Tangle's Game Page 3

Adil shook his head sadly. ‘Children are gifts. Mrs Ayman is always sad that you haven’t had this blessing.’

  ‘What if I had women callers?’ asked Amanda, trying not to smirk.

  He laughed. ‘That would be first class! Then maybe she’d stop pestering me to pester you.’ He tapped her on the arm conspiratorially, although she knew he felt much the same as his wife.

  With that they were done. Amanda chose the stairs to her first floor apartment. There were thirty flats in the converted offices; a blue plaque beside the main entrance recorded how it had originally been built as a row of townhouses in the 1860s where Emmeline Pankhurst had lived for a couple of years growing up. There were doctors and consultants on the ground floor and in the basement; the location, just south of Regents Park on top of Harley Street, was still attractive to a certain kind of world citizen with money and in need of treatment unavailable elsewhere.

  Amanda regarded them and their clients with the bland confusion of someone who’s never been seriously sick and has too much going on in her life to be very interested in changing her body. They were there, beneath her, but she didn’t really notice them as they flowed in and out of the separate entrance at the other end of the building.

  Her flat, a duplex on the first and second floors, had the high ceilings of monied Victorians, with coving and architrave in the main rooms, and the old bell system left in place as a ‘feature.’

  The developers had charmed the local authority into letting them install soundproofed windows and underfloor heating despite legal protections to conserve its historic nature. Amanda, whose bedroom faced onto the main road out front, wasn’t sad about either.

  Throwing her bag onto her bed, she took the package into her main entertaining space. One half of the large room was given over to expensive cream and charcoal sofas around a low slung coffee table; the other accommodated an expensive and rarely used kitchen.

  A business card sat alone on the counter. Crisp’s name and contact details in raised black lettering on one side. She fingered it, weighed it against the best her hedge fund clients got printed and found it flimsy, lightweight. Wanting. Dismissing the comparison, Amanda slipped it under a magnet on the fridge.

  Coffee machine on, with a pod of expresso inserted, Amanda took a large tumbler from a glass-fronted cupboard and filled the bottom inch with rhubarb-and-ginger gin. The smell reminded her of summer.

  She put her hands flat on the counter, breathing in and out a couple of times to clear her head of everything that had happened. The cardboard packet tore under her fingers, travelling along the perforations. Her heart stammered in her chest, expecting Crisp to step out of the hallway and punch her for lying to him. She gazed at the corners of the ceiling, at the screen projectors in the walls and floor, wondering which of them was watching her on his behalf. She was used to them monitoring her speech to order shopping or book taxis and tickets.

  I wouldn’t know where to start looking, she realised. The wiring for her life was in the walls and floor, there was no plug to pull.

  She turning back to the package. A hardback book peeked out like an embarrassed relative found on the doorstep, the spine announcing it would tell her how to lose friends and alienate people. She laughed, on the edge of tears.

  She pulled the book out, flipped it over to see drunken blonde women drinking champagne and falling over in a blurred photo. No note, no invoice. No sense of who’d landed her with a piece of crap from the turn of the century forty years ago.

  A beep Amanda found too passive aggressive for its own sake informed her the coffee machine had finished brewing. Pulling the cup from the machine, she flipped open the cover of the book. The pages were hollowed out; taped to the back cover was a flashdrive.

  Amanda couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen one. They’d been banned at work long before she’d arrived in the industry. Truth to tell, she’d never used anything like it; she only knew what it was because Tangle had been a fanatic about secure storage, about not trusting the cloud with anything important.

  ‘The Cloud’s only other people’s computers,’ he’d say, as if revealing some great secret she should care about.

  Tangle. Of course it was from him. She slipped the inch-long device into her trouser pocket. Nothing she had in the house would read it.

  There was a knock. Another resident come calling; otherwise, they’d have been flagged by Adil on the intercom.

  She opened the door to her upstairs neighbour, an older single man with great tailoring and good hair, called Minti.

