It felt like a long weekend. Hours spent ruminating on every why, who and how of whatever it was that she’d agreed to. What was it all about? What was a day in the life of that office? What would working there actually be like? Would they let her leave a bit early on Friday as long as she got everything done? Did they have a microwave? Was there an office maniac who’d use said microwave to heat up fish?
Late on Sunday evening, the anxiety spiralled into dark fathoms as it always did when she was left in her own company. Was she doing the ‘right’ thing? Could she say with a straight face that working for ‘them’ was really a means of valiant civil sabotage? Wasn’t she just another component in the misery factory? All those questions that conscientious people ask themselves when they’re forced to get their first minimum wage job at one of those chain stores everyone criticises for its use of sweat shop labour, but nonetheless is rammed full of said critics every Saturday.
Come on Jessica, look at what they’ve done. They didn’t hear the last breaths of the preventably-diseased squeezed into hospital corridors , the heart palpitations of the thankless, full-time retail employee staring at their bank statement or the creaking nooses of those whose financial lifelines were severed by so many ‘administrative hiccups’.
Fortuitously, this horrid corner of her head wasn’t the existential crisis corner or the give-up-and-hide-in-the-corner corner. It was the angry corner. It didn’t matter if Stokes was genuine or if this was some sadomasochist’s pet project . She told herself she’d seize this opportunity by the jugular and suck whatever drops of blood she could from the beast. She’d do… something. She’d never done ‘something’ with her life but reasoned that that must mean she was overdue. ‘Something’ Anything between single-handedly shattering 1000 years of political stagnation or breaking a lot of things in Stokes’ office before running out the door with as much stationary as she could hold. Whatever the outcome, she was marching into that office on Monday and doing whatever it was that she was being asked to do. On her terms.
She did indeed march past Jeano’s and the betting shop and up the stairs into the office and to Stokes’ door. The fire inside her persisted.
“Good morning Mr Stokes.” She said, as assertively as you can say good morning without it sounding sarcastic. He didn’t turn from his screen.
“Harry.” The fire inside her still burned, but it was fast becoming less of a raging inferno. Jessica stood in the door. Waiting for him to follow that up with something useful. It never came.
“Well then… Good morning Harry… So… What should I… Do?”
“Sorry folks!” Came Fatima’s voice, inches behind Jessica.
“Jesus!” Said Jessica reflexively. Putting her hand to her mouth as if to cram the word back in.
“Was in my own world. Come! Come! I’ll get you settled in.” Stokes had not broken his gaze from his screen. Fatima shuffled off into the next room, Jessica followed. She was led to a desk where a computer had been set up. Fatima waved a hand over a black bar on the desk, light emanated from the back of it and projected images onto a matte black square behind it. Fatima grinned like a small child who’d just stumbled across an ant nest, a magnifying glass and a lack of parental oversight.
“I love these things.” She whispered to herself. “Now you’ll see Jess, I can call you that? Right, you see Jess, I built this myself. Well no, it’s mostly things other people did that I’ve stitched together. I did the GUI though…” Fatima prodded at the screen and went on, for some time, about how she’d assembled a piece of software that would allow a user to post on any number of social media platforms, from hundreds of accounts at once. This may seem primitive, but the software would ‘translate’ whatever you wrote into the vernacular of the imagined personalities of each account. And to throw off any suspicions that these accounts may not be genuine people, they ‘lived’ even when the software wasn’t in use. As long as they were active, they’d post about their fictitious lives, get in pointless arguments and violate terms of service clauses about hate speech with impunity. Just like regular people. All of this could be honed and calibrated to cover whatever demographics, locales, or topics you liked.
“Harry wants you to generate a bit of talk about these.” Fatima dropped a note onto Jessica’s display. “Aim for 60% of chatter in Hatchfield to be on this stuff. Oh! And this is Wyn. Wyn does all the, you know, PR stuff and making Harry seem…”
“Normal.” Said Wyn. Who’d been sitting beside the window the whole time. “I’m the one who gets to filter through all the characterful messages Harry’s constituents send in.” Wyn smiled and turned back to their monitor as if to kill the conversation before it had even seen life. Wyn did not look at all at home. A neon teal short back and sides, and an outfit with far too many stripes was not the look you’d expect from a lacky to a VB MP. Having imparted roughly 20% of the necessary information for Jessica to get on with the job, Fatima shuffled off to her own desk. In slippers, Jessica noticed.
The note read:
- Strain on care homes
- Delinquent youths causing trouble – relate to special measures schools
- Dog shelter struggling for funds – see link
- Proposed railway development (it’s bad idea AND it’s good idea but being run badly)
- Bin collection problem
- Relate all of above to Cllr Miles Bridge
Anyone who’s ever been pickpocketed, called a horrible word by a stranger completely unprovoked, or seen a barista gob in a Frappuccino, will be aware of the lag the human brain experiences when presented with potent audacity. Jessica sat at her desk for several minutes and very nearly started clicking things before she caught up with what she’d been asked to do. In what world would this be at all justifiable!? The fire was back. She marched to Stokes’ office.
