“Do you like kids?”
Marla closed her battered paperback with an audible sigh and looked up at the girl next to her. Pretty face, blonde hair—Marla suddenly felt a hundred times scruffier. Great, her mood had worsened. The girl sounded Swedish and just a little bit vacuous. If nothing else, at least Marla had the intellectual high ground.
“Yeah, I love them,” she lied.
This appeared to delight the girl; a slightly insane-looking smile spread across her face as she looked down at the pram in front of her.
“You should be an au pair. I get to look after these two all day. They’re as good as gold. And their parents are lovely…”
Marla had been an au pair, once. She shuddered as she remembered the tabloid headlines, “JUNKIE AU PAIR A MENACE TO TODDLERS—MOTHER’S ANGUISH OVER INCIDENT”.
Highgate Park had been busy on the day of the “INCIDENT”, swarming with au pairs like her, leaning on the handles of high-tech executive baby buggies, texting.
Marla had quickly maneuvered the kids to the playground area, as she always did. As she sat on a bench watching them attempting self-destruction on the swings, Marla had rolled a joint—as she always did. Kicking back and resting her head against the comforting hardness of the wooden bench, Marla had drifted off for a while enjoying the gentle birdsong and distant murmur of a jet plane.
Suddenly, a wailing scream broke into her reverie. Returning to her senses sluggishly, Marla peered through slightly red eyes to see what was up.
The children were screaming.
Marla ran. She ran and pushed through the little gate into the play area. An elderly woman was cooing over the children, trying to calm them down. The youngest was in a bad way, the broken bone protruding through her soft baby skin. Her face was a rictus of pain. A constant rising and dipping wail flooded from her agonized mouth like an air raid siren.
Sirens.
The ambulance had arrived soon afterwards, and the police car. Angry parents had pressed charges of course, and she’d been unemployed ever since. So here she was, out of work and money in London. The most expensive city in the world.
Christ, she had to get of here. The Swede had started speaking into the pram in sickening baby talk. Marla stormed off and started the long walk home, the only place she’d get any peace now.
Marla let herself into her bed-sit, cursing the stiff lock as it nearly ate her key. She could barely wait to lock herself in her dark little room and smoke herself to sleep.
But sleep would not come. Her stomach was howling for food, so Marla dragged herself off the bed and rooted through the grimy cupboards in search of sustenance. A can of tuna, a little past its sell-by date, and a couple of rice crackers would have to do. She had nothing else. Eating from the can (most unladylike) she surveyed her room with mild despair.
Apart from the bed, a few charity shop paperbacks and dirty clothes scattered on the floor, the only sign that anyone was living there was a clunky old laptop. She’d inherited the machine from Carlo, an old boyfriend of hers. Poor Carlo fancied himself as a bit of a web entrepreneur but had left town in a hurry when immigration came calling. Marla decided to hold onto his computer for him, back-payment for listening to all his crappy jokes and even crappier chat-up lines.
The damn thing barely worked at the best of times, but at least she could check her emails and look at job ads. The landlady let her use the phone line for free, as long as she stuck to the free dial-up service. Although “service” was stretching it a bit.
The modem crackled into life, sounding like the anguished wails of that injured child, and promptly crashed. A few more attempts and Marla was online.
“You’ve-got-mail,” said the excited computer voice.
Why did it always sound so excited? All she ever got was spam mail about weight-loss pills and penis enlargements. Marla was clearly in need of neither; she tossed the half-eaten can of dry tuna fish into the trash and looked back at the screen. Her mail inbox was taking an age to load up.
“You’ve-got-mail.”
Expletives tumbled out of Marla’s mouth as dozens of spam mails racked up onscreen. “AS OF CONJOINMENT” one read idiotically, “WANT TO CUM LIKE A FIREHOSE?” asked another. Jesus, why did she even bother? She was just about to turn the machine off, when she saw it. There, tucked away among the junk mail was the subject line, “Re: Article Submission”.
Marla clicked on it and gazed at the email header, almost unable to scroll down and read the rest. It had been a couple of weeks since she’d submitted the feature, a travelogue cannibalized from her diary entries while backpacking across Europe during more prosperous times.
She actually trembled when she clicked the mouse to read the rest of the email.
“Dear Ms Newborne,” it read—great, they had already spelled her name wrong, “Ran a similar piece in last month’s issue. Please check before sending unsolicited work. We are not taking freelancers right now. Good luck with your career.”
The mail wasn't even signed with a name, but from the mail address she could see it was from someone called Sandy.
Well, Sandy was a bitch whoever he/she was. At least they hadn't crucified her work this time. Still, it made Marla feel a little better to sign Sandy’s email address up for a few porn sites and dieting newsletters before she went to bed.
Digging some dope from the stash sock under her bed, Marla rolled herself a little nightcap and imagined what tomorrow might bring.
Only disappointment, she thought as she stubbed out the joint. Moments later, and Marla’s head was at one with her pillow. Her breathing slowed and became heavier.
Somewhere in cyberspace, a series of electronic pulses conspired together, drawing data from algorithms out in the ether. The data weaved together into text, words gliding towards a pre-determined destination.
Words that became a message, a whisper.
“You’ve-got-mail,” said Marla’s computer, and she stirred for a moment before turning over and drifting off into a troubled sleep.
Chapter Three
Rain pounded on the window, waking Marla from her nightmare. She’d been crushed inside a pram, listening to her bones breaking. Peering through sleep-encrusted eyes she realized she’d left the computer on all night. Wonderful. She’d have to feed the electricity meter before she fed herself, as usual.
Yawning her way across to the kettle, Marla made herself a cup of coffee. She flopped down in front of the laptop and fingered the track pad, ready to shut it down. As the screen lit up in response to her touch, something caught her eye. One new email. She couldn’t help but look, even though she knew it would end in disappointment.
“FAO: Marla Neuborn—employment offer” read the email header.
What the hell? Marla rubbed her eyes, looked again. More junk surely, she thought as she opened the message. She began to wake up as she gulped coffee and scanned the text; Dear Ms. Neuborn—acquired your details from agency—ideal candidate—a paradise of opportunity—immediate start…
Spam. She hit “delete”, turned off the computer and downed the rest of her coffee on the way to the shower room.
Marla tried to keep her soapy skin away from the slimy tiles and mildewed shower curtain. The landlady hadn’t updated the facilities at the “Mansions” in years. And every day, Marla had to run the gauntlet of the hallway outside her room to reach the communal shower room. Sometimes, like today, she got lucky and didn’t run into one of the building’s lecherous inmates.