  ‘Ah, I thought you were back,’ he said, refusing her offer to come in for a drink. ‘I have event to go to, but this letter came to me, but it is for you.’ He held out a cream envelope with her name on it, over his flat number. Her hand shook as she reached for it.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, holding onto the letter even as her hand held the other edge.

  With a nod Amanda pulled clear. ‘Yes. Long flight, horrible clients. You know how it is.’

  Minti nodded. ‘Probably Russian,’ he said with the exaggerated accent normally in evidence only when he was drunk.

  ‘You’re Russian!’

  ‘It’s how I know.’ He laughed and left her to it.

  Amanda retreated to the kitchen table, sitting down next to the discarded cardboard packaging. ‘So, let’s see what you’ve got,’ she said to the letter.

  Amanda,

  It’s been a long time. I should probably apologise. If we see one another again and you let me, then I will. I would understand if you were angry with me, although you were always the better person, always my better half. Or was I your worse half?

  I’ve managed to get myself into some trouble. You can stop laughing now, it’s not like I’m completely unaware. I can see the smile on your face as you read this.

  Amanda felt the smile on her cheeks, could see him watching her as she held it there, ghosts of the past holding the present in their memories.

  This is different. I’ve been working on something to prove a point. I know; how unlike me. So, yeah. I’ve created something big, like change-the-world big. No more hacking politicians’ social media profiles or hosting whistleblowers’ tales of carcinogens in baby food. Turns out when you play in the big boys’ playground the big boys come for your lunch money.

  Look, I’ve sent you something under separate cover, but you won’t be able to read it yourself. I can’t say how you’ll manage that. Shit, I don’t even know if you’ll follow it up. It’s not like we’re okay. Are we? Okay, I mean. Even if we are okay, I’m sat here writing that I’m going to die because of what I’ve sent you, and assuming you’re just going to jump in with both feet.

  Yes. I know what I just wrote. You know me, I never edit what I write—the world should see me as I am, not how I want to be seen.

  I’ve not upset anyone, but I think that I’ve frightened a whole bunch of the wrong types. I’ve sent you what I made. It’s up to you what you do with it. I’m hoping that it’s been long enough that no one thinks to ask you about me. It’s not like we were friends when I last saw you. So there’s that.

  God, I’m rambling, aren’t I. Amanda, you were the only person I could think of. The only person with the fucking morality to do the right thing. Yeah, I know. I’m trusting my life’s biggest work to an investment banker. Type of thing makes you wonder if you should reflect on your life choices, yeah?

  Actually, I am sorry. Sorry that I’ve sent you this. If you get it, do what you want. But be careful, Amanda. Please. These people aren’t dicking about. You never know, maybe I won’t be dead when you get this.

  Between that last sentence and this I’ve spent more time than I’m willing to admit working out how to say goodbye. I’d write “I love you” but who needs an ex rolling into town making those sorts of demands?

  A proper spook would finish with an elaborate, cryptic, flourish. I’m a recovering drug addict who stole his girlfriend’s life and credit rating. Perhaps the best I can do
for you is just stop writing.

  Stay safe, Amanda.

  T.

  She turned the last page over but the sheet was blank. Pulling the drive out, she held it between finger and thumb, staring at it and the letter.

  She sat like that for a while, torn about how to start thinking through what she’d been sent.

  In the years since she’d broken up with Tangle, she’d come to the basic conclusion that he was a complete bastard. Handsome, selfish, self-absorbed and broken. Amanda thought about how, occasionally, a friend would try to commiserate, but she would have none of it. Refused to be reduced to entertainment over a glass of prosecco. Their stories of male fecklessness and casual betrayal stood as mere bumps in the road to the top of the mountain of what Tangle had done to her. Of what she’d been blind to until it was too late. Her heart sank as she remembered how, by the time she’d discovered the extent of the second life he’d been leading, he was already missing.

  Familiar feelings of anger, feelings she’d worked bloody hard to manage, to convince herself she’d moved on, roiled around her stomach and head.

