Ctrl-Alt-Delete (Hagar Trilogy Book 1), page 1
Ctrl-Alt-Delete
by Dave Lewis
Cover design by Dave Lewis
Content copyright © Dave Lewis
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact the author here: http://www.david-lewis.co.uk
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This is Book One in 'The Hagar Trilogy'
Book Two is Raising Skinny Elephants - available here
Published in the UK
First published as an e-book Oct 2011
Special thanks to Sue, John, Debbie, Jan, Sally for all your input and support
For Eve
"Make your own rules or be a slave to another man's"
– William Blake
Ctrl-Alt-Delete
Prologue
August 2010…
Jenny had drunk far too much white wine. It was an easy mistake to make and now she was going to die.
How long had she been unconscious? She had no idea. No concept of time. Struggling hard not to panic as she felt herself begin to hyperventilate Jenny instinctively knew she must absorb and assimilate every detail. Something somewhere might save her. She also realised she must act immediately if she had any chance of escape.
Labouring for breath she forced herself not to give in to the gagging reflex as her desert-dry mouth filled with burning bile. Jenny’s swollen eyes strained to become accustomed to the murky gloom. She tried to shake her long, curly brown hair away from her face but dried sweat held it tight while the cold metal of the handcuffs cut into her wrists. Her whole body was aching now, and her pulse throbbed relentlessly in her head.
For a moment, her thoughts drifted back to earlier that evening. She vaguely remembered her vision blurring and a muted sound of words slurring, like holding your head underwater in the bath. Then her stomach had tightened and warm flushes had begun to spread out all over her body. A distorted Daliesque clock face slowly melted and slithered down the wall. As Jenny’s coordination flew off into the evening her knees had buckled and she tumbled forward.
She seemed to recall heading for the carpet in slow motion. A small, rough hand had expertly plucked the free-falling wine glass from mid-air and then placed it down delicately on a low wicker table next to her.
Terror can manifest itself in different ways but for some weird reason all Jenny could visualize at this moment was Hal’s grinning face staring back from the centre of a computer monitor. In these first brief seconds of consciousness her mind searched for reassurance. She tried to reason with herself, to tell herself it would all be OK.
Then she tried to justify her actions, to make sense of it, to make it alright. It wasn’t her fault. What else could she have done? Stalkers don’t just stalk anybody do they? You have to give them a reason. You’ve got to make them want to do it.
Oh shit! What have I got myself into? The thought of being a lonely old spinster was now quite appealing… then all of a sudden, off to the side, a long penetrating torch beam flashed across her body and in a nanosecond she was catapulted back to the all too real present. The harsh blue light settled on her pale face and blinded Jenny for a brief moment before an echoing click plunged her back into silence and darkness.
With her senses heightened by fear she could taste the damp, musty smells of straw, onions and potatoes. The odour of mouse droppings mingled with the stink of rotting, wet vegetables. She desperately searched the dim recesses of her prison. Her funeral-black pupils frantically scanned the darkness for hope. Penetrating, probing. Looking for anything that could offer her a way out of this nightmare… and then she saw them.
They were laid out purposefully in a neat line on the small wooden bench in the corner of the barn. Almost out of sight. Not placed in front of her - for effect. Not staring you in the face, not carefully arranged like pretty glass ornaments on a living room shelf. Not meant to shock or terrify. These had been put there for a purpose. Practical. To be used.
Jenny shivered. Her big brown eyes grew to saucers, her face became china-white as the adrenaline kicked in and coursed through her blood. She tried to jerk free but the restraints held firm as she slowly traced the metallic shapes in perfect clarity. Her screams were muffled by the crimson scarf tied tight around her mouth, and an earthy taste of silk mixed with her briny tears as they streamed into her mouth.
Suddenly and without warning warm liquid began to flow down Jenny’s legs as her bladder opened involuntary. She stank of fear. She missed her daddy.
Then, slowly but surely, the same rough hand emerged from the shadows and reached for a shiny, clean scalpel that glinted sporadically in the half-light. It edged closer to her, leaving the rest of the knives, dissection instruments and power tools set out clinically in the dark.
One
April 1st 2010…
Hal Griffiths had been fast asleep. His head submerged deep in a pillow, Egyptian cotton sheets wrapped around his lean but muscular torso.
A thick winter duvet lay in a pile on the floor next to a pair of old Levi jeans and a faded blue Billabong tee shirt. Bridgedale light-weight walking socks and a pair of Merrell trail shoes were close by. Smiling to himself, semi-conscious now, he kept his eyes closed tight.
These were the precious minutes just before waking when your mind knew it was time to face another day but your body craved another hours rest, or was it the other way around? Either way he wasn’t going anywhere, the voluptuous super-model Elle McPherson was with him.
Earlier that day they’d watched the Cronulla Sharks win at home, had a few Belgian beers and a giant ham and pineapple pizza. Hal ordered extra baked beans to go on top of his half. They’d planned to share it but Elle had hardly touched her side, so Hal ate that too.
