Downtime - Marc Platt [35]
‘Nor will our students be.’
‘Then who writes the syllabus?’
Christopher cocked his head to one side and allowed himself a satisfied smile. ‘The computer,’ he said.
‘Computer bloody couch potatoes,’ blustered Clive Kirkham, ‘with Chilly sauce!’
Determined not to let his smile crack, Christopher turned to the buffet and scooped up a tray of finger nibbles. ‘Vol-au-vent?’ he suggested, thrusting the tray under Kirkham’s nose.
The MP glared. ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch,’ he declared and turned on his heel.
‘Christopher.’
She was approaching through the guests, and, he had to hand it to her, she certainly looked the part with her new executive perm and new dark green executive suit.
‘There you are at last, Victoria. We were beginning to wonder...’ He had just seen that she was being accompanied by Desmond Pennington.
She leant in close to Christopher and whispered, ‘You don’t have to serve the food, you know. The students are doing that.’
He hurriedly put the tray down and saw that she was giggling.
When she was in a good mood, it was generally a cause for concern.
‘I think you know Mr Pennington?’ she continued.
‘Desmond, you remember Christopher Rice, our Marketing Facilitator.’
Desmond Pennington, tall, suave, in his early forties and wearing a dark suit, shook Christopher by the hand. ‘Victoria and I have been talking long and hard,’ he said. ‘Most profitable.’
‘I think you’ll be surprised,’ Victoria said with a wink and started to usher Mr Pennington towards the podium.
God, thought Christopher, what the hell’s she done now?
BOOM, BOOM. She was tapping the microphone and nearly deafening everybody. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming today.’
Christopher saw Anthony bobbing up and down with astonishment, his MC material for the event already undermined by his new boss.
‘It’s an auspicious day for New World,’ continued Victoria.
‘We always look to the future...’
Bla, bla, bla, intoned Christopher to himself. Just get on with it. He glanced around at the attentive audience. There were flashes from the cameras. It was a perfect photo opportunity. If they only knew that the woman was obsessed.
She and the Chancellor too – a Chancellor who was never on site. Her éminence grise, who issued dictums in private conference with her as if from some other plane. Or was it the computer? The Chancellor and the self-regulating technological miracle he had created seemed indistinguishable. The computer was a vessel of power, a twentieth-century grail, dispensing knowledge, but making strange demands as well. Almost mystical, thought Christopher, and he sneered as Victoria treated the machine with slavish reverence. But in the right hands, Christopher was sure that its potential could be irresistible.
He was certain Victoria was a witch of some sort. Maybe one day the papers might get hold of that, but not quite yet. He still had things to do. The Chancellor needed information and he was the one who could provide it. He had wheels in play. In the meantime, he could humour Victoria Waterfield because she trusted him. And that way he would soon have the control and position he wanted.
She was still expounding her hopes to the politely petrifying gathering. Christopher looked up at the balcony overlooking the gallery. At first he could not make out the figure standing there. It was in the shadows at the back, staring down at them. A youth wearing what looked like a school uniform. As their eyes met, the youth registered a brief second of startled recognition. Then it simply melted away into the air like a ghost.
Christopher blinked several times, unable to take in the image. The figure was too young and did not wear glasses, yet it bore a striking resemblance to that devious whiz-kid Daniel Hinton.
There was a loud burst of applause as Victoria stepped back from the microphone and was replaced by the smiling Education Secretary. Christopher listened in mounting disbelief as Desmond Pennington announced