e Squared (38 page)

 

From:
Liam O'Keefe

To: Harvey Harvey

Sent: 25 January 2009, 16.05

Subject: Security issues

 

Hi bwana

 

You'll be pleased to know I'm around yours. I just called by to check you'd canceled your milk. And to make sure any pets you may or may not own were being adequately cared for. And to deal with any important correspondence (I know the inconvenience of red reminders, repossession notices and such like).

 

Oh, and while I was at it, I thought I might as well get myself a nice hot shower—had a tough day shifting some heavy gear and worked up a bit of a man-sweat. Hope you don't mind, but there's no gas or electric at my place. Or furniture.

 

Also, there's a Turkish bloke who got his wires crossed about a message I left him, ended up in hospital and probably doesn't feel too well disposed toward me, so it's best I lie low for a bit. That's by the by, though it does mean I'll be crashing here for a night or two.

 

At least I'll be able to keep an eye on the place while you're away. On which note I've got to pull you up on your home security. It's fucked, mate. I expected to at least have to jimmy the door open with a credit card. Keys on string went out with the two-shilling pint and Buddy Holly. This is the twenty-first century. FYI, the chaps who roam the streets in hooded leisurewear aren't kindly Franciscan monks. They have knives and methadone habits, and their stated mission is to make you poor.

 

And you need to tighten up your computer security. I didn't even have to be a grade-D hacker to figure your log-on is David Tennant. The
Dr. Who
wallpaper was a clue. And your password? Five letters, first letter D, ends in K. Got it first hit.

 

What next? You getting your PIN tattooed on your forehead? Sorry to be so harsh, but ours is a bad, bad world. Jobless bankers roam the streets, vying with the homeless for the increasingly thin pickings. You're going to have to buck up. I really do fear for you in Nigeria. The gangbangers over there probably don't actually wear hooded leisurewear on account of the clement weather, but their knives are doubtlessly bigger and you can bet they're a sight more incentivized than ours are. Poverty is a great motivator—any Marxist analysis will tell you that.

 

I don't know why I'm telling you all this because you're dead already, aren't you? I can feel it. Here in the gathering gloom. Of a drear Sunday afternoon.