'Dear T. Bohan,' the email began, 'we are writting to offer up a fantastic, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to you.'
Terrence rolled his eyes almost immediately. Another spam message, no doubt. Nigerians. Had to be. Always was. Still, he thought, it could be good for a laugh. It’s been days since Comedy Tie Day. The office could do with cheering up.
With much enlightenment, we present glorious times henchforth! Why take a picnic when you can eat with a lunch of courses four. The sun is shining and the days ahead are surely bright! We create a GSOH, that is what we do. Sign up today! Secure your finances with more security than a ISA can provided! Sign up now! Do not miss this opporunity! You’re feeling lucky!
Terrence could not help but smile at the paragraph; misspellings, broken English and all. If there was one thing you could say about the Nigerian scammers it was that they always seemed like a happy, earnest bunch.
For just some time only, BOGOF now, get a friends on board! It changes your life. Sign up, thank you.
R.S.V.P.
SPR
A slight chill ran down Terrence's spine. This was odd. No mention of any actual product or service, no contact address or telephone number, and the signature was unfamiliar. SPR, an acronym. In fact the whole email was riddled with them inappropriately. All the others made sense, though. But SPR? It hardly instilled confidence, even in a scam ring.
"Perhaps they're just getting creative," Terrence muttered to himself. Iva, the Russian temp, looked up from her desk opposite with a quizzical look. Terrence allowed himself a minute to admire the cute way Iva's nose scrunched up when she was concentrating, then diverted his attentions back to the email. The sender, like the signature, was listed as 'SPR'. He checked out the address properties. A load of nonsense.
"That wouldn't even work as an email address!" Terrence exclaimed, a bit too loudly. Iva looked up again, this time cocking her head to one side, puzzled. Terrence just smiled and looked away. When he looked back, Iva was engrossed in work once more.
Something about the email was bugging Terrence. Perhaps it was the fact that, for a scam, it was the most useless he'd ever seen. Or perhaps it was the fact that the company's filter should have eliminated the message before it reached him.. Most of the amusing scams came from personal emails rather than company ones.
But no, it wasn't any of that. It was SPR. What in the blue hell could it mean?
"What in the blue hell could it mean?" Terrence asked himself. Iva sighed.
"What is it?" she asked, this time without even looking up. Her voice had an expected foreign lilt that nonetheless Terrence found intimidating every time he heard it.
"Nah, nothing," he muttered. "Just some work. You wouldn't be interested."
Iva shrugged and turned back to her computer, already typing away. She was really quite pretty, Terrence decided, in a mysterious sort of way.
"Hey, you know the old joke that starts 'In Soviet Russia…'?" Terrence said suddenly. Iva jumped and almost dropped the pen she was holding. Terrence thought about apologizing, but an idea had formed in his head and he needed to be sure.
"Yes," Iva said quietly. "What about it?"
"Is there any way that Soviet Russia could have a P in the middle."
"Ummm…" Iva pondered this for a moment, crinkling her nose up again. "Soviet Prussia? But that does not really mean anything."
"I mean more like, Soviet Paper Russia," Terrence explained. "To form the acronym, SPR."
"I do not think so," Iva said quietly after a while.
"If you think of anything, can you let me know?"
The girl nodded.
Terrence flicked between his spreadsheet and the email. Progress had been made on neither. Almost an hour had passed. Terrence glanced around the silent office. Outside, rain was pounding against the windowpanes like misery was going out of fashion. Everyone else in the room seemed to have their heads down, eyes to the screens.
"Here, Shift, take a look at this," Terrence whispered, turning in his swiveling office chair.
Shift was named as such due to his refusal to ever use the Caps Lock button on his keyboard. Nobody knew the explanation for this, but it had prompted the nickname so nobody much cared. Terrence occasionally felt resentful that he had never been given a catchy nickname. On the other hand, it could mean he had no discernible quirks or weird behavioral patterns. Something that Laura, his ex-girlfriend, would most definitely disagree with, Terrence often mused.
Shift was a fully-fledged western Otaku. As he turned in his chair to look in Terrence's direction, he knocked over a small action figure of a scantily clad animé girl. Terrence darted down and caught it before it hit the floor, placing it carefully next to Shift's mouse mat. Shift didn't seem to notice.
The two men studied the email for a while, Shift rocking back and forth on his seat (upon which he sat backwards). Overhead, just above the door to the boss's office, the clock was ticking loudly. Still over an hour until lunch, Terrence realized
"So, what do you make of it?"
Shift pulled a confused face and adjusted his hair while he contemplated the question. "Maybe it's from the bank," he said finally.
"I don't think so," Terrence countered. "Look at the address." He showed Shift the properties.
[email protected] "No dot anything?"
"Nothing. A mask, or something."
Shift chuckled enigmatically. "All men wear masks."
"Enough of this pseudo-cryptic nonsense," Terrence grumbled, somewhat irate. "I want answers. Any ideas what SPR could mean?"
'Yes!' Shift seemed suddenly animated, as if proud of his discovery. 'It's that movie, isn't it? With Forrest Gump and Matt Damon.'
