Bitwhackers Book 1 - Calicaan: Bitwhackers, #1

CHAPTER ONE

SEATTLE FALLS

Boom!

An explosion.

A moment followed when the huge crowd stopped all babbling conjecture.

Their building anticipation was replaced by a sudden pin-drop silence; one intensifying when hundreds of colourful web-screens, palettes and plaques hanging from the massive expanse of high ceiling flickered, and then simultaneously shut off.

These ‘rubber-neck’ spectators occupied a space normally thronging with high activity – this particular portion of the vast internet highway, however, had come to a complete standstill since the ‘roadblocks’ had been put in place.

Billowing smoke emerged from the focus of their attention – a tunnel entrance one hundred metres from where the masses were gathered behind internet police barriers.

Out of the swelling smog materialised a familiar figure; one famous to them all as a hero. But this time running fast, as if in retreat; something the gaping audience found utterly alien.

The eminent operative ran toward his awaiting super-fast transport, as a black figure – one sharply glistening in the cold bright light – broke through the expanding thick grey cloud, following hard on his heels with malicious intent.

Only just missing, the black figure clawed at thin air as the operative sped off – his break-neck escape splitting the onlookers like the Red Sea with Moses, as his bespoke vehicle smashed through the barricade.

Quick as a flash, the crowd turned back to view the pursuer.

He was gone.

Standing in stunned silence, there was an overwhelming sense of fear and confusion.

Seattle had fallen.

CHAPTER TWO

LIGHTNING BITES

Tick – tock – tick – tock…

The slim teenage boy sat at his computer desk, slumped. Motionless on the black-leather swivel chair bar, deep-set, intense, quiet liquid eyes tracked the slow, hypnotic, pendular motion of a wired mouse hanging off the table edge.

Brandon’s ocular side to side movement was driven from a purely subconscious level; one lost in confusion at the memory of the past seventy-two hours. He was in a state of stunned disbelief, unable to make sense of what had happened, and what had only just occurred.

When Easter break started just three days ago, his eyes were their natural hazel-green, now they were brown; the transformation in colour they undertook whenever he was angry or stressed.

Snapping him abruptly out of his self-absorbed trance, a now all-too-familiar offending female voice rang out from behind his semi-closed bedroom door.

Oi, freak show, Croc wants… sorry – your mum… wants you downstairs!

He felt the heat of anxious hostility rise at the back of his neck, but didn’t move a muscle.

No answer from inside the room, Bernice, the source of Brandon’s sudden feverish distemper and step-sister of one year, prodded the door half open as if it were infected. Peering around it, she noticed the state of the room, and then homed-in on the back of Brandon’s computer chair; a thick shock of his medium-length, dark-brown hair breaking the flat line of the top.

Hey! said Bernice, trying to get his attention, she says to tell you dinner’s ready.

Still no answer, Bernice was now intrigued. Kicking his door fully out of the way, she continued.

What’s happened here then? she asked.

Brandon remained perfectly frozen; wishing she would go away and leave him alone. Instead, she sauntered in, allowing her step-brother’s profile to come into view before plonking herself on the edge of his bed. Brandon acknowledged her arrival in his peripheral vision by pinching his eyelids firmly shut - in the mistaken belief this action was an effective defence mechanism, and would somehow make him immune to the customary wind-up about to follow.

Bernice noticed he wasn’t wearing his ‘normal’ getup of bow-tie and shirt; instead he was in denim jeans and a sweat-top. Something was definitely up if he’d resorted to wearing ‘regular’ clothes, she thought; concluding quickly that she was going to take great pleasure in probing, and then pushing him, as far as she could.

"Well, she said, with particular relish, you gonna tell me, or what?"

Although accustomed now to Bernice barging into ‘his’ room, he still didn’t like it. Brandon had started off accepting it out of respect; it was her house after all, however, an old adage was showing itself to be true – give an inch, take a yard.

Not only did she know how to take that yard, but also how to beat him with it.

