Sockpuppet: Book One in the Martingale Cycle by Matthew Blakstad Page B

no.
    She opens the mail but the bitter, vicious fact won’t change. The address she sent it to wasn’t sambot@local. It was [email protected]
    She sent that mail – the mail of a sex-crazed drunken maniac – to Sam. Twelve minutes ago now. It’s been twelve minutes since the world came to an end and she never even noticed.
    She can barely focus on the mail.
     
fuck you sam i think i love you
 
    Somewhere between here and Shoreditch, she is going to have to kill herself.

¶TurdoftheDay
Modest and tidy, it slipped from me like a buttered potato.

Sorry. Sorry.
I did something bad. I can’t talk about it.

Four
    ‘I shouldn’t tell you any of this,’ said J-R.
    Mark bent forward to set down a second milky tub for J-R and another tiny espresso for himself. He pinched the knees of his jeans and sat.
    ‘Because I’m from the craven private sector?’
    ‘No, no. I shouldn’t speak to anyone. ’
    ‘All right, look.’ Mark made a fan with both hands. ‘Apart from we’re friends, my reputation rests on my ability to keep a secret. Whatever this is, you know it’ll stay between us.’
    J-R took a steadying breath.
    ‘Yes. All right.’
    And suddenly he found himself all business. He might have been making a report to Krish or Bethan.
    ‘So from what we can tell,’ he said, ‘this Giggly Pigglies virus started appearing on people’s computers two weeks ago.’
    The corner of Mark’s mouth curled up a little.
    ‘But three days before that ,’ J-R continued, ‘I received an email from Bethan.’
    He wiggled the laptop out of his bag. Now he’d started speaking he was eager to reveal. It was like stepping onto a departing train, without looking back. He set the laptop on the table and spun it round so Mark could read for himself.
    ‘There,’ he said. ‘See?’
     
That, Sean, is a very generous offer. You do know how to please a girl! Here’s the goods. I’ve protected the files with your encryption thingy as you asked. (Tell me if I did it wrong . . .!!) Do with them what you will, fella.
Bx
     
    Mark looked up from the screen.
    ‘Oh,’ he said.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘That does look—’
    ‘Yes,’ said J-R. ‘This was sent to Mondan’s CEO, Sean Perce.’
    ‘Yes, yes, sure.’
    Naturally Mark would know who Perce was. In recent years his firm had romped through the British digital media sector, acquiring businesses like burrs on a dog. They’d recently crowned this growth with a shining new HQ. Just this morning, emerging from the Tube, J-R had looked up from the hustling City traffic to see the enormous digital displays wrapped round the pinnacle of 404 City Road. Impossible to ignore. They shone down Moorgate like a new sky, the width of a city block, running a constant loop of financial, commercial and celebrity news. Spattering data across the rooftops.
    ‘But why did she copy you ?’ asked Mark, dimpling his brow at the email.
    ‘Bethany sent it to Perce’s home email address – and copied it to my Ministry of Technology address. Which appeared odd until I realised: when you type my name into our email system, it shows up as Pemberton, John-Rhys. And because I’ve mailed Perce a lot, I happen to know how his work address appears.’
    ‘ Perce, Sean ?’
    ‘Yes. So my guess? Bethan meant to send this to Perce’s home and work addresses, but instead—’
    ‘Autocomplete,’ nodded Mark. ‘ Pemberton. Perce. She got you instead of him.’ J-R decided he’d said yes enough times and stayed silent. ‘So – this is undeniably fascinating but I’m guessing you want something more from me than polite interest?’
    ‘Well, yes, there’s this attachment. I suppose I’d assumed –’
    J-R was incapable this morning of completing a sentence. Mark filled the vacuum.
    ‘– that I’d be able to crack the encryption key and find out what exactly Bethany sent Mr Perce.’
    ‘Mark, I don’t want to believe she could be capable of – I can ’ t believe that. But you