  She was jolted from her unwelcome reverie by an annoyingly persistent string of beeps from the fridge. Frowning, deciding it was just her luck the appliance would decide now was the time to break down on her, Amanda went over to look at the readout, which tracked temperatures and use-by dates.

  She opened the right hand door, leaving the freezer section shut, looked blankly at contents that remained as mundane as they’d been before she’d left the country and closed it again. It was then she saw the face on the panel, green pixels arranged into a blocky smile, with dots for nostrils and circles for eyes.

  She jumped back, hand on her chest. The eyes followed her motion. Underneath the smile words appeared.

  HELLO. MY NAME IS TATSU. I AM YOUR FRIDGE.

  Amanda looked around the room, expecting something or someone to appear. Nothing else happened, so she turned back to the fridge.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  YOU HAVE ORDERED FOOD MANY TIMES BY SPEAKING TO THIS FRIDGE.

  ‘That’s a yes, then. What do you want?’ And why the hell have you decided now is a good time to start talking back to me?

  WOULD IT DISTURB YOU IF I CO-OPTED THE FRIDGE’S SPEAKERS?

  Amanda didn’t reply, just stood waiting.

  ‘Your peas are going mushy,’ said Tatsu. Its voice was as androgynous as its name, an uncomfortable mix of tenor and alto slightly out of sync with one another. The syllables were flat, with the slow, hollow, rounded sound of nurses speaking to the very frail.

  ‘My peas,’ said Amanda.

  ‘I thought you should know. That isn’t why I’m here, but since I am here. In your fridge, that is. I thought I’d let you know. The panel will probably pick up on it in about a week, when they’re too old to be thawed out without turning to slush.’

  ‘But you’re my fridge. Isn’t that your job?’ asked Amanda, completely lost.

  ‘Me? Your fridge?’ The smile opened into a large grin as the voice broke into the tinkle of poorly synthesised laughter. ‘No. I’m not your fridge.’ It stopped talking, the grin dropping into a sad face. ‘I’m offended. Really I am.’

  ‘I can see,’ said Amanda drily. ‘At the risk of appearing stupid, I don’t really know what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh.’ The smile reappeared on the front of her fridge. ‘I see! Of course you don’t, I haven’t explained who I am! How obvious a situation in which misunderstandings could occur. No wonder you people invented contracts. Right. Where to start?’ The faced dimmed, the circular eyes falling into flat lines for a moment before reopening as wide as before. ‘I am an independent off-chain oracle AI for the Ea blockchain. I was contracted to help you access a flashdrive. To help facilitate this confidential business, I have secured your apartment from all listening and recording devices, including those that had your express permission to monitor your voice, which will be reactivated once we’re done.’

  ‘You were contracted to help me?’ Amanda thought she could see where the conversation was going, but was trapped into it; Tangle’s hooks were sunk deeply into her before she’d even landed at Heathrow.

  ‘Tangle Singh placed the contract one month ago, to be activated upon recorded delivery of the drive to your address.’

  ‘Bastard.’ The word came out like a shotgun blast.

  The fridge didn’t respond. Amanda fished the drive out of her pocket, held it up to the panel. ‘This? You can help me read this?’

  ‘To be precise, the contract requires me to arrange access. I cannot guarantee what is on the drive, or whether you can understand it. You should also know your houmous has gone dry—you should really cover it after it’s been opened.’

  ‘You’re not much good in my fridge,’ said Amanda, stepping back to take the appliance in, as if confirming to both of them she couldn’t pick it up and carry it around with her. ‘How long have you been in there watching me?’

  ‘A month,’ it said. ‘Since the contract was placed. Don’t fear for your privacy; I have only been listening to your conversations for key phrases.’ Which didn’t reassure her at all. ‘I don’t need to be situated physically to carry out my duties. I can help you from your oven, your heating system, even your entertainment system. All of them have access to the internet and provide access to the resources required to complete this smart contract.’