Nonetheless, this time, she was justified. Brandon, in his preoccupied stupor, hadn’t noticed that what was usually a bright, light bedroom atmosphere had morphed, descending into a dark, heavy, oppressive energy; as if an electrical storm had just passed, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

It wasn’t really necessary for Bernice to ‘feel’ any of that; she wasn’t especially tuned to ‘pick up’ subtle ambient changes as it had never been a priority for her. But what she did see was the superficial shrapnel of clothes, stationary and files strewn in unpredictable fashion all around her step-brother. Everything, including Brandon, looked like it’d been involved in some kind of controlled explosion; even his usual ‘just got out of bed’, gently tousled hairstyle had transformed into a ‘fingers-plugged-into-a-high-voltage-socket’ frizz, and it wasn’t pretty. In fact, she was sure she could see gentle wafts of smoke emanating from his head.

Now, sitting on his bed, Bernice realised she couldn’t let this situation go – it had even got to the stage where, from the corner of her eye, she could see his precious bow-tie collection, one usually hanging neatly flat from the back of his bedroom door, was now in a tangled heap on the floor, obviously accepted by him as part of the collateral damage – this was bad.

‘Good,’ she thought.

It was obvious to her now he was preoccupied, so with brazen aplomb, she seized the opportunity to slip in the description she’d used just outside his door before entering; one she’d been categorically told not to adopt as reference to his mum.

Croc’s already in a bad mood, said Bernice, with an excited glint in her eye, those two foxes your mum’s been cursing for the last two days have pulled rubbish all over the garden. If she sees you like this she’s gonna blow a fuse.

Bernice felt the name ‘Croc’ was a befitting representation given that Mrs Rory, Brandon’s mum, had decided in her wisdom to actually try and talk to her new step-daughter – something which Bernice took as being lots of jaw action but no substance – not to her anyway.

Brandon’s attempt to stay calm, hold it together and be ‘zen-like’ hadn’t lasted as long as he’d hoped; looking, at first, for saviour toward the ceiling, he then clenched his jaw before turning and glaring at her in silence.

Bernice noted his transformed eye colour to brown, and knew exactly what that meant – stress. In glee-filled hope she could put the knife in even more, she questioned him again.

Well? Come on, she said, out with it.

"If you must know, replied Brandon, through gritted teeth, Arnold’s shut down. He’s not talking to me."

Arnold? You mean your bitwhacker? she snorted hard; incredulous at her step-brother’s distress, "you’re so stupid!"

Not very ladylike, he thought, and certainly not in keeping with how his step-sister looked. Blonde and pretty, with semi-hooded sparkling-blue eyes; even if she did look like a ready-made pop star, he still couldn’t understand why his best friend, Adam, had such a crush on her – then again Adam didn’t know her like Brandon did.

It’s only a computer for god’s sake, said Bernice, not bothering to cover her condescending tone, "there’s no hope for you, and you really need to get out more!"

Mind your own business! Brandon replied, remember, I didn’t invite you in.

Hello, it’s my house, she said, "I can do what I want, and anyway, Arnold isn’t real, he’s only a microchip. Bernice continued after casting a dismissive glance around his bedroom, and he can’t have done all this!"

A flood of memories invaded Brandon as he tracked her gaze; just one thought crashed through his mind.

Lightning Bites.

The game had done his head in.

His computer, a Dilcom 3-dimensional interactive unit (3-DIU), was internally operated by a fully conversational bitwhacker – a super-advanced processor able to build a strong, human-like relationship with the user.

However, this game had brought their bond to such breaking point that their last communication-cum-argument had finished with Arnold swearing at him and then shutting down.

It was Good Friday now, and school term had finished on Wednesday with Brandon going hammer and tongs at the game ever since. He was usually so adept at gaming, but this time he’d been led up one garden path after another, Brandon just couldn’t get a handle on it.

Losing again and again, his frustration had been building and intensifying; a heady mixture of tiredness and anger leading to all-out physical assault on his 3-DIU – Brandon had pushed it, hit it, and abused it repeatedly over the last seventy-two hours – the fallout evident around him.

