See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil…

Section 108 wishes it was off the hook 

“Vernon hi, you’ve met Ari before haven’t you. In the end we both wanted to come.”

“Hi Ari, good to see you again, I regret the turmoil you must be experiencing, I hope it’s soon resolved satisfactorily. Have you heard from Émile yet?”

He glanced at both as if they represented two different options for the wayward teenager.

“We’ve heard nothing from Emile, no sadly, but we did speak to the police; a Detective ‘Constable’. What an ironic name. He seemed nice enough but I don’t trust him to be unbiased. Sorry.”

Ari seemed to have the odd habit of apologising for the facts she related and the opinions she offered regarding them. Vernon wondered what lengths she went to when bad news was really her fault.

He replied:

“I met the guy this morning, DC Constable that is, I’d only just got up. The way he read my statement back to me cast a very suspicious light over it. Has Tarkey been in touch? I couldn’t tell if he was under suspicion to the same extent as me or somehow off the hook.”

“I can’t see how he’s off the hook Vernon unless he’s concocted some kind of lie to achieve it. After all he commissioned the Nonsense Filter and hired in additional people to embellish what we gave him.”

Vernon stood accused of not seeing what was really valuable, not hearing the plain truth and failing to control his speech. Was it true?

“You’re right Jean Luc, and you know what, we always wondered how he could be bankrupt and rolling in it. I bet when they trace the missing millions it will be found in a fund controlled by Tarkey.”

Vernon’s momentary excitement evaporated when he glanced at Ari.

“I’m sorry, but I think you two are forgetting something” she said gesturing, “our son is missing, wanted by the police and the mess that caused it all was you’re quick tongue, gullibility and avarice.” The first two charges were clearly aimed at Vernon, the latter at Jean Luc. Silence descended over the table and they drank introvertedly for some time having nothing to say in return, until Ari excused herself from their company with the words; “I’m going home. Maybe he’ll call. Get a taxi home Jean Luc.”

Check out the Nonsense Filter on The Novel page

‘You’ll never believe it’ Vernon thought.

Section 107 feels misrepresented

It looked bad put like that and Vernon suddenly felt like a criminal. He outlined the absurd, unbelievable details, explaining that Émile had designed a product he Vernon didn’t want to promote, didn’t believe would work and hadn’t seen tested. At no point in the conversation did a propitious moment arise in which he could also say, “Ah yes and I’m leaving the country just as soon as I have a work visa”.

“You’ve been most ’elpful Mr Jools” Detective Constable assured him on the doorstep as he departed. “Be straightforward to clear up oi shouldn’t wonder sir. Even so, all the while oi’ve been sayin’ to myself it’s a rum’n, It’s a rum’n. Have a pleasant day, no doubt oi’ll be in touch afore long.”

Vernon was glad not to be entrusted with state secrets.

In the afternoon Vernon found an officious looking parcel on the mat from The Founding Father’s High School in Thailand. In addition to the extensive advice they had provided about what he needed to bring, what officialdom insisted upon and how best he should resolve his accommodation needs, there was a contract he needed to sign and have witnessed. It was clear from the details they had sent that he would need a working visa for Thailand which would have to be renewed frequently.

Vernon decided to get the contract signed on Sunday at church as there were a number of professional people who knew him well there; responsible types.

Vernons route to Thailand led through a little red slot in the high street.

He planned to post his letter of resignation on the way to meet Jean Luc at the Brewery, but when he stopped at the post box he found frustratingly that he had picked up registration documents sent by Professor van der Floot which were in a similar manila envelope.

Vernon squeezed the cabriolet capably into a roadside cranny in Cannon Street and walked the short distance to the Brewery which was busy but not uncomfortably so. Jean Luc was already there and seemed as well as could be expected given the circumstances. Surprisingly, Ari was there too. He bought himself a Broadside, the dark bitter seeming to match his mood, and went over to join the couple.

“Ari, Jean Luc, hi. Can I get you anything?”

Both heads shook and both of them raised their glasses in acknowledgement of his arrival.

Check out the story so far on The Novel page

Practised disbelief

Section 106 is just doing its do-tea

The chance of sleep was as unlikely as a simultaneous win on the lottery and the horses for a person who never buys a ticket or places a bet. After several strong coffees, and a bath of cogitation, Vernon got dressed at 6pm and went downstairs to kick Friday into shape. He had a letter of resignation to fabricate and a number of people to inform.

The man at the door was struck forcibly by the man at the door.

He was just putting the finishing touches to the letter, singing the praises of the very ‘ship’ he was jumping and was carefully addressing the envelope, for the attention of Rev Dr Albright, when there was a loud knock on the door that rattled him more than it did the metal and wood.