Terrence had to fight the urge to put his face in his hands. "I hardly think so."
Shift gave him a nonplussed wave of the hand. "Could be. Never know."
Terrence was entirely unconvinced. He exchanged a few token pleasantries with Shift, then made it clear he was dismissing his friend. Shift turned back, again knocking over the action figure. This time Terrence ignored it.
Lunch was over, the spreadsheet was still unfinished and the email sat open on Terrence's computer screen, taunting him in the migraine-inducing way an item on a computer screen can. The rest of his co-workers were sluggishly making their way back to their desks, full from coffee and vacuum-sealed sandwiches. Only Iva was yet to return.
"SPR, SPR, SPR," Terrence said, taking advantage of Iva's absence to speak his mind. "I suppose I should resort to that last oasis in a desperate man's desert."
Quickly he navigated his browser to Google. Google wouldn't let him down. It never let him down. With shaking hands, he typed SPR into the search field and hovered his cursor over the Google Search button. Something about the layout of the search engine was niggling at him; something familiar yet suddenly eerie. He disliked the feeling, couldn't place it.
Terrence realized he was holding his breath. The whole office was silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the clicking of the keyboards. His index finger was poised over the left mouse button.
"Ahoy-ho!" Shift's loud voice, coupled with a palmslap to the shoulder, jolted Terrence off-focus. He jumped an inch in his seat, then whirled around to face his friend.
"What!" he exclaimed in a shrill voice that didn't sound like his own. He coughed, trying to mask his nervousness. "What is it? I'm really busy here!"
Shift recoiled in his chair, looking disgruntled. "Uh, sorry pal. It's just I thought of something else SPR could mean."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, it's something from an animé. I can't believe I didn't think of this before. It has to be this!"
Terrence nodded and smiled, pretending to listen to the spiel that Shift was coming out with. Who cared about any of that? Terrence had never been into cartoons, even as a child.
When it seemed like Shift had finished, he thanked him for the idea and spun away, determined to ignore the man for the rest of the day.
SPR still waited in the search fiel
d, begging for Terrence to click. This time, he closed his eyes and put his hand on the mouse, deathly still, summoning up the courage to press down hard on that button. His finger hovered, and began to fall.
Suddenly the door to the office slammed shut and Iva's voice could be heard quietly, greeting the receptionist. Terrence jolted just as his finger made contact. His eyes flew open to see the mouse cursor shift slightly right, coming to rest on the I'm Feeling Lucky option. An unexplained sense of dread began to trickle through him. Lucky. Well maybe he would be. The page began to load.
"Society for Psychical Research," Terrence read aloud, as the website came into focus. "Hmm."
The organization seemed to be a group dedicated to the examination of psychic phenomena using scientific means. Terrence's heart began to beat faster. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps he, a lowly office worker, had been subconsciously giving out some kind of psychic energy, a signal to those 'in the know' that he was a man of immense, untapped power. His mother had always said he was destined for great things after all, back in the family home in Bristol. And he'd always felt special, too. Yes, maybe this was it! The SPR had picked up his signal and had decided to contact him, to train and teach him in the ways of telepathy. Maybe he'd become a spy, a remote spy, using his projected vision to see inside bunkers and war rooms. Or maybe a field general, hurling tanks and rival soldiers around with telekinesis. The latter seemed appealing to Terrence.
When Iva approached Terrence a while later, he was deep in concentration staring at his coffee mug.
"I would like to borrow a stapler, if you… what are you doing?" Iva asked. There was a faint, amused quality to her voice.
"Shhh," Terrence whispered, irritated. "I'm trying to move this with my mind."
Iva let out a tiny shriek and scuttled over to the water cooler and out of sight. Terrence tried to ignore the distraction.
The coffee mug remained stationary.
An hour later, all Terrence had to show for his efforts were a migraine and a spreadsheet that was still going nowhere. He thought he'd made a breakthrough when the mug shuddered slightly, but it had turned out to be vibrations caused by Shift careering about on his swivel chair, like some kind of white-collar rollercoaster ride.
Okay, so maybe telekinesis wasn't Terrence's forte. Time to crank it up a gear. Iva was still at her desk, clearly trying to avoid Terrence's eyes. He began to focus on her, on her brain, delving deep within her subconscious to read her thoughts.
Five minutes. Nothing. Ten minutes. Nothing. Iva had noticed Terrence staring at her now, and was looking around uneasily, every now and then giving him a nervous smile. Terrence just stared blankly at her.
Finally he gave up. Absolutely no results. That settled it. He wasn't psychic, nor was the email from the Society of Psychical Research. Back to the drawing board then. One step further than Google.
Wikipedia served only to confuse Terrence further. Amongst other results he found a rifle, an airport, a petrol company and an organization called Stop Prisoner Rape, Inc. Terrence didn't think any of these applied to him. With a disgusted sigh he closed his browser. It was nearing five, and the spreadsheet wouldn't spread itself. The email would have to wait until the next day, Terrence realized sadly. Maybe he could forward it to his personal email, then he could muse over it at home.