Lightning Bites had been made available one week ago, on the previous Friday, in USA and Japan, instantly becoming a mega-hit game. It had since become the most hotly anticipated UK release, due four days later, since ‘Super Mario’ and ‘Call of Duty’.

However, on Monday morning, UK release day, there was an announcement postponing its premier; it had been put on ice due to a technicality. Immediately, rumours began circulating of a full cancellation and worldwide recall of every Lightning Bites game – something confirmed by senior representatives of the software company on stage at London games fair by late afternoon.

Hence, when Adam’s first cousin Christopher offered Brandon the game two days after the recall, he’d almost snapped his hand off.

I’ve hit the highest score already, Christopher had said, knowing the comment would put Brandon’s ‘tail up’, do you and Adam want it for Easter break?

Christopher had the face and manner of an angel – one which everyone, including Adam, refused to believe hid a long standing and stealthy terrorising of Brandon.

Grabbing the game, Brandon had been playing it since home time on Wednesday, however Adam hadn’t been able to join him, and as this might well have been the very last copy in circulation, Brandon knew the excuse had to be serious for his best friend to pass up the opportunity to be in the same house as Bernice; Adam was building bridges to finally ask her out on her fourteenth birthday in a month’s time.

Oi! Bernice’s voice interrupted his thoughts, nerd! She clicked her fingers sharply to get his attention.

Brandon resumed the interchange seamlessly. He might be a microchip, but he’s my friend – and I can’t believe he swore at me. And anyway, he said, shooting her a look, I live here too now, so get used to it.

You-are-such-a-half-wit, said Bernice, listen weirdo, finally your Arnold thing has seen sense; it was only ever a matter of time till he did.

Go screech somewhere else, I’m busy, he replied, buzz off and go have a screaming contest with those two foxes; they sound just like your singing practice.

Brandon struck right at the heart of one of her ‘red buttons’, he knew any degree of comment on her band and singing practice, unless full-blown praise, was taken as criticism; hitting a raw nerve.

She was now firmly on the defensive.

Get knotted! she barked, go geek yourself in your own house, if you weren’t six months older than me I’d throw you over there myself!

She got up and stormed toward the door; fists clenched and feet stomping, call customer services, she hissed, and get your Arnold put down or something. While you’re at it, call the doctor and have yourself looked at too, better still, call a helpline – you need it – idiot!

She spat the last word, spinning out the door and slamming it behind her in order to ‘shut him out’ as well as shut him in.

Brandon muttered profanities aimed at the empty space left by his step-sister, knowing she was right. He should call Dilcom customer services and get his bitwhacker processor Arnold and his 3-DIU computer sorted out.

Arnold had been his sanity for years now, ever since his father bought the 3-DIU for him as an eighth birthday present, but especially so over the last year and through all the upheaval of his mother marrying ‘little miss irritating’s’ dad.

Brandon grimaced, reluctant to admit Bernice had jolted him out of the mini conscious coma this Lightning Bites game had put him in; he was beginning to realise he’d been a little too heavy-handed with his 3-DIU and especially so with his loyal bitwhacker.

Arnold, he said, "if you can hear me I’m sorry, please start up, I won’t hit you, I promise."

Nothing.

With a deep sigh, Brandon reached for his mobile and began dialling while negotiating his way through the debris on the floor and on toward his large, front facing window.

He perched himself on the ledge and threw the net-curtain behind over his head.

There in front of him lay St Andrews Avenue, one of the most beautiful roads in Windsor. A wide street lined with gorgeous old oak trees, occupied by large detached houses, some security-gated, most with expensive cars gracing the driveways.

Brandon stared out listening to the ring tone, oblivious to the distinct air of affluence in front and around, lost in memory beyond the last three days to the whole year previous. He focused to mid-distance; eyes as always coming to rest on the house opposite. Now let out to a Chinese business man and his family, it was where he and his mother had moved from one year ago. When Brandon had asked his step-father, Dr McCall, for one of the front bedrooms, the request was eagerly accepted and fulfilled – anything to make his new stepson feel more comfortable.