“Harry! I’m not doing this!”
“Okay.” His head didn’t move from the screen. Jessica fell at the first hurdle of the conversation. The torrent of words she’d wanted to levy at him dribbled down her chin.
“But… well… I… Good… But this is still unacceptable! It’s… it’s lying. It’s manipulative. It’s slander! You’re not just trying to control how people think-. You’re throwing some poor sod under the bus too.”
Stokes tapped on his keyboard a few times, leaned back, and began to read aloud.
“I don’t bloody care about the estate. Why should we spend money on crackheads and leeches? Would be doing the world a favour if we blew the budget on walling it off and letting them go at each other until the shouting stops. I don’t hate that lot and I try to be modern, but you can’t blame me for being a bit nervous if a family of them moves in next door. Everyone’s afraid to say it, but it’s just not natural when you think about it. How can you raise a child in a home like that. They’re lining me up to replace Hargreaves when he steps down! I think I’d suit being an MP, more time spent in London is less time spent with the pondlife in this shithole”
Jessica frowned. Confused. “Did that Miles Whatshisname say all that?” Stokes spun his monitor round to show Jessica that they had indeed all been part of private messages from Bridge. “Still… It’s awful but you don’t have to resort to mass disinformation. Just leak it.” Stokes turned his monitor back around.
“Can’t leak it. Everyone would know it was me.”
“Still!? You can’t resort to this!”
“This is no different to what FACTory, China, Russia or any large media outlet are doing. The only difference is what we’re trying to achieve.” Stokes pulled a newspaper from under his desk. It looked new. He held it up so that Jessica could read the headline. It read ‘No. 10 Name New Official Pooch’ above a picture of a happy looking dog on Downing Street. “A report released yesterday estimates that there are 4 million children living in poverty in this country. This is the story most outlets are running with.”
“That doesn’t make what you’re doing right!” the anger and confusion was stifling.
“Agreed.” Jessica stared at Stokes perplexed.
“So… why are you doing it then?” she asked. “Last Friday you almost convinced me you were different. That you were here to do the right thing. But how can you tell me with a straight face that you’re any better than any of the other reptiles in the party.”
“I have no choice. No one else is playing fair. You don’t have to do anything I ask. That is your choice. But I suggest you consider it.”
Jessica didn’t feel any more reassured, but she at least had something to think about. “I still don’t understand though, why me? Why lumber me, someone you barely know, with something as underhanded as that?” Stokes had not broken his gaze from the monitor since spinning it round.
“You make videos about baking. And you’re not very good. And you have over 40,000 subscribers, correct?” The brain lag kicked in again.
“Wha… yes. No! Why does that matter?” She fumbled.
“Everyone’s tried sharing their art, making vlogs about their mundane lives or sharing unwarranted opinions online, but most rightly get little to no reception. You, however, have built up quite a following despite most feedback consisting of variants of ‘you can’t bake for shit’. You understand trends. You understand how to reach people regardless of content having any merit.”
Jessica paused for a moment. “I should be offended but I can’t say you’re wrong with a straight face.” Stokes finally turned away from his screen and looked her in the eye for the first time.
“I don’t expect you to start spreading these messages just yet. Spend a few hours doing whatever you see fit. But please do give us a chance. I’ve got the surgery later. I intend to bring you along.” He turned back to the monitor. Jessica felt that there was nothing more to be said. After all, she was beginning to regret asking questions. She returned to her desk and did nothing more than scroll through some of the internet’s lowest-effort content for some time. An eerie lack of chatter sat over the office. Broken occasionally by HR-friendly quips about the weather and the arrival of the sandwich man around lunch time.
Throughout the day, no noise emanated from Stokes office. Deep into the afternoon, he appeared in the hallway, saying nothing, staring at nothing, wearing his coat. For a short while, Jessica pretended not to notice, and tried desperately not to ask any questions. Wyn, eventually, looked up from their desk, saw Stokes and frantically scrambled for their coat.
“The Surgery.” Wyn nodded at Jess. She too scrambled to her feet and grabbed a coat as Stokes trotted off down the stairs without a word, or a glance to see if anyone was following. The walk was lengthy. Jessica discovered that she had at least one thing in common with Stokes. Both did not suffer from the bone-bending stress associated with being in the company of people you know and none of you saying anything for longer than 30 seconds. Wyn did not share this trait. The walk saw Wyn make many valiant attempts at conversation to no avail.
The surgery was held at a small community centre, in a brick-lined room full of dust and stackable plastic chairs. A fitting venue for the apex of a key artery of British democracy. Harry sat behind a flimsy table. Jessica found a quiet corner to sit and watch, Wyn stood poised by the door to the room, ready to open it at dead on 3:30 and usher in the strange types of fauna that attend these kinds of events. First of these was Leonard Parker.
