‘Presumably I can sit here?'
Headphones in he was tapping on his device before Raven agreed. One of those laptop jockeys in Botley's artisan coffee shop. A writer-in-residence of the digital future, swapping human failings for the icy perfections of code and spreadsheet.
The setting was perfect – for him. A mixture of faux-chumminess and industrial austerity; a Covid redoubt, haunted by the lockdowns its regulars enjoyed.
Raven stole his tablet and it couldn't have been simpler. It was easily hidden under his own.
'Is your milk allergy-tested?'
The annoyance peered into the cake display, reciting its tempting contents. The device sat open and unlocked. Raven took it without glancing, remembering Clemenza's words to Michael Corleone on how to leave Louis’ restaurant in the Bronx. Walk straight out but don’t hurry.
The bar at Botley's Premier Inn was perfect - for Raven. Its jarring interior sure to repel hipsters and digital workers; the purple and cream tones ensuring his nemesis would never set foot there. The files revealed:
* A list of dogging locations off the A420 and A34. I'll initially spare you elaboration (his activities were lovingly chronicled).
* A database of Tesco superstores in the Oxford area, linked to programs for stock-levels. It was in edit-mode so Raven made random changes then hit 'Go Live'. Expect vast quantities of Tunnock’s Tea Cakes in your local store.
* A detailed inventory of his late-father's possessions, with likely values and ideas on how to ensure he - and not his sister - got them. Most were worth under £20.
* A local health authority database of Covid vaccination status for Botley's locals. Raven recognised many names, including his own. Scrolling through, each cell linked to information on voting habits, views on Brexit, ethnicity, race, qualifications, occupation…even where one shopped for food.
There was a link to 'preferred pronoun if realignment prescribed or promoted.' Raven edited his own information, until the program locked when he identified as a pan-sexual Muslim with a geography degree from Durham, seeking urgent and drastic realignment.
Later he returned to the artisanal oasis, wearing a mask, balaclava and great-coat - like a revolutionary from Dr Zhivago. Raven pushed the sorry item under one of the benches and almost collided with its febrile owner, ranting at a cowering barista.
'Surely you have CCTV? It was stolen and this is now a national security matter. I can have you closed and searched if it's not returned!'
It needed starting - a rebellion, of sorts.
*
'We know it was you.'
Laptop was queueing behind him in Home Bargains. Raven had been staying for a week at the Botley Premier Inn, revelling in his anonymity. Remarkably, his daughter had been left untouched at her current school.
Was there anywhere Raven would be less likely to meet Laptop? Maybe he was checking toilet-roll stock against the Leave/Remain voter ratio in Botley. Or the staff were getting compulsory kindness training. Raven pretended not to hear, pondering his use of pronoun.
Laptop then swung his basket into the back of Raven’s knees. An act that couldn't be ignored.
Raven turned and rammed his thumbs into Laptop’s eyes, kicking him brutally in the bollocks and smashing a basket over his head.
In violence - of which he had vague experiences - the vital thing is speed. More risky for Laptop than Raven. He was a disgraced teacher, exiled for crimes against gender realignment plus saying 'Islamophobia' is a synonym for common sense.
The checkout staff roared their approval.
'Get stuck into the shithead. He had me put on disciplinary for my checkout rate falling below 80% of regional average.'
The speaker was a defeated looking Sikh on an adjacent till.
Laptop staggered up, shakily extracting his mobile.
'Send in the supervisory team. I'm being attacked by a nativist!'
Management rushed to the checkout area but Raven made good his escape, into the Pets at Home superstore.
'I was at college with that twat.'
The young assistant pointed. Toy police and store detectives were gathering, unable to see Raven crouching behind a row of hamster cages.
Leading them was Laptop, barking for 'the immediate arrest of a far-right extremist.'
She led him further in, opening a door into the Vets' rooms.
'Mr "Social justice through control then rape". Universally hated, especially by women. But boy he did the woke talk.'
Raven sat flummoxed. The woman was oddly familiar.
'Misty, your cat - I do her jabs.'
His trust was won. Glancing at the CCTV, Laptop and his Stasi crew were wandering next door, into Oak Furniture Land.
'I'm Julia. I won't ask your name, since you're cancelled.'
'Wise. And who's my pursuer?'
'He's not called O'Brien. Rupert Howard, the vacuum created when ideology replaces God, man or morality. He studied Geography, of course. A monster to be ranked alongside Beria or Mao.'
Pretentiousness or profundity?
'Surely he’s just a turd with open windows on dogging, supermarket management and lockdown - not Stavrogin?'
'My mother was Russian,' she replied, smiling or grimacing.
CCTV now showed several uniformed police entering the shop. She led Raven through the back doors to a welcoming skip, crammed with flattened cardboard boxes and polystyrene packing debris. He felt strangely at peace and fell asleep, safely concealed by the retail-park detritus.
(Earlier parts here: https://paulsutton.substack.com/p/the-drenching-arms-part-six)