Good evening. Dilcom Inc; your gateway to the internet, a soft, sweet voice answered, you’re through to the customer services centre, my name is Safi, how may I help you?

Hi, good evening Safi. I’d like to report a fault with my 3-DIU, replied Brandon. As long as it wasn’t Bernice, his manners were impeccable.

Certainly sir, may I take your account number?

Brandon complied with the request.

Thank you Mr Rory, replied Safi, now, what seems to be the problem with your computer?

Well, it’s sort of stopped working. Umm, the other thing is, my bitwhacker, Arnold, he kind of swore and now won’t speak to me.

Sorry? exclaimed Safi, did you say he swore at you? I can only apologise sir, I do hope you haven’t been playing Lightning Bites?

Err, well, yes I have, answered Brandon, taken aback at the operator’s comment. Oh, that may explain things, also, if that’s the case Mr Rory, I’m able to arrange a collection tonight – we’ll try within the hour.

Wow, within the hour!

Yes Mr Rory, and we’ll aim to have your 3-DIU back to you as quickly as possible.

Thank you Safi, but how did you know I was playing Lightning Bites?

The game? Oh, umm, just a lucky guess!

Exiting his bedroom and contemplating events, Brandon walked across the galleried landing outside and down an elegant, split double staircase.

None of this made sense; the game had gotten the better of him, and busted his 3-DIU in the process. Worse, Arnold had sworn – something bitwhackers never did. Even though Arnold had always been forthright and blunt, he’d never uttered profanities before.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs he moved with athletic ease across the large open hallway, his thoughts now turned to Dilcom Inc.

Collection within the hour!

He had the distinct feeling the operator’s mention of Lightning Bites was far from just a lucky guess.

Brandon approached the door to the dining room, where the other three members of his ‘family’ were waiting.

CHAPTER THREE

THE CALL CENTRE

Dilcom valley existed in a realm parallel to earth.

It occupied a vast expanse of territory, and was made up of many different sectors; each designed for a specific purpose.

In one such sector was Dilcom valley business complex. In its exact centre stood Dilcom valley call centre; a huge, imposing all-glass pyramid, dwarfing the six smaller pyramids dotted in a circle around it.

The towering call centre had been designed as such to induce a bright, uplifting internal atmosphere for a focused, front-line operator workforce; a place usually alive with the buzz of excitement, humorous chatter and high energy.

All elements which were now missing.

Lightning Bites had put paid to that.

‘TAKE A BREAK, NO MORE HUMANS,’

flashed up on hundreds of individual 3-D holographic screens – each ‘manned’ by an operator sitting in groups of four around a central pole; much like points on a compass.

The message was met with a collective sigh of relief. The first bit of good news since morning; it was early evening now, and there’d been no respite from the avalanche of called-in complaints.

En-masse, the whole floor at this level of the pyramid took off their headphones, an action which shut down external communication immediately and turned off their screens. The sudden hush was almost deafening, as the work-force took a moment to sit stunned. One solitary voice rung out, floating on the abrupt lull; breaking through the quiet. She was part of one particular tight-knit foursome; the other members of her little clan were wholly conscious of the raised eyebrows from the operators around them; what she was doing was a strict contravention and direct violation of bylaws regulating call centre breaks.

Safi, Safi, whispered Sultan, slashing fingers across his neck, indicating finish call.

Safi held up her palm in acknowledgment.

Sultan nodded, and held up an index finger to the many onlookers; showing them she would only be another minute. Now pacified, the scathing looks dissipated; most had already turned back to their respective groups and were busy gossiping away, snacking on drinks and food.

With Safi still absorbed in her call, Sultan spoke to the rest of the members of his group of four.

I’ve had more calls in one morning, he said, about broken 3-DIUs and short circuited bitwhackers than I’ve ever had before in a whole month!