There was a large tidy looking man at the door whose establishment hairstyle and look of practised disbelief marked him out as a detective, or a Jehovah’s Witness. Assuming it was the former, he was very early. Even as he opened the door Vernon wondered if anything in the house could be misconstrued as contraband; “Hello?”he said blandly.

“Mornin’ Mr Jools, detective constable Constable ‘ere. Is this ‘ere a convenient time for conversation? That’s a shame oi’m ‘ere so early but can’t be ‘elped oi’s afraid. Do you let me come in sir?” Vernon realised he was gawping and shut his mouth hastily. The broad Suffolk accent had taken him somewhat by surprise.

“Come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Oi’ll just come in the once.” the detective said wittily, “Do you lead the way sir, that shouldn’t take too long.”

They sat down at the table in the lounge and Vernon gave the detective his tea.

“At work I ‘as do-tea.”

“Don’t drink much tea a’tome as a rule; ’ave to leave space for do-tea, if you get my meaning. A haar. Now then, we ‘ave a missing person, a minor by the name of Émile Gèron, who’s somehow tied up in the design and distribution of a piece of software written for you and your partner Mr Tarquin McGuin. A product you rightly advised wouldn’t work yet your partner was ’appy to pay for and which, ’as played a role in digital fraud and theft and wot not. What can you tell me about these strange goings-on then?”

Check out the Nonsense Filter on The Novel page

Listening in

All this technology… look where it had got them.

Section 105 didn’t do it

Friday had now raised its head above the parapet and looked like being shot to pieces. Vernon sighed. Though perhaps not as bad as the worst day of his life this was raw enough.

“When did you last see him Jean Luc?”

“I was careless enough to take a ranting call from Tarkey; Émile was listening in from the kitchen.”

…listening in from the kitchen.

“When?”

“Last night Vernon.”

Though painfully obvious the sentiment needed expressing. “Jean Luc this is tragic. Is there anything I can do?”

Now that Jean Luc had faced up to the worst of it, the liquid rush of vocabulary was drying up. It was as if the incidental complexities he offered initially represented the dubious sludge at the bottom of a reservoir that has been dredged to recover a body. The technicalities and subsequent emotions were both now running dry.

“I doubt it.” sighed Jean Luc, “I’ve let the police know. Ari is beside herself with worry. Émile’s got the money you gave him and as you know he’s a canny sod.”

“I have to ask this Jean Luc; do you think he did it?”

No measurable hesitation was evident. “He’s arrogant and self-assured, and he’s technically capable Vernon, but I don’t think he did it, no.”

“D’you want me to come round? Bring some food or something?”

Now the hesitation was palpable. “Nnn… Nah, not today. Ari’s a little highly strung and I’m the cause. Plus we have a detective coming around in the afternoon to get more details. They may contact you too Vernon. Perhaps we could meet up for a beer in the evening?”

“Sure. Look I’m sorry Jean Luc for involving you in all this. Is the Cannon Brewery close enough to home?”

A detective is coming round today.

“That’ll do fine Vernon” Jean Luc said with a heaviness that hung there like the sense of a third person eavesdropping.

“Before you go; is there anything you need me to do about Tarkey? I guess he’s baying for blood.”

“You’d think so but one rant seemed to satisfy him and anyway, he can’t do anything at the moment because the police are involved.”

“Keep in touch Jean Luc. I’ll see you at the Brewery, about seven o’clock okay?

Jean Luc’s sigh of affirmation was as eloquent as it was heart rending. Vernon threw his phone onto the armchair across the bedroom and fell back onto the pillow in despair. What a mess.

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He’s gone missing

Section 104 could have been… and is, worse.

“Mmm, not really. Look things aren’t good with the Nonsense Filter. Some of the results are coming back from those journalists who installed a copy from that CD. It seems Émile hooked up some kind of Bayesian algorithm which he stripped out of an open source spam filtering programme and linked up with google via gmail. He tied it in a network of search engines and online dictionaries, and fed in the notes you provided regarding the Jabberwocky. So far one journalist’s complete digital archive has been erased and his computer only accepts rhyming nonsense, another has sent millions of garbled versions of the Jabberwocky to all his contacts.”

Even though he was still wakening it seemed to Vernon that it could have been worse. He said so. “Could have been worse Jean Luc.”

Someone’s digits had been where they shouldn’t have.

“It is.” was the terse reply.

Vernon scrabbled around for his glasses and then scratched his beard with puzzlement, “It worked for the others though didn’t it? You know… it recognised the data keyed in as sense or not sense? They could say ‘this is meaningful if I research it’ and ‘this isn’t worth researching’? Tell me he got that much right.”

