Chapter 9: Database Sandwich

Tobber Clanck says, “What’s the topic for today, then? How about Popular. The Billy Hall show. Ice Cream Days. Popular’s station idents including that bimbo whose job seems to be to take as many suspension-wedgies as she can stand.

“Or maybe the LC government’s white paper on education, with its stand-out proposals on relaxing punishments for senior schoolgirls? Tightening them up was only part-way brought in by the Can’t-Do-Thats, but it didn’t stop their councils from stamping down on what teachers were allowed to do. That’s going in the bin we hear - maybe not right away, but powers will eventually be stripped away from local authorities.

“Or maybe, Mr Grey-Face himself, our colourless Prime Minister? Vickles said the other day that Popular are free to broadcast anything they want. And funnily enough, we’re now getting rumours that all the incoming LCs shared a whole bunch of their thinking with Popular more than a year ago. Is that a sign that there’s some public-private conspiracy to dramatically lower the country’s moral tone? To shred any remaining broadcasting standards?

“Maybe that’s also linked to all this schoolgirl stuff? What about those recordings of punishments? Have they started? Who’s seen them? Just who will get access to what, and when? Is this all a stealthy way of defeating the under-age in-flagrante law?

“Or maybe you’d like to talk about the cruelty to women on Billy Hall and, even more weirdly, Ice Cream Days? Who do we have on the line today? Who has what to say about what? Yes, a caller on line one. What’s your name and what do you think, then?”

“Hi Tobber,” says a man’s voice, “my name is Yorker and I have to say I’m looking forward to seeing some real schoolgirl punishments.”

“Hi Yorker, I understand that some of these are meant to be made available to head teachers, school governors, maybe teachers and so on. How might you qualify to access them, and what are you looking to access?”

“Well Tobber, I’m a school janitor so I am connected,” says the scratchy voice. “My application for access is in.”

Tobber’s voice sounds sceptical. “The post of school janitor honestly doesn’t feel official enough to me.”

The scratch old voice says, “I been told there’s a good chance I’ll get accepted.”

“Really? So just who told that, Yorker? And, by the by, what kind of a school are you a janitor in? A senior girls school?”

“Boy’s school, Tobber. Senior but boys. I been sent an automatic reply, but it says, ‘Likely chance of acceptance,’ Tobber.”

“Because of your school connection, would you guess?”

“Exactly, Tobber. You’d be surprised just how much interaction we have with the students, us janitors. Anyway, I’ve heard a couple of people say they’ve been approved for access and they’re a lot less connected than me. One friend’s a caterer but he sometimes caters for schools on away trips. He gave that as his qualification, and he says he’s got a likely as well.”

“Wow. And what is it you want to access specifically, and why, Yorker the janitor?”

The man on the line half grunts, half giggles. “Oh, well since you ask, I’d quite like to see some young fillies stripped to their knickers, Tobber.”

“Which young fillies exactly, Yorker?”

“Any of the good ones.”

“Well well well. Thanks for your input, Yorker. Any of the good ones. So. Easy access? That story about the caterer sounds like a tenuous connection if ever there was one. Can anyone out there confirm it’s that easy? Can anyone who has actual access confirm just what you get access to? Yes, on line two. What’s your name and what do you have to say?”

“Hi Tobber, my name’s Wallink,” says a continental voice. “I’m a local council employee. I was granted access yesterday.”

Tobber’s ears perk up. “Granted access? Employee doing what, Wallink?”

“Benefits applications, Mr Clanck.”

“Tobber is fine, Wallink, please just call me Tobber. Any connection to schools in any way?”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” the man says. “I’m not married and don’t have kids. Can’t think of any connection except I work for a council. Might be it was a mistake?”

“Wow. And what exactly do you appear to have access to, Wallink?”

“Well, it’s only very new,” Wallink says. “I looked a little last night, then the dog needed walking. But I haven’t seen anything yet that I can’t seem to access. I mean, I’m not interested in fourteen or fifteen year olds - you know? But I tried to access a couple, just to check if I could. It seemed to work. But perhaps it’s a mistake and will stop working soon.”