I know, me too, replied the third operator, Sari.

And these humans interjected the forth, Sofi, shaking her pretty head, always so angry – makes them ugly!

They reminisced days gone by when they would giggle at humans calling in unable to read basic instructions – complaining about how ‘it’s not working,’ due to it not having been switched on, all the way to ‘do I have to plug my 3-DIU into an electrical socket?’

I’m so grateful for all that HCG patience training at Penelope’s academy remarked Sultan, and thank Ada for my abundance of calm digi-chips, phew, I hate this Lightning Bites game.

Sultan’s mention of digi-chips referred to microscopic components which gave all dilcom-a-lings, a collective of living beings residing in Dilcom valley, manning and operating the vast internet, their own individual personality and character.

Digi-chips were much like hormones and DNA in humans.

Human contact group or HCG, were just one type of these dilcom-a-ling workers, and were responsible for receiving telephone calls from humans, tending to their every computer and internet need; they’d also been the ones in the firing line, taking the brunt of the fallout from the game.

HCGs looked like flight attendants in uniform; smart, good-looking, and the epitome of front-line staff. However, at this moment, the dilcom-a-lings in question looked a complete mess.

Look at her, quipped Sultan, nodding toward a still occupied Safi, her usually immaculate coiffure now resembling a manic frizz, she looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards!

We all look like that, replied Sofi, maybe I should get you a mirror.

Oh my digi-chips, I can’t believe it! shrieked Safi, finishing her call and throwing off her headphones.

What? asked Sultan, biting into a slice of plumb bob cake. He stopped and went pale, please don’t tell me it’s the Light Killer virus, I don’t think I could handle that today

No Sultan, Safi replied, it’s Arnold!

Her message was greeted with silence. Time seemed to stop for a moment.

Yeah, nice one Safi, said Sultan, breaking the tension and taking another huge bite of his cake, munching away with a grin; teeth almost fully bared in amusement, impressed at Safi’s attempt to make them all laugh at her joke.

I’m not kidding Sultan, Safi replied.

She allowed the information to sink in; Sultan’s munching slowed, ending with his mouth open and eyes wide.

Yes, you heard me right, she continued, Arnold’s had a possible concussed fuse shut down.

Safi diagnosed him having a stress-related physical collapse.

He might be bonged, said Sofi, pointing to mental illness; she’d realised the only way she could deal with this was to insult him.

He’s always been bonged! added Sari, joining in.

He was born bonged, girls, said Sultan, giggling. He’d already resumed his chewing; having decided his cake was too delicious to be ruined by Arnold.

Safi ignored the comments, still lost in the previous call, I’ve just spoken to his owner; actually, his behaviour’s not quite as offensive as some of the humans I’ve dealt with today; he’s quite polite, and pleasant. She took a sigh, recalling his calm 3-D image on-screen – the concept of one-way viewing, where the operator could see the caller but not the other way round, was a new introduction by Dilcom headquarters. Anyway, this Brandon, he’s been playing Lightning Bites. You know what that means.

There was palpable dismay, as realisation that Arnold was about to be admitted to Dilcom hospital in the valley sunk in.

Arnold was infamous, and according to the vast majority of Dilcom valley inhabitants, the most unbearable bitwhacker ever created – no one wanted him back.

I’ve lost my appetite. Sari looked at her share of cake with a soured expression, the thought of Arnold just makes me want to vomit!

Can’t we somehow forget about the call? said Sultan, with a mischievous glint in his eye, let’s just leave him there.

Ooh, you’re so naughty Sultan, replied Safi, sorely tempted, but I’d better do as instructed; we’ve all been told if anything happens to Arnold, Dr Dilcom has to be informed immediately.

Since gossip had a habit of spreading through the call centre like wild-fire, it wasn’t long before everyone knew the situation and had their theories about Arnold’s state of mind.

Amusement aside, deep down, one fact stood out for all; if this bitwhacker had been got at, then the Lightning Bites situation was critical.