Jean Luc sighed mournfully. “All I can tell you Vernon is that I am worried about whether Émile stayed this side of the law; I think he went too far this time. You can’t recognise sarcasm and emotion with statistics, you can’t discern what something really means to each user’s context and the Nonsense Filter’s never going to give meaning to something newly encountered the way that woman wanted? I think Émile knew that but had his own agenda.”

Vernon deduced that Jean Luc must have been up a lot longer than he had by the extensive vocabulary at his command at such an unsociable hour. In fact the technical jargon continued to flow jarringly down the line and over Vernon’s head.

“Émile had joked about strapping up some spam filter derived Bayesian-inspired classifier to a search engine. He reckoned nonsense words could be sieved out by employing a switch option in the parser that recognises and sorts bigrams and trigrams. Something fancy like identifying contextual polarity in phrase-level sentiment and idiosyncratic term analysis.” Jean Luc was beginning to sound like an Asimovian robot with a serious language malfunction.

“Hold it Jean Luc, stop, stop. Tell me, was it only three journalists who found it didn’t work?”

Suddenly Vernon realised he had never heard Jean Luc sound so distressed. Clearly the rush of techno-speak was the result of an unconscious pressure release mechanism opening to disperse a rising tide of panic.

Had Émile really unzipped the finances of innocent victims?

“Nn-no Vernon, that’s not all by a long way. Most of the journalists have begun to confirm a suspicion that their computers have been hacked and their financial details phished. Some have confirmed withdrawals from their accounts. The Nonsense Filter is a Trojan horse. Don’t ask me how that came to light. But it has.”

However you looked at it, Émile was suspiciously absent.

Vernon sunk to the floor in dismay. “This is a disaster. What does Émile have to say about these allegations?”

“Jean Luc struggled to make a reply. “I don’t know Vernon; he’s gone missing.”

Check out the build up to this crisis on The Novel page.

The rude delivery suit of reality

Vernon seemed to find it easier to think when his feet were busy.

Section 103 is snatched from its sleep in the early hours

The deed was done. He was on his way to Thailand via an ill-advised romance with an unspecified role in Africa which was now but a shed skin. Vernon felt some weight lift off his shoulders. He had made a decision that needed to be made. Donning his running shoes and downing a couple of glasses of cold water he celebrated the fact with a circular run under the railway bridge, left and up and over it , past the cattery and down the avenue of trees that always conveyed a flavour of France. He returned past the donkey paddock and the austere Anglican church, tired and in good spirits. After a bath  he retired with a beer to the garden and sifted distractedly through a selection of the growing number of philosophical books on his shelves. He’d have to contact Miles van der Floot. Good job he’d picked a distance learning course for his PhD studies. He’d have to write a letter of resignation too having obtained permission from the Head to submit one rather later than usual when he knew Mr Snapper was heading off to the second recruitment fare and speedy response would be unlikely. Vernon went to bed more relieved than he’d been in ages, and yet more uncertain of what was coming next.

Vernon was ejected from a disordered sleep and found himself in delivery.

The phone rang and rang downstairs, like the muted clatter of a houseman’s surgical tools. Vernon slowly tumbled out of the womb of oblivion, down the birth canal of night-time awakenings and into the rude delivery suite of reality. Just as he surfaced from his deep sleep, and staggered on to the landing, the downstairs phone gave up only to be replaced immediately by the mobile under his pillow. When the fog cleared Vernon would find it was Friday morning.

“Nnnuh”, Vernon groaned as he snatched at the mobile fumblingly and flipped the lid.

As soon as it entered the world it was as if this Friday demanded special care and attention.

“Uhuh?” He said slowly. “What, who? Why now?”

“Vernon, its Jean Luc.”

“Uh huh” Vernon managed, extending his night time vocabulary. “Jean Luc? You and Ari okay?”

Check out the story so far on The Novel page

Just Quizzing 3

Where do Claire, Daniel and Pippa live? It has an Atheneum though not a Colosseum, a Cannon Brewery though its armoury is now shut down, an Abbey which is down town not Downton; any ideas?

Vincent …er, that is Vernon, accepts the job

“I’ll take it, what was the job?” Vernon’s negotiation skills had reached an all time low.

Section 102 Will the real Vernon please stand up

Vernon decided to stop for lunch before his vital call to the Californian. Feeling quite the cosmopolitan man as he did so, he heated a couple of pitta breads, having chopped a pepper and mixed a little oil and balsamic vinegar into dipping bowl. Just as he sat down to enjoy them with a rocket salad the phone rang.

Good diction he found was difficult with one’s mouth full and Vernon swallowed hard to clear his cosmopolitan fare.

“Hi, who is it please?”

“Hey Vinnie how’re ya doin’,  Mr Snapper here. Wait; I know I get ya name wrong, am I right? It’s something distinct… Vladimir Yeah? Er no wait, Vanya. Look Vanya I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, man. I’m putting together this terrific team and I want you aboard. The job’s yours if ya want it, all yours. Fired-up?”