“And, I hope you don’t mind if I ask - are you looking at it for any moral reason, Wallink?”

“Just to see in a way,” says the man. “What the fuss is all about.”

“And what do you think it’s about, would you say?”

“It is young girls being punished by much older men. Some not so well filmed, some of the girls you might not want to see. But that is what it is.”

“Yep, thanks. Moving on. Not well filmed, and girls you wouldn’t want to see. Wallink’s opinion. Who else is on the line?”

“Hello?”

“Yep, this is Tobber. Who am I speaking to?”

“Jerzy,” says a voice. “I saw that Jenger Vickles and he was well stitched up by the bow tie man.”

“Jott Daltum?” Tobber asks.

“Yes, he said Popular can show whatever they want. But he didn’t want to say that, it was the bow-tie man who caught him out. You know who I’d prefer for PM instead of Vickles?”

Tobber Clanck mouths the word Joinard just as Jerzy on line two says, “Sardo Joinard.”

“Why?” Clanck asks.

“Well he’s pretty good at H and E Questions, Tobber.”

“Health and Education Question Time in The Reps, you mean, Jerzy? HEQ’s?”

“Exactly,” says the man. “He runs rings around that Pillard Rootes.”

Clanck can’t resist. “Is he Pillard the Pillock from where you stand, Jerzy?”

“Well, maybe after that performance.”

“And apart from HEQs, why else might you prefer Joinard to Vickles?”

Jerzy on line two says, “At least Sardo’s giving voters what they voted for, Tobber.”

“Tits and bums on the telly, you mean?”

“No. Deregulation,” says Jerzy.

“One vote for deregulation,” says Tobber. “Moving on. Who’s next? Any female listeners like to chip in? Line one. Who’s there?”

“Yarra,” says a young voice.

“Yarra?” asks Clanck. “A female voice at last. And what might you want to say, Yarra?”

“That women are real people,” the young voice says.

Tobber finds himself smiling. “Real people. Right. And who says they’re not?”

There’s a pause on the line. Then the voice says, “Billy Hall thinks women should be gagged, then hung up like dresses in locked cupboards with the light off.”

“Oh, you’re -”

“Popular think schoolgirls should be stripped and caned for having an opinion, and they have a right to show it in close-up slow motion when half the families in the country are watching.”

“Did you rehearse -”

“The Liberal Conservatives not only think, but legislate to make sure that half the humans in the country are permanently disenfranchised.”

“Hang on, hang on, Yarra. What gives you the right to pass judgment on all these others?”

Yarra says, “I have a human brain, mouth and tongue, like you. I speak Doglish, like you. What gives you and these others the right to pass judgment on me? To stop me from having the same rights as you?”

Tobber comes in swinging. “Because that’s the way it’s always been!”

“That’s a statement not an argument, and not even true. That’s the way it’s been here for a fragment of history.”

Tobber is frowning. “How old are you, Yarra?”

“How old are you, Tobber?”

“Forty three,” he says. “Now you answer.”

She says, “Old enough to wish I didn’t have to state the obvious every time I open my mouth.”

“Start a school strike then. Because you are still in school, eh, aren’t you, Yarra? And are you bunking off to talk to me then, Yarra?”

“If I was in school, I definitely wouldn’t. Why would I want to paint a target on my back?”

“But the target wouldn’t be on your back. It’d be on your arse,” says Tobber. Then it’s him who cuts the line dead. He says, “So that was Yarra, with her plan to fix everything wrong for women. Bet you don’t get far, darling.”

In the back room, Jemmu Moldubna picks up Yarra’s in-call again. “Hi, Yarra,” she says, “Tobber cut you off.”

“Yes I noticed,” says Yarra. “Not very good at arguing, is he?”

Jemmu sighs. “He does what he does.”

“I’m glad you didn’t get sacked,” says Yarra.

