Part 12 (2/2)

I did. The return address listed was my own.

”It's very impressive, Aykan,” I said, nodding slowly, wis.h.i.+ng someone else had written the letter, made it a bit subtler, maybe edited it a bit. ”You've done a real number on them.”

”Well it ain't over yet, bro,” he said. ”Watch this s.p.a.ce, you know? Watch this f.u.c.king s.p.a.ce.”

My phone went at five the next morning. I padded nude and confused into the sitting room.

”Man.” It was Aykan, tense and excited.

”What the f.u.c.k time is it?” I said, or something like that.

”They're onto me, man,” he hissed.

”What?” I huddled vaguely on the sofa, rubbed my eyes. Outside, the sky was two-tone. Birds were chirruping imbecilically. ”What are you on about?”

”Our f.u.c.king philanthropic friends, man, ” he whispered tersely. ”The concerned folk over at Feed The World central, you know? They've rumbled me. They've found me.”

”How do you know?” I said. ”Have they contacted you?”

”No no,” he said. ”They wouldn't do that-that would be admitting what the f.u.c.k was up. No, I was watching them online, and I can see them tracking me. They can already tell what country I'm in.”

”What do you mean?” I said. I was fully awake now. ”Are you intercepting their email? Are you crazy?”

”Oh man, there's a hundred f.u.c.king million things you can do, read their messages, watch who they're watching, bounce off internal memos, keep tabs on their automatic defences . . . Trust me on this: they're looking for me. ” There was a silence. ”They may even have found me.”

”So . . .” I shook my head. ”So leave it alone. Let it be, get off their back before you p.i.s.s them off any more and they go to the police.”

Looking for Jake, By China Mieville ”f.u.c.king pof.u.c.kinglice... ” Aykan's voice swam in scorn. ”They won't give it to the police, the police couldn't find their own thumbs if they were plugging up their a.r.s.es. No, man. It's not the police I'm worried about, it's these Hunger motherf.u.c.kers. Haven't you clocked what kind of people these are? These are bad people, man. Major bad ju-ju. And anyway, man, what the f.u.c.k you mean leave it alone? Don't be such a s.h.i.+t-eating coward. I told you, didn't I? I told you this was a f.u.c.king war, didn't I?” He was shouting by now. I tried to get him to shut up. ”I'm not looking for advice. I just wanted to let you know what was going on.”

He broke the connection. I did not phone him back. I was tired and p.i.s.sed off. Paranoid p.r.i.c.k, I thought, and went back to bed.

Aykan kept sending his obscure emails, advising me of some new change to An End To Hunger.

The letter to donors did not last long, but Aykan was relentless. He directed me to their sponsors page, and I discovered that he had rerouted every link to a different revolutionary left organisation. He created a small pop-up screen that appeared when the ”Donate” b.u.t.ton was clicked, that compared the nutritional value of rice with what was rotting in European food mountains. He kept hinting at some final salvo, some ultimate attack.

”I keep watching them, man,” he told me in one of his irregular phone calls. ”I swear they are so on my tail. I'm going to have to be really f.u.c.king careful. This could get very f.u.c.king nasty.”

”Stop talking rubbish,” I said. ”You think you're in some cheap thriller? You're risking jail for hacking-and don't shout at me, because that's what they'll call it-but that's all.”

”f.u.c.k you, bro!” he said. ”Don't be so naive! You think this is a game? I told you . . . these f.u.c.kers aren't going to the police. Don't you f.u.c.king see, man? I've done the worst thing youcan do... I've impugned their philanthropy! I've f.u.c.king sneered at them while they do the Mother Theresa thing, and that they can't f.u.c.king stand!”

I was worried about him. He was totally infuriating, no longer even coming close to conversing, just taking some phrase of mine or other as a jumping-off point to discuss some insane conspiracy.

* * * He sent me bizarre, partial emails that made almost no sense at all. Some were just a sentence: ”They'll love this” or ”I'll show them what it really means.”

Some were longer, like cuts from the middle of works in progress, half-finished memos and s.n.a.t.c.hes of programming. Some were garbled articles from various encyclopaedias, about international politics, about online democracy, about computerised supermarket stock-taking, about kwas.h.i.+orkor and other kinds of malnutrition.

Looking for Jake, By China Mieville Slowly, with a stealthy amazement and fear, I started to tie these threads together. I realised that what looked like a patchwork of mad threats and ludicrous hyperbole was something more, something united by an extraordinary logic. Through these partial snippets, these hints and jokes and threats, I began to get a sense of what Aykan planned.

I denied it.

I tried not to believe it; it was just too big. My horror was coloured with awe that he could even dream up such a plan, let alone believe he had the skills to make it work.

It was utterly unbelievable. It was horrific.

I knew he could do it.

I bombarded him with phone calls, which he never picked up. He had no voicemail, and I was left swearing and stalking from room to room, totally unable to reach him.

An End To Hunger had been ominously quiet for some time now. It had operated without interruption for at least three weeks. I was going crazy. There was a mad intensity to everything, every time I thought of Aykan and his plans. I was scared.

Finally, at ten minutes to eleven on a Sunday evening, he called.

”Man,” he said.

”Aykan,” I said, and sighed once, then stammered to get my words out. ”Aykan, you can't dothis, ” I said. ”I don't care how f.u.c.king much you hate them, man, they're just a bunch of idiot liberals and you cannot do that to them, it's just not worth it, don't be crazy- ”

”Shut up, man!” he shouted. ”Listen to me!” He was whispering again.

He was, I suddenly realised, afraid.

”I don't have any f.u.c.king time, bro,” he said urgently. ”You've got to get over here; you've got to help me.”

”What's going on, man?” I said.

”They're coming, ” he whispered, and something in his voice made me cold.

”The f.u.c.kers tricked me,” he went on. ”They kept it looking like they were searching, but they were better than I thought-they clocked me ages ago, they were just biding time, and then . . .

and then . . . They're on their way! ”

”Aykan,” I said slowly. ”You've got to stop this crazy s.h.i.+t,” I said. ”Are the police coming?”

Looking for Jake, By China Mieville He almost screamed with anger.

”G.o.df.u.c.kingdammit don't you listen to me? Any f.u.c.ker can handle the police, but it's this charity wants my f.u.c.king head!”

He had invited me to his house, I realised. For the first time in years, he was ready to tell me where he lived. I tried to cut into his diatribe. ”I know s.h.i.+t about these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds you wouldn't believe, man,” he was moaning. ”Like some f.u.c.king parasite... You got no curiosity what kind of f.u.c.ker lives like that?”

”What can I do, man?” I said. ”You want me to come over?”

”Yeah, man, please, help me get my s.h.i.+t the f.u.c.k away,” he said.

He named an address about twenty minutes' walk away. I swore at him.

”You been close all this time,” I said.

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