CHAPTER FOUR

A FAMILY DINNER

Tough times needed tough leadership.

After her arrival in the house, and after she’d seen for herself the patterns everyone was falling into, Mrs Cecilia Rory decreed they should all be together at least once per day. According to her, there had to be some discipline and rule change if this new family were ever going to be a ‘team’. So Bernice’s habit of anytime, anywhere food and TV dinners had been thrown out, and Brandon’s multi-tasking with 3-DIU, food and mobile at his bedroom desk was gone.

Brandon, her son, understood it for what it was, but Bernice, her new stepdaughter, was not impressed; in her version of events, her territory was being invaded and the ‘conqueror’, Mrs Rory, had already changed the laws of the land – and kept changing them.

The trio were already seated at the mahogany dining table when Brandon entered the large, traditional-styled room; a soft splish, splish from his sneakers against the old hardwood floor hardly registering on the decibel scale.

Mrs Rory, a tall, slim, olive-skinned brunette with soft, attractive, symmetrical features broke the silence.

Brandon darling, she said, are your clothes ready for tomorrow?

Yes Mum, he replied, flashing a half-smile followed by a courteous nod toward the other end of the table at Dr McCall. He continued toward his tacitly assigned seat; a full plate of steaming dinner already placed in front.

They were positioned on the long table in the fashion of a Christian cross; Brandon’s mother and step-father on carver chairs at the two ends, and the stepsiblings opposite each other, closer to Mrs Rory.

Intentionally audible, Bernice picked aimlessly at her plate. Designed purely to goad; she knew it was a particular bugbear of her new stepmother. Brandon knew it too, but like his mother, decided to ignore it; Dr McCall wore rose-coloured glasses too eagerly, and too often, to do anything about it.

Bernice, meanwhile, was roasting at the lack of effect.

You’ve got so many trousers and beautiful shirts, said Mrs Rory, referring to Brandon’s ultra-casual attire; trying to tune out the harsh noise of metal on plate. Why have you spent the last three days in those? What’s happened to your bow-ties?

He doesn’t look that bad, interjected Bernice, muscling in before Brandon had a chance to reply, at least he’s trying to be normal. She then shot Mrs Rory a look, unlike some people I know!

Tension rose in the dining room as Mrs Rory was now compelled to turn her attention to Bernice.

The deliberate cutting in and undermining had begun a year ago, excused at first as an adjustment period for her new ‘daughter’, it was becoming clear to all that the insolence and contemptuousness were now showing increasing signs of becoming permanent.

Is your contribution really necessary Bernice? said Mrs Rory, inadvertently coaxed into reacting; her patience had been tried and tested so often, and worn so thin, that now, the bait Bernice put out was often bitten.

I think you’ll find Mrs Rory, that being popular like me means your opinion always matters.

Regardless of the countless times Bernice had been told she should now call Brandon’s mother ‘Mum’ or ‘Mummy’ Bernice insisted it should be Mrs Rory, in hope one day soon her stepmother would leave and retain the surname. She’d also been informed by someone at school about something called neuro-linguistic programming (NLP), so she’d embarked on a program to call her Mrs Rory as much as possible hoping to brainwash her stepmother into believing she would always remain Mrs Rory; sometimes Bernice would even chant it in her bedroom, hoping to evoke her past ancestors to help. She’d already come to the conclusion it wasn’t working.

Being popular at school isn’t the be-all and end-all Bernice, said Mrs Rory softly, trying to impart some wisdom on her stepdaughter.

You would say that, replied Bernice, you probably tell your son that to make him feel better.

Brandon rolled his eyes and shook his head; he didn’t want to be dragged into this inimical little duologue.

Just then, Dr McCall indicated across the table to his new wife with a furtive glance and tiny wave; an appropriate topic had arisen, one they’d discussed earlier.

Catching his expression Mrs Rory nodded. She leaned over and tapped the top of her stepdaughter’s hand before continuing; adopting a more patient stance and slowing her voice.