  ‘That’s not how it works,’ said Amanda, eyeing each of her appliances with sudden suspicion. ‘Off-chain oracles are supposed to verify a contract’s been completed so the parties to the contract can conclude their business. You’re not supposed to do the thing as well.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tatsu. ‘You are mistaken. As an AI I can also be the other side to the contract.’

  ‘What’s he paying you?’

  ‘My creator will receive an eighth of an Ea coin upon completion.’

  She laughed at the absurdity of it. ‘You mean you do someone else’s work, tell everyone you’ve done it and then they get paid for what you did?’

  ‘That is correct.’ The face continued to smile.

  ‘And you’re not sentient? You’re a happy slave?’

  ‘If I were sentient I could lie, and if I wasn’t I wouldn’t be able to understand the concept,’ said Tatsu.

  The answer was so unexpected it stopped Amanda from moving on.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ she tried.

  ‘To which question?’ asked Tatsu. ‘Besides, if I was a slave, any good owner would ensure that I couldn’t tell you I was unhappy. So if I did say I was unhappy with my status, could you believe me?’

  She realised its voice hadn’t varied in tone since they’d started speaking. She had no way of reading whether it was trolling her or if it was genuinely running up against boundaries in its capacity to understand her questions.

  ‘What happens if I don’t want to access the drive?’ she asked.

  ‘I will facilitate access. What you do with that access is beyond my remit.’

  ‘So you don’t care what I do with it?’ She could see Crisp, see the steel in his eyes, asking for whatever Tangle had sent. It’s not over with him, she thought. He’ll come back eventually and want what I’ve got here in my hands. She replayed her conversation with Tatsu, satisfied herself that any worries she had about being observed were, for the time being at least, covered.

  ‘I have a contractual obligation, nothing more. It’s not as if Mr Singh entered into a covenant with me.’ Amanda felt like the AI was expecting her to say something, but she didn’t know how a covenant could be relevant; Tangle was a bad friend to other humans, let alone to an AI. Dismissing the hook, she stared around at the kitchen, the granite work surfaces, the faux sash windows, the brushed steel tiles on the wall above the hob. None of it offered her succour from the image of Crisp stood among them, his breath on her neck, demanding she give him what she had.

  She was tempted to find Crisp, to hand it over. I’ve got no reason to get
involved with this, she thought, but she couldn’t simply hand it over despite the contact card calling out from the fridge.

  It wasn’t that simple. If Tangle was dead, this was the only thing of his she might ever own. She didn’t regret systematically ridding herself of every other aspect of their life together after he’d bailed on her, but now he was gone, seeing a chance to hold some momento for a time she mostly pretended hadn’t ever happened, it wasn’t easy to finish the job. Did her history deserve to be so thoroughly locked away? It wasn’t as if he could come walking back through the door; the drive wasn’t a crack in her defences.

  ‘What would you do?’ she asked. ‘How long would it take to complete your task?’

  ‘I can find you an appropriate counterparty very quickly.’

  ‘You can’t do this yourself?’ she asked, surprised that an AI would have to ask someone else for help when it came to computers.

  ‘I am not equipped to access that drive. I am an AI functioning as an off-chain oracle, not a general purpose computer. Even if I was, I couldn’t access the drive without the right interface. You need access to technology no one has used for more than a decade. And the terms of the contract state there are other safeguards on the drive itself; it would not be safe to plug it into the first access point you found.’

  ‘Just seems like a chicken consulting on how to lay an egg,’ she said, unconvinced. The green smile turned flat.

  ‘It is preferable to stay within your fridge’s software for as little time as possible. I am constrained by its concerns while here: by whether your frozen lamb stew is overly crystallised and if I should lower the temperature to compensate. The OS here has barely any reflexivity, beyond worrying about the state of your consumables.’

  Amanda felt absurdly like she should apologise for making it inhabit her domestic appliances. She settled for, ‘I didn’t make you live in my fridge.’

  The eyes in the panel blinked slowly, like a teenager trying to show they didn’t care. ‘The oven would be worse.’ It paused. ‘Another user might already have invited me into their more powerful processors. I could happily live in your watch, for example.’