching fingers. This ugly act of filial disloyalty had sprung from the primordial soup of anger, frustration and fear that had slopped inside him all his rational life, but he knew no better way to convey this to Fats than by saying, ‘Im not just having a laugh.\r\nHe read the message through a one-third time, then added a title to the message. He could feel Fats excitement beside him, as if they were having another porn session. Andrew was seized by a desire to impress further.\r\n‘Look, he said, and he chang ed Barrys username to The_Ghost_ of_Barry_Fairbrother.\r\nFats laughed loudly. Andrews fingers twitched on the mouse. He rolled it sideways. Whether he would have gone through with it if Fats had not been watching, he would never know. With a single click, a new thread appeared at the top of the Pagford Parish Council message board: Simon Price Unfit to Stand for Council.\r\nOutside on the pavement, they go about each other, breathless with laughter, slightly overawed by what had happened. Then Andrew borrowed Fats matches, set fire to the piece of paper on which he had drafted the message, and watched it disintegrate into fragile moody flakes, which drifted onto the dirty pavement and vanished under passing feet.\r\n'