Alan was jolted awake by the persistent stabbing sound of a door intercom. He opened a crusty eye to confirm that he was lying in his own bed. Alone. At least this time he wasn’t horribly hungover, though that came as something of a surprise considering just how much wine he’d knocked back the previous night. It hadn’t taken him long to acclimatize to alcohol, he mused; it hadn’t taken him long to acquire a taste for it either. Maybe he’d need to watch that: certainly alcohol took away the crushing stress he always seemed to be feeling these days as Analogue Alan, but there had to be an alternative: drugs? – The intercom fired off another staccato barrage – he’d look into that later, right now he needed to deal with that infernal buzzing!
He padded across to the intercom and speculated on his noisy assailant: Warner: odds on; the police or MI6; 3to1: Jim Fairclough: 10to1.
‘Hello?’ he said, into the wall-grill.
‘Get your slack-ass down here asap!’ came the angry reply.
Who was that? Hard to tell. The voice was so loud it caused feedback and distortion, but surely MI6 wouldn’t talk to him like that! Ditto Fairclough, unless he’d finally lost it at Alan’s ongoing absenteeism. He checked the time: nine forty. Shit, it could be Fairclough!
‘Who is this?’ he asked.
The reply was unintelligible, but it was definitely Warner.
Five minutes later Alan departed his apartment block and walked over to Warner who was waiting impatiently in the back of a chauffeur driven BMW.
‘Get in!’ she barked, ‘you’ve got a conference with the PM in… fourteen minutes! …Okay, Gavin, back to the office. And as quickly as is legally possible please.’
Gavin attempted to drive the BMW “as quickly as legally possible” but the streets were still clogged up with late rush-hour traffic and progress was slow – tortuously slow for Warner who was clearly becoming very stressed.
‘Can’t you go any faster, Gavin!?’ she demanded, leaning forward to observe the bumper-to-bumper traffic.
‘We should get a clear run after this next set of lights, Helen,’ replied Gavin, who sounded like he was used to dealing with Warner’s sudden surges in volatility.
‘Good!’ replied Warner, bouncing back into her seat to glare at Alan. ‘Don’t you have an alarm!?’ she shouted.
‘I forgot to switch it on,’ replied Alan, honestly, and knowing that his relaxed manner would enflame Warner all the more. Alan found Warner’s high intelligence intimidating at the best of times, as, no doubt, did most of Warner’s staff, but he took some comfort from the fact that he could at least wind her up. His own association with the so-called Gang of Four also appeared to have placed Warner on the back foot. Dealing with aliens or prime ministers never appeared to phase the business mogul, but she seemed at a loss to fully comprehend the scale of the Earth Gods or how to “handle” them should the need arise.
‘You forgot to–!!??’ Warner paused, apparently performing an emergency “count-to-ten”, then in a calmer but very strained voice she added: ‘You know these communications with the PM are vitally important. He’s a powerful man, and becoming more powerful by the minute!’
‘By the minute!?’ replied Alan with a smirk, ‘you make him sound like a comic book villain who’s just accidentally sat on a hypodermic needle marked: “research chemical”. What’s he going to do next: change into–?’
‘That’s enough, Alan!’ admonished Warner. The remainder of the car journey to Warner’s offices at Canary Wharf was completed in silence.
***