To be honest Vernon was just relieved. He could not abide Mrs McGuin, the Nonsense Filter however it ended would be a fiasco and probably Nsansa had already written him out of the plot of her life. To make matters worse the mother of his children called him ‘Vermin’ and refused him access to the email of his youngest daughter. His elder children had concluded his trip abroad would be good for them.

“I’m interested Mr Snapper. Tell me. Given the experience I have as a head of department, the Master’s degree in Education and your obvious need to fill this position is there something you can do to improve the offer?”

When it came to business savvy the Founding Fathers were enlightened enough.

“Hey man, that’s something I’d love to do but the Buddhist fathers are not commercially minded ya know. There’s not so much as a gnat’s whisker between the bomber’s wing and the hanger doors.”

Vernon could see the general lie of the land but tried to remap it with the power of his will all the same. “Sure. Look, you can see from my application that I’ve requested IB training and experience in my initial two years. Can you guarantee that?”

“Hey dude that’s something for curriculum control. I wouldn’t impose my inexperience on them. Can’t guarantee it therefore man though it sounds like a treat to me. It is Vanya isn’t it?”

After a barely perceptible pause for the sake of decorum Vernon replied. “Actually no. My name’s Vernon but I’ll be glad to take the job.”

“Well bust my britches man that’s a scoop Van… er Vernon. I’ll get the paperwork to ya. Formal offer to sign, Visa procedures and so on. Have a great holiday. Come early to Thailand man, take a look around. It’s a small place but you’ll like it.”

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Therapy

Nsansa’s favourite role was as a physiotherapeutic angel of mercy at work.

Section 101; the conversation has some very crossed wires

“Yes sir the trials were a success, excuse me…” Nsansa interrupted her charade with an aside to someone in the room which was shot through with urgency. ‘No Mr Bannall, please do not remove the gown completely, you have nothing on underneath and we have all the access we need for the sensitivity test already.’ To him Nsansa said cryptically, the mask slipping a little, “Sir you must do what you will and I will do what I can, that will bring the best results no doubt.” ‘Please Mr Bannall I must insist that you do not eat the feather, no nor insert it into any orifice, it is needed for the physiotherapy.’ To someone else it seemed Nsansa was now saying; “No Frau Pinnelig the call was vital but the consultant has finished, please restrain the patient for a moment more and we will continue with the observation.”

Vernon was struck down by the proverbial feather.

Like a tidal wave charging through his consciousness Vernon realised that Nsansa had a therapy session underway, he remembered something vague about spinal injuries being tested by appraising genital sensitivity. To top it all by the sound of it she was being assessed by a senior member of staff. Vernon shuddered at his own incompetence and Nsansa’s probable annoyance. Better leave the country he thought.

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Get on with it Vernon

Life had become a a tentative trickle of possibilities with dimly considered consequences following further upstream.

Section 100 is in consultation

When Vernon awoke on the final Thursday of his three week long Easter holiday he knew there was work to do. The sun was streaming through the curtains and his stream of consciousness was but a tentative trickle of possibilities with dimly considered consequences following further upstream. Most urgent was the question of who was going to feed Chucky the pestering cat; most momentous was what he was going to say to Mr Snapper who had texted a terse reminder to him whilst he was soaking in the Brewery.

Vernon knew in his heart of hearts that the answer to both the urgent and the momentous was ‘get on with it’. As he opened a can of cat food, perplexed as always how post-quantum mankind could not yet produce an inoffensive smelling cat food,  he came to the decision that he should say ‘yes’ to Thailand, but that it would be unfair to do so without letting Nsansa know first. Whilst in Edinburgh she had urged him to ‘go with the flow’ the way that she did and in the spirit of that advice he had emailed Claire and Daniel, to let them know that the plans he had finally put to them, were now quite likely to become reality.

After a few pints Vernon had felt as if he were twenty thousand leagues under the sea.

Breakfast over and a cursory evaluation of his teaching commitments the coming week completed, Vernon gave Nsansa a ring on her mobile.

“Hello” Nsansa sounded formal and reserved, unusually so.

Nsansa was breathing more deeply than usual and the effect was not an erotic one.

“Hi darling, it’s Vernon. Look I need to confirm something with you; it’s quite important. Is it convenient to talk”

“Hello sir, I’m glad you returned my call yes the patient is fine and with me now.” Was this another of Nsansa’s role plays? No, surely not, they were reserved for an audience and it didn’t make sense to fake her role to an audience who knew it already.

“Darling sorry, following  our conversation about Thailand while we were away I have decided to ring Mr Snapper and snap up his offer. Are you okay with that or do we need to talk some more.”

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