“Good afternoon Leonard!” Beamed Stokes, in a voice that Jessica had not yet heard. Leonard was not the type to be wounded by the common politician’s magic trick of remembering names. His sense of self-importance and failure to truly grasp the concept of a world outside of his own head, meant that Leonard expected everyone to know his name. Not to mention he was something of a regular at these meetings. Leonard was what you’d describe as a ‘local man’. He was so ‘local’ that he pronounced the word as ‘löcal’ and was one of the few people who’d lived in Hatchfield his whole life on purpose.
“Ja get my message!?” Said Leonard, in his outdoor voice as he grabbed the chair in front of Stokes.
“Yeah about the robot?” Stokes was continuing to speak in an uncharacteristically chipper tone.
“It’s bloody unacceptable! As I say every time ‘arry. This place is going to the dogs! The dogs! It just keeps gettin worse! This time, I’m in me lorry, I’ve got deliveries to do ‘arry. Out of bloody nowhere this great big baked bean can fing comes flyin into the road! I went right frough it. Bits of metal and plastic and old toasters goes everywhere! I was lucky it only left some scratches. It’s not what you need is it ‘arry!?”
“Nah it’s not what you need.”
“Someone could’ve gotten hurt. But they’ll keep makin the stupid fings. It’s a helf and safety issue. What if they start turnin those fings into mobility scooters and some old dear gets turned into bolognaise! And what do those fings know? You don’t know what they’re pickin’ up on their cameras. Do ya ‘arry?”
“Nah I don’t.”
“Exactly! It’s all goin’ tits up ‘scuse my French. You got the bankers, you got the politicians, you got the crime, you got the traffic wardens. And you got that technology park makin’ all sorts of wosnames. Trackin’ us down. Tellin’ us how to fink. All sorts of machines to keep us in line. And they ruin the city! Where’s Hatchfield!? I don’t see it no more. They’re bringin’ all sorts over here to work on their gizmos and then you see ‘em walkin’ round…”
“Oh I know!” Stokes interjected. “You know I’ve got one of those Smarter fridges. Meant to be Smarter than a smart fridge so they say. Well we know what they really mean don’t we?”
“Exactly brotha! Exactly! We get it! But the other people they don’t. And the politicians, they don’t listen to us. Umm not like you, I mean the other ones. They don’t give a monkey’s. Tell you what they’ve got the council elections coming up. I reckon I’m not even gonna vote. Why should I? They’re all the same. All as bad as each other.”
“Well who could blame you!” Stokes said, throwing his arms up theatrically. How odd, thought Jessica. She’d just witnessed a politician tacitly encourage someone not to vote. He hadn’t even suggested that the man support his party, he was telling him to keep quiet.
The conversation went on like this for some time. Jessica observed, transfixed, at Stokes who appeared to have been possessed by someone entirely different. She listened as he, as she thought masterfully, threw the conversation all sorts of directions. Each time Leonard veered dangerously close to xenophobia, or worse, asking a question requiring some substance in its answer, he’d lurch it somewhere else. All the while keeping Leonard engaged with eye-bulging enthusiasm. That is until Wyn came to his rescue, politely informing Leonard that his time was up and that he “Should definitely come back again or drop Harry an email.” Leonard was ushered from the room still making enthusiastic noises and waving. As soon as he was out of sight, Stokes placed both hands on his forehead and shut his eyes. It was almost as if he was rebooting.
Many of these conversations followed for the next hour and a half. Some of the visitors were much like Leonard, spouting vitriolic rage at the unimportant or imagined injustices they’d suffered. Each time starting out as if Stokes had been personally responsible for every poor move ever made by any authority ever. Some people had legitimate grievances even if they articulated them like anyone’s granddad filling out a review on a supermarket’s eShop.
A small few people even seemed ‘normal’. And each time, Stokes would affect a new persona, he’d speak their unspoken language. By the end of it, he looked sapped of all life. After leaving him to recover for a few minutes, Jessica walked over to the limp frame of Stokes.
“You spoke for almost 2 hours straight and said absolutely nothing.” He continued to say nothing. But he very nearly smiled and very slightly nodded. When Jessica pictured him in his office, he’d always be sat rigid and upright. And now he sat reclined as much as you could in a chair bought in bulk on a council’s budget. His face slightly pink and his stare a million miles away as opposed to its regular thousand. She still didn’t trust him, but in that moment, she did feel a considerable level of sympathy.
Even if the surgery had gone well all things considered, he’d just endured verbal battering from every shade on the political spectrum and had all manner of the world’s problems laid at his feet. And somehow, he’d seemingly deprived each visitor of their right to ask him a straight question or to even go as far as to advocate for their interests on the national stage. Yet, visibly, some part of all of it weighed heavily on his shoulders.
Who was this man? She thought.
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