She felt herself rock then. One on one. She had to hold on to the side of the desk. Then she exhaled slowly. She stared at her pad. Harvey Kidd. The name began to blur as her eyes filled.
– Don’t worry, he smiled down at her. He’s white-collar.
– But I, Hannah began. Then stopped. It was pointless. He knew her problem but he was ignoring it – no, worse, he was rubbing salt in it. Or rather, the Boss was. Via him. Odd the way more and more she confused the two of them.
Then with no warning, he touched her on the cheek.
– I told you there was people-work involved, he said slowly.
A shudder ran from her face directly down to her groin, where it settled, burning. – Relax, Pike murmured. He’s just a man. He won’t rape you.
– I have Crabbe’s Block, she found herself saying aloud, as she glanced in the mirror in the toilet where she’d gone to splash water on her face. Its pale oval, framed by wisps of thin, almost translucent hair, looked ghost-like. A social handicap rather than a mental one, Dr Crabbe had said. The place where Pike had touched her still burned.
She had always wondered what sex might be like. She had a sort of idea. As a child, she had paid close attention to the diagrams, though they horrified her. In the bad old days, when everyone had a car, the way you filled it with fuel seemed similar. Channel-surfing, she’d flipped past bits of soft porn – she’d never stayed to watch a whole scene. It had always aroused and appalled her at the same time.
– It’s a social handicap, rather than a mental one, she told her reflection. And watched it blush back. Work would fix things. Didn’t it always?
She began on the Family Project methodically, by skimming through global case studies and reports on Multiple Personality Disorder, but she found little about proxies that didn’t fit into a voices-in-the-head model. The further she hunted, the more she became aware of how rare this man’s pathology must be. Harvey Kidd didn’t believe he was all these separate but connected people. No; they lived apart from him, as semi-detached alter egos. They were even, in limited fiscal terms, functioning as individuals. The fraud evidence – which formed the bulk of the data on the discs and in the Libertyforce file – made that clear. But the fragments puzzled her.
My father believed that the Hogg family was real, ran Tiffany Kidd’s statement. Ever since I can remember, he spent time alone with them in the Family Room, rather than with me and my mother. He preferred their company to ours and would often spend a whole night in there, working…
Hannah called up shots of the ‘Family Room’. It could be any home-worker’s office: the jar of pens, the coffee-making equipment, the mini-fridge studded with novelty magnets, the unhealthy but tenacious cheese-plant. There were two desks, an office chair, a sofa, a coffee table, three computer terminals, two telephone/fax machines, several piles of stationery and application forms, and all the accoutrements of electronic paperwork: discs, printers, mouse-pads, stacks of cartridges, a scanner. But then Hannah noticed the walls. They were clad in a bizarre and garish wallpaper featuring bits of a coral reef. Or perhaps, she thought, peering closer, it was a technicolour mould, brought on by damp.
She blew up the images on her screen and drew in her breath.
Not coral. Not mould. The Family Room, from floor to ceiling, was festooned with photographs of people. Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands. But not just any people – the same people. Over and over again.
She enlarged the images further. The family shots were set against an array of backgrounds ranging from the Himalayas to a cobbled back street in what might have been Paris, or Prague. The people seemed to be smiling or laughing, mostly. Over and over again, the same faces – a woman, two men and two teenage children – dotted the walls. Kidd must have scanned in assorted pictures of families from a disc, and graphically doctored them, replacing the heads with –
So here at last were the famous Hoggs.
Hannah bit her tongue in concentration as she selected a section of the wall and blew it up to the maximum. It crossed her mind that bird-spotters might feel this way, when they glimpsed a rare species of tern.
In the family portrait on the screen before her, the one who jumped out at you was the teenage girl, because her breasts were huge. In some shots they were covered by wafty fabric or peeking out from a décolleté neckline, but in others they were bare. They had large dark nipples. The face was pretty and confident, with brash teeth. This must be Lola. Next to her stood the father, Rick – the man Harvey Kidd called ‘Dad’. He had a cardboard handsomeness, but there was weakness in the cheesy smile. He was too young to be the father of anyone Kidd’s age. Behind Rick and Lola stood a woman: Gloria. She was young too; svelte and charismatic-looking. The man standing to Gloria’s left must be Rick’s brother, Uncle Sid. He was more rugged than Rick, less earnest, and you could imagine a roguish, slightly louche side. Cameron stood a little behind, to the left of Gloria. He wasn’t as good-looking as the others, and wore a less classically happy smile. Hannah moved the mouse to view some of the other pictures. Gloria and Lola on a tandem, with tulips in the background. Cameron and Sid wielding drills, in a workshop heaped with wood-shavings. The whole family beaming around a tinselled Christmas tree, a log fire in the background and gifts stacked high. Gloria in a Hawaiian hula-girl outfit. Lola, naked breasts to the fore, riding on a camel in the desert, with the rest of the family, tiny identikitted faces attached seamlessly to the bodies, following behind. As Hannah scrutinised Lola – there was no avoiding those breasts – something tightened inside her. It was unnerving to peer into a stranger’s private world like this. Embarrassingly intimate, like seeing a soul – or a bottom – laid bare.
Harvey Kidd was clearly sick in a unique way.
That night, as she lay in bed, the image of his private Family Room kept coming back to her. It was like a shrine – but not a shrine to the dead. A shrine to people who were, in some very disturbed manner, alive.
But something had grabbed her. When she woke the next morning, her throat was constricted with it.
She was so engrossed that Leo Hurley had to ring the buzzer twice before Hannah heard. His eyes were still sunk back and depressed, like dim bulbs.
– Got a minute? He was clutching something in his hand: an envelope. Leo closed the door behind him, cleared a space on a chair, and sat.
– You still look ill, said Hannah. It worried her, this new unkempt look of his. It wouldn’t be long before Personnel had a word.
– So who are these? he asked, taking in the family portraits on the screen.
While she told him, Leo focused on Lola’s naked breasts.
– And d’you know why you’ve been asked to do it?
It annoyed Hannah, the way even when he was addressing her, his eyes kept sliding back to Lola. She seemed to mesmerise him.
– No. Well, maybe because I know about proxies and –
– No, I meant, what’s it for, Leo interrupted. What does the Boss need it for? Don’t you ever want to know the outcome of any of these projects? Don’t you – He broke off, exasperated.
– Not really, said Hannah, defensively. Anyway, I’m finding it interesting. I feel I’m beginning to know them as – well, as people.
– But you don’t like people, Hannah! He said it almost indignantly; for a brief moment, he sounded like Ma. – You know you don’t. Didn’t you say it was part of the syndrome you’ve got? The Crabbe’s Block thing?