"Nyet!" Iva exclaimed, as if answering his thoughts. She was looking at Terrence with a panicked expression.
"What's up?"
"I can't use the computer, it's broken."
Terrence stood up from his desk and walked around to Iva's side. She had her browser open, with 'page cannot be displayed' clearly visible. Terrence noticed another tab open. She'd been browsing Facebook; a big no-no during work hours. He wondered if he should report it, then decided he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Smiling politely at Iva, he leaned over her shoulder and clicked the Refresh button. The page, a stocks and finances site, refused to load. He tried another. Nothing. Tried Google. Nothing.
Back at his own desk, he tried his. The office internet was most definitely down. He explained as much to Iva, then went back to work, waiting for the service to resume.
The spreadsheet was nearly finished. Shift had been out somewhere, and came walking back in looking gloomy.
"It's not gonna be fixed until tomorrow now," he grumbled. "I was in the middle of torrenting as well."
Terrence had no idea what that was. It took him a moment to realize he could no longer forward the email either. In his desperation, he considered breaking company policy and printing it out, before deciding that even in a crisis such as this one must adhere to the rules and refrain from using office company equipment for personal use.
Tomorrow would be fine.
Outside the office building, he bid Shift, Iva and the other workers a farewell and walked left. They were all off down the pub, but Terrence didn't much fancy it for once. SPR was stuck in his head, and leaving any time soon.
The rain had eased up a bit now, just a light drizzle. It was already beginning to get dark, and Terrence stopped to wrap his overcoat around himself tightly; the chill of Winter was setting in. Few cars drove past as the streetlight's glow popped into existence, bathing the area of pavement on which Terrence stood in an eerie golden light. Terrence quickly walked on, looking straight ahead and down.
He sensed the car before he saw it, slowing to a crawl beside him. He glanced right to see a tinted window rolling down.
"Mr. Bohan?" The voice was male. Terrence peered at the window, never slowing his pace. He could just about discern the silhouette of a man sitting inside, wearing sunglasses.
"Mr. Bohan," the man said again. Something in his tone commanded Terrence to stop.
"Hello?"
Quickly, the car doors opened and two men jumped out. They grabbed Terrence by either arm and ushered him into the vehicle. They then closed the doors, remaining outside, and the car began to drive. Terrence tried to protest, but his voice was feeble over the crinkling of the black leather seats.
A figure, Terrence realized, was sitting opposite. A man.
"Good evening, Mr. Bohan," he said. His face was shrouded in darkness. Something about his voice didn't sound right to Terrence. A hissing, grating sound just below the words.
"Good… evening?" Terrence said timidly, not wanting to offend. "Hello."
"I'm hurt," the man said bluntly. "We sent you the most illustrious of offers, and you weren't interested!"
Terrence stifled a girlish, nervous giggle. "The spam email?" This had to be some kind of joke Shift had orchestrated.
In the darkness, the man nodded. "We don't extend our generosity to just anyone, you know."
"But it was just a load of rubbish, wasn't it?" Terrence asked. "Nobody believes those things."
The man let out a low, guttural chuckle. "If you say so. People believe all sorts."
"So what is SPR then?" Terrence asked, suddenly feeling as if the joke had gone too far. Even Shift wouldn't resort to kidnapping.
"I'm afraid that information is only available from jade echelon rank upwards," the man explained sadly.
"Are you a Nigerian scammer?" Terrence blurted out, although he thought he already knew the answer to that.
Shift arrived late to the office the next day. Everyone was busy doing whatever it was the other office workers do. Shift had never really given it any thought. He noticed, however, that Terrence's desk was empty. That wasn't like him. He never missed a day; even that time he'd had the flu, he'd dragged himself to his desk. Maybe he'd taken an impromptu holiday.
In Shift's email inbox sat a message with the subject header 'FYI; TWIMC'. He opened it.
On a dark stormie night many years ago, a man woz walking home frum work. He stoped 2 talk 2 sum
men in a car, and woz never seen again. Wot happened to him was 2 terifying 2 even
mention but he woz killed 4 ignorin da chain mail he got earlier in da day.
But his ghos
t, skinless an decomposing, still roams da streets lukin 4 people that he cn get his revenge on.
If u do not forward dis chain mail to 10 peopl
den the ghost ov da man will kill u in ur sleep!
If u do forward it to 10 people wivin 3 days
den the person u love will want 2 kiss u on friday.
Trust me this really works!!! xxx SPR
Shift rolled his eyes. What a heap of crap. His cursor hovered over the 'Delete' button. Then his gaze drifted over to Iva. Maybe she would kiss him on Friday if he sent the mail on. Couldn't hurt, right? Besides, something about it made his skin crawl.
Outside, it was raining again. A creature; a lizard maybe, something reptilian, scuttled across the glass. Shift clicked 'forward', opened up his contacts list, clicked 'add all', then 'send'. He sat back, relieved.
Over at her desk, Iva looked up at him and smiled. Her tongue, long and thin, danced over her lips.
Shift smiled back.
XVI - So Long, Good Luck, And Thanks For All The Memories