She’d apologised to Hal for experimenting with that rhino horn when she was young and he’d reassured her she wouldn’t need that with him around. He’d also reminded her he took better photographs than Bryan Adams, even if his camera equipment wasn’t as good. She'd agreed with absolutely everything he said, of course.
Then a few more beers and a couple of hours of her laughing at his crap jokes and the same old stories were followed by them strolling arm in arm, into a waiting taxi. They headed home to her luxury flat in a trendy suburb of North Sydney. To the fading sounds of the traffic below she stretched her six foot frame up to kiss him, squeezed his strong, hairy arms and smiled a smile that would last forever. She might be forty-seven but what the hell, she’d do.
Then Hal rolled over to feel the empty space next to him and realised his latest girlfriend was still in Gdansk with her sick mother. He yawned, scratched his balls and headed for the bathroom. It took ages to pee when he was this big, but he kept his eyes firmly shut, willing it out and not wanting to lose this image.
Back in bed he tried to remember what Elle looked like naked as she contorted her perfect body around him, but it wasn’t to be. Now the only thing on his mind were recurring visions of his fat, ugly boss in her ill-fitting business suit staring daggers at him across the table and the thought of the presentation he was to give to the area manager in half an hour. The one he hadn’t prepared yet because he was so drunk last night.
Hal screwed his eyes rigid until they hurt. He refused to give in and used his left hand to pull the sheets over his head as his right hand crept gradually lower. Faster than Captain Kirk he was teleported to a cabin in the woods, high up above the shoreline on the Pacific Northwest. The coastal air was so clean and fresh, he could almost taste it…
His brain fast-forwarded through Farrah Fawcett, Geena Davis and finally Christie Brinkley but none of them would stay for long. A mixture of herring gulls and lesser black-backed gulls were squawking outside his open window now and he thought he smelt plum and cherry trees as the sea crashed on the rocks below. He blinked awake for a second when he realised a car had screeched its brakes several storeys below his top floor flat, near the St David’s Hotel in Cardiff Bay.
He tried one last time. Silvia Saint in the back of a valleys taxi, and finally the dirty, old blonde woman who worked in the last of the sailors’ pubs still open down the road, but it was no use. Hal was annoyed and frustrated now. She was normally a cert and he rolled over like a grizzly bear leaving its winter den and finally opened his eyes for good.
The seagulls were real now. Shit! He was parched and needed a drink. Time for a giant mug of tea, a massive bowl of Frosties and a good kick in the bollocks of reality.
Hal clicked the thermostat on to warm up the flat, but left the windows open. He grabbed some Tropicana orange juice from out of the fridge and drank straight from the carton. The acid burned his throat like paint stripper and the bits of fruit stuck between his teeth and he cursed to no-one in particular.
Still naked, he strolled into the living room, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms skywards, above his head until they touched the ceiling. He then picked up a half-eaten Yorkie bar from the arm of the settee.
His morning ritual was completed when he pressed the switches on his beloved Roksan HiFi and blindly grabbed at the nearest CD from the shelf. He was hoping for Tangerine Dream to gently ease him into the day but instead got Marina and the Diamonds. Oh yes! She would definitely do he though
Two
Paula’s hard nipples felt huge in her lover’s mouth as he struggled to keep her figure-hugging nurse’s tunic falling back down again. The consultant’s private room was locked from the inside and no-one else had a key, as far as he knew.
The DAB radio, a present from his wife, was playing an old Rolling Stones track, and as Mick sang about not being able to get what you want Doctor James Nicholas Martyn was convinced he was about to get what he needed.
In fact, at forty-four, ex-private schoolboy Dr Martyn didn’t think he’d ever seen a pair of breasts quite like them. And he’d seen plenty in his line of work as a gynaecologist at the Royal Glamorgan Hospital.
True, most of them were saggy due to the constant diet of McDonalds and wicked strength cider most of his under privileged, socially challenged, downwardly-mobile young mothers seemed to live on, but at least he still got to see them all first, and then he; as top-dog consultant and clinical director, could decide if any of the half decent chavs should be put under his expert care for the next six or seven months. Of course they usually shattered any illusions he had when they opened their mouths, and then he loathed them as much as he did most people.
Dr Martyn was standing up straight now, his face lost in an award-winning cleavage, wondering how he ever came to agree to work in this hellhole of a borough when Paula spoke.
‘Oh my, what’s that bulge in your knickers honey?’
‘Why don’t you find out, you dirty girl you,’ answered James.
Ex-Cardiff Medical School graduate James Martyn believed that everyone was put on this earth to please him and him alone. Paula, for her part, was quite prepared to play along though, even if his kinky habits and role-playing games seemed to be getting worse lately. In fact, the more she gave in to his demands the more outrageous they became. She often wondered where he got his ideas from, but then Paula never used the Internet. She was more of a Hello magazine kinda girl.
And yes, for busty Paula, an inch under six foot and built like an Amazon, he would make exceptions too. Brought up in Lisvane, on the outskirts of Cardiff, she had a little bit more class about her, thick as two short planks as she undoubtedly was though. But her boobs were all natural and that was all the superficial James Martyn cared about these days.