Actually Bernice, talking about school, she said, your exams are approaching, and you know, you need the best grades if you’re still serious about going to that performing arts school.

Now what? said Bernice, I always pass don’t I? Then, turning to her father, "you know that Daddy."

On an otherwise very plain ordinary face framed by slightly limp, longer than medium-length hair, Dr McCall had very long eyelashes; those lashes now fluttered behind his spectacles as he adjusted them nervously before giving her a quiet, apologetic smile for what was to come.

Yes, I know you were born under a lucky star Bernice, said Mrs Rory, attracting her stepdaughter’s attention again, but your father feels it’s a bit of a gamble taking exams without revising, so, she paused, until your exams are over we’d like you to study a bit more instead of putting so much time into band practice.

Hey, but you can’t! Bernice protested.

Please try to understand, it’s for your benefit, explained Mrs Rory.

Prisoners in jail get more rights than this, complained Bernice, knowing there was no point going any further; she’d realised Mrs Rory wouldn’t have brought it up if she didn’t have her dad’s full backing.

Nowadays, he was like a love-sick puppy following that ‘Croc’ woman around. Sure, he was easily swayed by Bernice but what was the harm in that, the equilibrium was good, ‘I do what I want, he does what I want’; easy.

However, with Mrs Rory’s arrival he’d had ‘an attack of the sensible’ regarding his daughter; something which hadn’t gone down too well with Bernice.

She reminisced about her dad’s constant attention, having previously taken it for granted; even missing his embarrassing ‘trying to be cool’ antics. Like when he’d gate-crashed a mini party in her bedroom and, while attempting a dance move from a John Travolta movie, he ended up cramping a leg muscle and crashing into a bookshelf.

Or, when he turned up at her parents evening, wearing the tightest t-shirt and low-rise jeans possible, sporting a bandana of the American flag on his head, insisting he was ‘in touch’ with the ‘young’ generation and his inner ‘youf’.

There was a time when he’d enjoyed his self-appointed role as a twenty first century father, nominating himself as the ‘hippest’ dad in the world, or as Bernice would put it, ‘my father’s quite sad, he needs a life’. The last thing she meant was marrying Mrs Rory from across the road.

Dad? said Bernice, turning to her father, you serious?

Dr McCall gave her a weak smile to confirm what she was hearing.

I’m gonna call Childline, shot Bernice, suddenly, this is abuse!

Yes, of course, said Mrs Rory, sweetly, shall I get you their number?

Yeah, added Brandon, and I’m sure some European court of injustice somewhere will be willing to hear you out.

Dr McCall had obviously put his daughter’s comment down to a knee-jerk reaction, since he was still smiling, hoping her little storm in a teacup would pass quickly.

Bernice huffed. Reluctantly accepting defeat she then asked, but, I can still see Perrie, can’t I?

Perrie, or Persephone Schumacher, had been Bernice’s best friend and band-mate for the last year, and according to Mrs Rory a wonderful influence on her stepdaughter. Perrie was polite, softly spoken and charming; she had the perfect blend of good looks and intelligence, which reflected in her being top of every class.

Of course Bernice, Mrs Rory replied, she’s welcome anytime.

Brandon, said Dr McCall, I hear your bitwhacker, Arnold, isn’t doing too well – Bernice told me. He was changing topic to break the tension.

Brandon nodded while glancing at the plain-looking man. What Dr Matthew McCall lacked in looks he made up for with a confidence borne out of dealing with the public one on one, a kind of understated charisma; only there and identified if you looked hard enough, otherwise it was just something people ‘felt’ in his warm and engaging company.

Have you called the company about him? Dr McCall continued.

Yes, said Brandon, they’re coming to collect tonight, in about an hour.

Wow! exclaimed Dr McCall, now that’s excellent customer service for you, got to hand it to Dilcom Inc – old Cedar Dilcom still manages to impress. You know, he first invented the 3-DIU back in 1990 and I bought my first one in 1992, and to think, now everybody on the planet has one.