Jemmuna says, “I’m glad you called back. You sound better. And you argue well. It’s unusual for this show to have an intelligent female voice calling in.”

“Yeah. Thanks. It’s just ... we’re living at a shit time for women like us. Women who don’t feel like being strung up in the dark with a gag in our mouths.”

Friday comes, and Taudren Corkle is suddenly so keen to watch Ice Cream Days, which he’s never been known to be interested in before, that he comes and sits on the sofa, next to Molcum, several minutes early.

He’s there just in time to catch the end of Political Roundup on FIRST! which Molcum, as usual, is concentrating hard on. It’s Home and Education Secretary Sardo Joinard who’s being interviewed again.

“That man’s on that a lot,” says Taudren to his dad.

“He’s got a lot going on,” says Molcum in reply.

The talking heads on the box are still talking. “Secretary Joinard,” the bow-tied interviewer Jott Daltum is saying, “there seems to be growing anecdotal evidence that access to your newly opened Schoolgirl Punishment Database is being granted - and here I quote Tobber Clanck’s words in today’s The Currant - ‘to any old Tom, Dick or Harry with half a whim to stare up a schoolgirl’s skirt.’”

Joinard says, “Firstly Mr Daltum, it is not my database. As I have clearly said before, it is a database commissioned by the previous administration, using legislation that they themselves passed. That said, it was paid for from taxation - in other words, by the voting public. We have decided, after a long consultation process which considered many different options, to set the algorithms which assess just who may access this database - at least at the start - to the more permissive end of the spectrum. It is voters who have had to shell out, from their pockets, for this overpriced white elephant. So our thinking, at least at this stage is, that it should be voters who must judge if their money was well spent.”

Jott Daltum’s nostrils flare wide while Joinard speaks. Then he says, “You yourself are quoted as saying that the system ought to be accessible only to voters, and I quote, ‘with a sufficient proven stake in the system, such as governors and teachers, parents, politicians and law enforcement officers.’”

“Yes well they are being given access, Mr Daltum.”

“As, apparently, is everyone else. I assume you are keeping records of just who is granted access, and what they subsequently choose to view?”

Sardo Joinard now starts to look particularly smug. “Well now Mr Daltum,” he oozes, “that is a telling assumption which you voice. Shades of Democratic Reform nanny-statism there. Of who may be granted access, yes of course, there will be records, though they will be known to an isolated part of the database system only, and will not be publicly searchable.

“Of what they choose to have oversight of, I have to tell you Mr Daltum, that sounds suspiciously like you assume we wish to spy on our voters’ private choices. Which, I have to tell you, we most certainly do not. The initial application system grants access, pure and simple. But is in no way linked to the records-accessing system. Once granted, a code is sent to a successful applicant, but when used to gain access, that same code is known to be valid by the accessing system, but its owner is entirely unknown. It is, so far as the system is concerned, anonymous. Indeed, once accepted, the system’s knowledge of choices even linked to that code will be scrambled and further anonymised. No record will be kept of which code is being used to access what - or indeed, whose code is accessing the system at all. The numbers of viewers of a file may be recorded. But never who views a particular file.”

Jott Daltum waits for a beat while a voice speaks privately into his earpiece. Then he says, “That sounds to be a clear way of protecting any users accessing the database.”

“Absolutely. The codes unlock the system as a whole, while the user remains anonymous.”

“Yet the - some might say, victims - of the database will not only enjoy no such level of protection, they will in fact be exposed, against their wills, to the prurient perusal of random men, who may choose to view, for personal pleasure, some of the worst moments of their innocent lives.”

Joinard lets this sentence just sit there. “Actually,” he says, “their names will be anonymised.”

Daltum comes back with, “The system, I’m informed, will be searchable by region, by district, by school ... then by year, and even by specific classes. How will changing a girl’s name at the last protect her identity, when her image in-flagrante is all over the viewer’s screen?”