They were amazing in fact! What would the boys at the sports club say if they could see him now? Hole in one, most definitely! Who needed a lap dancing bar, a round of golf in the pissing down rain, or yet another Boxercise class when instead he could spend his Thursday morning ‘private clinic’ time in a tiny office sunk to the nuts with a stunning and randy tart like nurse Paula Price.
And boy did she keep him fit. He’d not only cut back on the jogging since he’d met her but also on his Tuesday evening trips to the Aikido martial arts club just north of town. Mind you he did still enjoy hitting the old punch bags in the gym. But that was different because he could imagine they were his slag of a wife.
The only problem he could sense with the arrangement was that Paula had started wanting to spend more and more time with him, and kept hinting at them moving in together. Last week the money-grabbing bitch had even asked him to buy her a flat. As if.
‘Oh, but baby, that way I’ll always be ready and waiting for you whenever you can get away from your horrid wife.’
‘How much do you think I earn Paula? I sometimes think you only love me for my money,’ James said in a sulky way guaranteed to keep her hanging on a bit longer for fear she’d think he’d worked out what she was really after. Like he didn’t know exactly, already.
Three
‘Warlock’ was nervous. He could normally spot the crazies a mile off, but this one was different. Calm, almost reserved one minute, a bit vague the next, before suddenly out of nowhere exploding into rage with their next message board post. It had all started with a simple password guessing game Warlock had posted to try to get the newbies to think about what they were doing online.
Most computer users are very lazy of course and if they can get away with it only ever use very simple passwords. Whether the same people would consider 1234 as a pin code for their bank ATM card is another matter but many computer passwords can be guessed quite easily if you have just a little knowledge of the person and their personal information. Examples of guessable passwords might include: the words ‘password’, ‘admin’ or similar, a row of letters from the keyboard - qwerty or asdf perhaps.
Warlock often warned his students about using an actual name, a nickname, the wife’s name or girlfriend’s etc. Birthplaces, date of birth, a relative, pet, favourite animal or telephone number were also frowned upon. These are all used as common passwords however. Other popular choices for password fields might be: car registration plate number, or a mobile phone number.
Adding a digit to an easy, guessable password does make it slightly more difficult to guess but most people will just add a '1' if pressed for a number as well. You could make it slightly harder for the hackers if you reversed the order of the letters, and a particular favourite of Warlock’s himself - a swear word, although of course he usual wrote it in ‘leet’, backwards and in Polish!
Newbies; somebody inexperienced in the use of computers, enjoyed Warlock’s little tests and would spend a day or two trying to work out a password of a fictitious character, usually someone he had quickly created on MySpace or Facebook.
In Warlock’s latest Facebook profile of an imaginary friend, he had listed the person’s favourite music and films. The newbies then had various avenues to explore – maybe the password was the name of an actor, singer or celebrity the person likes or a simple modification of one, e.g. 'petER gabr1el'? Using this simple method it wasn’t difficult to guess the password, especially remembering common letters can be substituted for numbers as well, e.g. a '1' for an 'L' or 'I'. or a '4' for an 'A'.
These kind of tests were easy, bin rummaging stuff for most. But for the poster known as ‘Hagar’, who was obviously a leet too, it was often too difficult and it would result in a good old, online row.
The term ‘leet’ comes from the word elite. Leet, also known as eleet or leetspeak, is basically an alternative alphabet for the English language that is used primarily on the web. Using various combinations of ASCII characters to replace normal letters example spellings of the words leet or elite might be - 1337 or 3l33t respectively.
The leet alphabet is really just a specialized form of symbolic writing. Leet may also be considered a substitution code, a cipher, hacker slang, a dialect or a completely new and evolving language depending on your use or fondness for it. Various linguistic varieties exist in different online communities and leet certainly doesn’t stick to the English language. Warlock used to liken it to kids who invent new spellings for words to use while texting and posting on social media platforms.
Leet is also used to describe a computer user with great expertise or accomplishment, especially in the world of online gaming and in its original usage, computer hacking. Hagar was without doubt in the top few per cent of computer experts in the country and demonstrated this often on the forum with his replies to requests for cracks or programs by other less knowledgeable users.
The language, like most languages, is also an evolving one, misspellings of common words are normal, as in mobile phone or chat room text language. Being totally international, spelling is less an issue, and it also comes in handy for circumventing content or swear filters, which may throw out certain messages for various reasons. Warlock was also fond of ASCII art, which is another common use of leet.
And then there were the strange URLs that Hagar posted to Warlock’s forum. Some links helpfully directed other users to news on Assange's WikiLeaks or solutions to various tests of competence on Hack Forums but when someone posted a link to the dumbed down BBC all hell would break lose. But it wasn’t because they were Muslim loving, pc liberals; all that seemed to go over Hagar’s head, it was just that Hagar didn’t seem to understand what was being posted. It was like Hagar lived in a bubble.
