Sockpuppet: Book One in the Martingale Cycle by Matthew Blakstad Page B
Authors: Matthew Blakstad
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squeeze then the colour in the room dials down: he’s gone. She’s served her purpose. Sleep beckons.
‘Well, Fiona, it’s perhaps inevitable that this affair should have gained the name Pig-gate. It’s certainly “hogging” attention here in Westminster. And the pressure on embattled minster Bethany Lehrer shows no sign of letting up.
‘Ms Lehrer was unavailable for comment but a spokeswoman told us, quote, This is the act of a petty Internet hoaxer. We are treating it seriously but the information posted on the Parley website is not accurate. The public can rest assured that Digital Citizen data is quite secure. Referring there to the controversial new online ID card.
‘And though the leaks first surfaced on popular social network Parley, their ultimate source remains a mystery. The hunt is widening across the entire Internet.
‘Now, interestingly, Fiona, the Prime Minister, questioned this afternoon at a visit to Marlesbury NHS Trust, expressed, quote, full confidence in his embattled minister. But I’m told she has been summoned to an early meeting tomorrow, here at Downing Street – at which, one suspects, she will be asked to account for the reality or otherwise of this alleged hack; for her words in Parliament last week; and – most importantly – for the invaded privacy of several thousand taxpayers.
‘One thing is certain. That meeting will be anything but “boar”-ing.
‘Fiona.’
¶tvjoe
Haha look at the reflection on this political editor guy’s head! IT IS BLINDING ME.
Ooh!
Time for Celebrity Pie-Eating Contest on Five!
Eight
The clock was a hand-me-down, like the house. It had held post on the painted bookshelves as long as Bethany could remember. Its low tock was part of the fabric of the kitchen. It took an effort of concentration to make it out – like the stink of dog she was sure hung about the house but that she and Peter were too attuned to notice.
She gazed at the dial and tried not to consider how many ways she was screwed. A hair after 12:45 – time yet.
Her eyes tracked the rows of cookbooks, their marker ribbons hanging over the shelves like mouse-tails. Here was continuity, through her childhood and back to times she hadn’t known and didn’t understand. Bottom to top, Nigellas and Hestons blended into titles her mother worked from in the seventies: Cuisine Minceur ,Robert Carrier, white spines stained as elderly teeth; and on the top shelf, the shredded papyrus of Pattens and Davids: her grandmother’s books.
Even today Bethany inhabited the house as though minding it for Gramma. She repeated her routines in the kitchen and spring borders. You could say the same about the bedroom, too, though she didn’t choose to explore that thought. She scanned the room for other traces. On the Aga bar, the ratty tea towel – Famous British Breeds – was nearly as old as Bethany and should be chucked. The mid-century Kenwood that she used for cake mixes always gave off a metal-and-petroleum smell, making her think of the war. On the wooden counter, one of Jake’s books –
Dammit! Giggly Pigglies go to the Theme Park. That dire TV spin-off book Jake couldn’t get enough of. Her politician’s brain filed this intrusion in a deep interior chamber, where it could detonate without disturbing her conscious mind. She cast her eyes back to the spread of business on the big oak tabletop. Here she was again, where she’d been when the whole thing began.
This table was her refuge. Each night she laid the debris of her day across its grain like archaeological finds. This was the only place and time that was wholly hers. In the mornings, when she eased the front door into its frame and tiptoed out to the polite hum of a ministry Prius, the sun was still down. The car rolled her to the underground car park at Artemis House, where her driver handed her off to Emily Candlewick, her Private Secretary. Daytime was spent in a so-called
‘Well, Fiona, it’s perhaps inevitable that this affair should have gained the name Pig-gate. It’s certainly “hogging” attention here in Westminster. And the pressure on embattled minster Bethany Lehrer shows no sign of letting up.
‘Ms Lehrer was unavailable for comment but a spokeswoman told us, quote, This is the act of a petty Internet hoaxer. We are treating it seriously but the information posted on the Parley website is not accurate. The public can rest assured that Digital Citizen data is quite secure. Referring there to the controversial new online ID card.
‘And though the leaks first surfaced on popular social network Parley, their ultimate source remains a mystery. The hunt is widening across the entire Internet.
‘Now, interestingly, Fiona, the Prime Minister, questioned this afternoon at a visit to Marlesbury NHS Trust, expressed, quote, full confidence in his embattled minister. But I’m told she has been summoned to an early meeting tomorrow, here at Downing Street – at which, one suspects, she will be asked to account for the reality or otherwise of this alleged hack; for her words in Parliament last week; and – most importantly – for the invaded privacy of several thousand taxpayers.
‘One thing is certain. That meeting will be anything but “boar”-ing.
‘Fiona.’
¶tvjoe
Haha look at the reflection on this political editor guy’s head! IT IS BLINDING ME.
Ooh!
Time for Celebrity Pie-Eating Contest on Five!
Eight
The clock was a hand-me-down, like the house. It had held post on the painted bookshelves as long as Bethany could remember. Its low tock was part of the fabric of the kitchen. It took an effort of concentration to make it out – like the stink of dog she was sure hung about the house but that she and Peter were too attuned to notice.
She gazed at the dial and tried not to consider how many ways she was screwed. A hair after 12:45 – time yet.
Her eyes tracked the rows of cookbooks, their marker ribbons hanging over the shelves like mouse-tails. Here was continuity, through her childhood and back to times she hadn’t known and didn’t understand. Bottom to top, Nigellas and Hestons blended into titles her mother worked from in the seventies: Cuisine Minceur ,Robert Carrier, white spines stained as elderly teeth; and on the top shelf, the shredded papyrus of Pattens and Davids: her grandmother’s books.
Even today Bethany inhabited the house as though minding it for Gramma. She repeated her routines in the kitchen and spring borders. You could say the same about the bedroom, too, though she didn’t choose to explore that thought. She scanned the room for other traces. On the Aga bar, the ratty tea towel – Famous British Breeds – was nearly as old as Bethany and should be chucked. The mid-century Kenwood that she used for cake mixes always gave off a metal-and-petroleum smell, making her think of the war. On the wooden counter, one of Jake’s books –
Dammit! Giggly Pigglies go to the Theme Park. That dire TV spin-off book Jake couldn’t get enough of. Her politician’s brain filed this intrusion in a deep interior chamber, where it could detonate without disturbing her conscious mind. She cast her eyes back to the spread of business on the big oak tabletop. Here she was again, where she’d been when the whole thing began.
This table was her refuge. Each night she laid the debris of her day across its grain like archaeological finds. This was the only place and time that was wholly hers. In the mornings, when she eased the front door into its frame and tiptoed out to the polite hum of a ministry Prius, the sun was still down. The car rolled her to the underground car park at Artemis House, where her driver handed her off to Emily Candlewick, her Private Secretary. Daytime was spent in a so-called
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