Sardo Joinard replies, with confidence, “If she does not act to attract corporal punishment, no record will exist of such a girl on the system.”

“Granted,” says Daltum. “But there have also been eyebrows raised at the search boxes available to enable, for instance, particular classes of punishment to be found. The age of the girls - their degree of undress - and specifics of the punishment - its overall length, the implement used, and so on and so forth, are all, apparently, searchable. This detailed information seems to have been carefully compiled. The number of strokes, their apparent severity ... I am told the searchable terms can be really quite extensive.”

“Those are added automatically,” says the Secretary. “If you’re suggesting we employ an army of moderators to compile such information, you are sadly mistaken. Those statistics are compiled automatically - by AIs - using a system designed by the previous government’s software engineers.”

Daltum takes another short pause. “With the difference,” he begins again, “that in their intended scheme, those details would act as red flags for the watchdog. Under your scheme, by contrast, they will very likely be searched to obtain swift access to high-stress punishments, presumably for the purpose of personal gratification. Protection, on the one hand, versus numbers of clicks on the other.”

“Your assumption that voters will be seeking personal gratification speaks volumes - not about the voters, Mr Daltum, but about the prurient nature of the commentariat, to which you belong. Unlike members of the third estate, we do not seek to sit in moral judgment of our voters’ independent choices. They have paid for this wallet-stinging nonsense from the start. Perhaps they should be able to use the thing however they see fit.”

“Dad,” says Taudren in a cautious, voice, “can we get one of those access keys?”

Neither Yarra not Lazabel are the in the room as yet. Molcum frowns. “I haven’t thought too much about it, to be honest, Tauds.” He blinks. “Why, d’you thinking you might like to do a bit of home-based research? You know - to check out if you really do want to be a teacher?”

Taudren shrugs non-committally.

“I don’t know if I’d even get one,” Molcum says. “And even if I did, I’m not sure it would be legal to let you see what they let me see. You’re not allowed to vote yet.”

Taudren’s expression falls from hopeful to crest-fallen.

On the television, Jott Daltum asks Sardo Joinard, “Secretary, if no record is kept of who accesses what, how then would the system know if each access code is being used by its allocated user, or not?”

“I believe it is meant to be a system of trust,” says Joinard. “We must trust our voters to act appropriately. But it’s not like we’re licensing guns here, Mr Daltum. If one code was suddenly in widespread use, I suppose there might be a reaction - a deletion. But two, three, four devices, especially if linked to a single household, will trigger no reaction. Voters do have multiple devices, Mr Daltum.”

Molcum says to Taudren, “Well your sister is a schoolgirl. That probably makes me some sort of a stakeholder, or something. Whatever that means.” He looks sideways at his son. “Yeah. Not sure. You think I ought to apply then, do you, Tauds?”

The boy’s face is not so down now. He blinks, then nods.

Molcum picks up a tablet which he keeps below the big TV by his side. He wake it up and searches for ‘Schoolgirl Punishment Database access.’ He looks warily around him. “If I do ask for a code,” Molcum says, “just promise you’ll say nothing to your sister or your mum.”

“I wouldn’t want them knowing!” says Taudren with a shudder.

Molcum’s tablet screen fills with links. At the top of the list, one has appeared which reads, ‘Schoolgirl Punishment Database Stakeholder Applications, gmt.dl.’ Below that is a brief description of the service, then a button with the word, ‘Apply.’

To Molcum’s eyes, this seems shockingly straightforward. He looks once at his son, then back to the screen.

“Go on, Dad,” says Taudren.

“I should really think about this for a bit though,” Molcum says.

Taudren asks, “Why?”

“I just - I think I ought to think before I jump.”

Taudren shrugs, then looks glum.

Molcum finds his finger has just tapped the button anyway. Taudren grins, like maybe his dad was teasing him before.

A new window opens up. It shows a list of access-level options. They read:

Single State School / State Schools in Single District / State Schools in Single Region / Single Private School / Private Schools in Single Region / All Private Schools / State and Private Schools in Single Region / Universal Access to State and Private Schools.

