‘Yes, of course,’ Russ said.
‘Now, I’ve loaded the website to both your phones; are you sure you don’t want me to do the same with your tablets and laptops?’
‘No, that’s fine, I’ll do it,’ Russ said. ‘Thanks for everything. I’ll certainly recommend you.’
‘Thank you. Please don’t hesitate to phone or email me if there is anything further I can help you with.’
‘We will,’ Russ said. They shook hands.
Derek turned to Mrs Williams. ‘Nice seeing you again. You’ll sleep easier in your bed now you’re all protected.’
‘We will indeed.’
Chapter Five
‘You’re late,’ Elsie Flint hissed the moment Derek walked in. ‘Your dinner’s ruined again. I had mine over an hour ago. It’s thoughtless. But why do I expect any different? Like father, like son.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Derek said, going to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. ‘But you know I can’t leave a client until the job is complete.’ He ran the hot water, squirted antibacterial soap onto his palms and washed them well.
Tutting, his mother took his plated dinner from the oven. She set it at the place she’d laid on the small Formica dining table covered by a faded tablecloth in the recess of the kitchen.
‘Thank you,’ he said, drying his hands.
She humphed and returned to the living room, sitting in her usual chair in front of the television to watch the soap he’d interrupted.
She was a bitter woman, Derek acknowledged, and watched soaps most of the day to alleviate the boredom of her own life. And who could blame her? Her life was meaningless, shallow and without purpose but there was nothing he could do about it.
He crossed to the table, and drawing out a chair sat down. He picked up his knife and fork, wiped it on his napkin and looked at the congealed ready meal on his plate.
‘I’ve told you not to bother cooking my meal,’ he called through to her with a stab of irritation. ‘I never know what time I’ll be back.’
‘And I’ve told you it’s a waste of electricity to cook our meals separately,’ she returned, and upped the volume on the television to stop further discussion.
In the past he’d suggested buying a microwave but she’d refused on the grounds they were unsafe, and, anyway, she’d never learn to use one.
‘I could teach you,’ he’d offered.
‘No, thank you,’ she’d said in a tone that left no room for negotiation. ‘We don’t need a microwave.’
He took a mouthful of the cottage pie and chewed slowly. Another stab of irritation. He resented having to eat her overcooked processed meals nearly as much as he resented being put in the position his father had left him in. When he’d abandoned them, Derek had become solely responsible for his mother. He’d been just eighteen and his own life had stopped. He doubted it would ever get going again while she was alive. He’d had to leave school to get a job to support them both, and had become his mother’s emotional crutch too – her lifeline. It was crushing and sucked the lifeblood out of him.
Then he felt guilty for thinking these things, and hated his father even more.
‘Sorry, lad,’ his father had said on the day he’d walked out, taking only one suitcase and never returning. ‘She’s not the woman I married. I’ve stood it for as long as I can but it’s a loveless, sexless marriage. You’re an adult now and can take care of yourself. I want something better while I have the chance. I don’t deserve this.’ But neither did he, Derek thought bitterly.
As the only man in her life, his mother took out her frustration on him so that over the years he’d grown to feel as his father must have done and could almost appreciate why he’d left. But Derek didn’t have the option of leaving. It was unthinkable. She’d never survive alone, which was not a consideration his father had had to contend with because, of course, Derek had been there.
Having eaten half of the glutinous tasteless heap on his plate, he stood, went to the pedal bin and scraped the rest in.
‘Wasteful,’ his mother called from the living room. ‘Throwing away good food when there are kiddies in the world starving. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
He didn’t respond – he rarely did – but crossed to the sink where he filled the bowl with hot water, added a squirt of washing-up liquid, and washed his plate and cutlery thoroughly. Drying his hands, he returned to the table and, in a well-practised routine, removed the salt and pepper pots and put them in their place in the cupboard, folded the tablecloth and placed that and the napkins in the drawer in the bureau.
He poured himself a glass of water, left the kitchen and began across the hall.
‘I’ll be upstairs if you need me,’ he called.
There was no reply; he hadn’t expected one. He probably wouldn’t see her again until the next day when she would be downstairs in her dressing gown making breakfast. They sometimes had dinner together, which was the nearest they came to interacting; otherwise he followed his routine and she hers.
As he neared the top of the stairs, his spirits lifted at the prospect of what lay ahead. It was his ‘calling’, his vocation, and what kept him going and made his life worth living. It created a feeling of being valued, of being in charge, and gave his life some purpose. Without it he’d be nothing, a nobody like his mother, but in this he knew he excelled.
Opening the door to his bedroom, he flicked on the light switch then closed the door behind him, sliding the bolt into place. The cheap outdated furniture, threadbare carpet, single bed (his since childhood), and faded curtains were of no significance now. His surroundings were inconsequential compared to the work he did – keeping people safe.
He crossed to the one piece of new furniture in the room, the pine workstation that stretched almost the length of one wall. Reaching under the desk, he threw the switch and then sat in his office chair and waited for the monitors to power up.
The expectation of what lay ahead was uplifting, nearly orgasmic in its intensity. Nothing else gave him a buzz quite like this. His desk and the monitors resembled a control centre. Houston calling. This was his domain. Here he had a god-like status: all-seeing and powerful. Omniscient, and looking down on the minions that were the human race.
Four screens; he might buy more, although he was already working flat out. There just weren’t enough hours in the day. Each monitor was responsible for twelve sites, forty-eight sites in all. He would be stretching himself to take on more and he didn’t want to let anyone down. He changed the sites from time to time. Updated the selection as and when necessary. If he got bored with one or if the client no longer required his service, then he replaced their site with another. He was never short of choice. There were always people in need of monitoring, guidance and assistance. It was just that they didn’t know it.
The screen savers appeared simultaneously on all four monitors and Derek entered the password, then clicked on the icon to launch the software for the live images coming from his clients’ cameras. His senses tingled with delight as forty-eight thumbnail images presented themselves and the screens were alive with little people scurrying around like ants.