You’re all nuts. Bernice looked dismayed as she shook her head, I can’t understand the fascination of talking to a microchip!

Brandon was dismissive, you’re the only one! he said, between mouthfuls.

Well, I think it’s a great achievement, said Dr McCall, inventing a computer that freely interacts with you, and to think, it’s only a chip. He paused a second, it is only a chip isn’t it? I used to swear he’d shoved a real little person in there!

Dr McCall chuckled to himself before continuing.

Oh, what’s the company slogan again? ‘Dilcom Inc – the interactive ambassadors of the internet’. He smiled at his stepson, you know, I’ve heard you talking to Arnold, you two speak like friends – that’s nice.

Trying to create a bond, Dr McCall had regularly asked Brandon to hang out with him in his private car garage or ‘boys-only’ room on the top floor so they could get to know each other – Brandon, thus far, had managed to avoid both. But right now, he was off guard chomping through the delicious fare on his plate; the conversation also happened to be of interest to him, and so, without giving it too much thought, he engaged with his stepfather. Apparently, said Brandon, you can upgrade your bitwhacker for ‘user DNA scanning recognition’ now. He spoke through his gravy drenched meat pie as Dr McCall listened, amazed. Yep, he continued, somehow it takes a sample two millimetres deep! By the way, is it true Dr Dilcom still owns the house at number ten?

Yes, replied Dr McCall, it’s been with them since his grandfather’s time, although I haven’t seen him or his wife for years. Both worked in high level posts for the Ministry of Defence – not an easy position to get to you know, but then, one day, they just vanished! Dr McCall squinted trying to recall history. Come to think of it, it was around the time when I started my first clinic, actually about the same time Dr Dilcom’s 3-DIUs took off around the world. The only person I see there now is their housekeeper, Agatha. She just says hello and runs off; I never get a chance to ask her anything.

Well, beamed Mrs Rory, whether he lives there or not, we have more urgent things to focus on – like tomorrow’s party. She then glanced at both children, "where we would appreciate both of you two on your best behaviour."

Mention of the party triggered a slump in Bernice’s shoulders. Mrs Rory and her father had hit it off from the moment she’d arrived at his osteopathic practice having made an appointment for neck pain. They even shared the same clientele – rich ‘health-freaks’ from the Gold Crest Health and Fitness Spa Mrs Rory managed – they all visited Dr McCall to have their bones ‘adjusted’.

Bernice was mortified at the thought of them together, and along with one or two other sceptics, had waited in suspense, anticipating the announcement of a break-up. Now, more than a year later, she was still in the same boat as the fatal day the wedding announcement had been made.

Every plan she tried in order to separate them had either failed miserably or back-fired. The fact she’d been ‘banned’ from rehearsing with her band was the final straw. Bernice was now adamant that whatever new idea she would come up with this time would see Mrs Rory off for good. Their first year anniversary party tomorrow evening would be the worst day of her new ‘mother’s’ life.

It was D-Day.

I couldn’t agree more my love, said Dr McCall, raising his glass, so, I’d like to propose a toast – to our complete family, Cecilia, my lovely wife, and to our special first anniversary.

Thank you Matthew, I have a surprise too, she smiled, indicating toward the huge antique red mahogany sideboard behind Brandon, where a beautiful and very large antique gold and glass punchbowl was sitting pride of place. After many years, I’m going to serve my famous champagne punch tomorrow evening.

Brandon and Bernice spent the rest of the meal listening to Mrs Rory’s excitement at perfecting her own-recipe champagne punch.

May I leave the table Daddy? Bernice was done; defeat complete, she needed to retreat.

Yes Bernice, he said, umm, I’d like to have a quick chat, perhaps a bit later?

Dr McCall’s request was met with a quiet nod; it left her with a ‘now what have I done’ feeling – Bernice was sure Mrs Rory had complained about her again.

The party presented another prime opportunity for sabotage, and Bernice would take it with both hands.

The sooner mother and son were out of