“What level of access should I ask for, champ?”

Taudren asks, “What does Universal Access mean?”

“The lot, I expect. What d’you think then? That one?”

“Yeah!” Taudren says.

“Huh,” says Molcum. “Though if they do say no, I dunno if they’ll let me apply for something less.”

He hesitates. His cursor hovers over State Schools in Single District, then over Universal Access to State and Private Schools.

“That one,” says Taudren.

Molcum says, “Well ... in for a penny,” and clicks on Universal.

A new screen appears which says: Universal Access to State and Private Schools. Age range requested:

The last one,” says Taudren.

“I’m not sure about the younger ... yeah, but then you’re fourteen, aren’t you, Tauds?”

Taudren nods.

“I suppose ... fuck it.” Molcum clicks on 14-18.

The screen now offers:

Molcum says, “I suppose I’d put, ah ... politically engaged? And Parent of Schoolgirl 14-18...”

“And Parent of Schoolboy,” Taudren says.

“Right. You think it might be better to highlight more than less, right?”

Taudren nods, eyes blinking wide.

Molcum selects his choices, then clicks Confirm. A new screen comes up which reads:

Name of schoolgirl, 14-18; School schoolgirl attends; Age of schoolgirl; Class of schoolgirl

Name of Schoolboy, past or present; current age of schoolboy;

Name of voting parent; address of voting parent; voter ID of voting parent

Below this is an asterisked clarification paragraph. Molcum reads:

Once information enters the system it is anonymised and no record is kept of any of the details requested above. This will be true whether or not access is granted. If granted, the access code is pre-anonymised and will not be linkable to any of the details requested above

Molcum sighs and begins to fill in the form. He puts in Yarra’s full name, her school, her age and her class. He adds Taudren’s age and name, then adds his own name and their real address. He has to look up his voter ID, but finds it in a file he stored where he keeps other important information, like his bank account details.

Once he’s filled in this last request, the system asks him for his fingerprint, which he touches to the print-read scanner on his tablet. As soon as he’s done this, a final button on the page, which has the word Apply on it, turns from grey to red.

“So I ... I suppose I just click it, right? You think I should just click it?”

“Yes,” says Taudren.

Molcum clicks, just as Lazabel walks in with a tray of hot drinks and a plate of biscuits.

She asks, “Yarra not down yet?”

“No, Laz, not seen her for a while.”

“What’s on?” she asks.

“Ice Cream Days, I think,” says Molcum.

Lazabel tuts.

The wait icon is spinning on Molcum’s tablet. As Lazabel picks up his drink to hand it to him, he slips the tablet downwards, screen hidden against the arm of the sofa.

Molcum then flips the channel to Popular. Lazabel sighs hugely and shakes her head. Then Yarra comes down from her room upstairs. She silently picks up her drink from Lazabel’s tray, and goes to sit at her end of the sofa. The theme tune to Ice Cream Days has started to play.

“I thought you didn’t like it anymore,” Taudren says to Yarra.

“I don’t,” she says. “But everybody else is talking about it. Our school’s not nearly as bad as they show, but I want to know what it might get like if things get any worse.”

“Yes I think you ought to know, love,” says Lazabel.

It looks like early afternoon on the Soap. Mr Days is in his ice cream shop when the tourist family wanders back in. When they all have ice creams held out in their hands, the mum and kids go into the sun, but the dad hangs back and asks Mr Days, “What was going on with that woman yesterday? Going back and forth on her bike? We were down at the beach. We must have seen her go past four or five times.”

“Oh that was Nieti Yorkle,” says Days. “She’s taken on a Charitathon Challenge, and a couple of others. On behalf of Saint Lortard’s Clock and Steeple Fund. That’s the church down the front, Mr Howsing.” Days points towards it.

“Oh yes, we’ve seen the church. But why’s she dressed like that?”

“Poor thing,” says Days, “she’s also doing a Generous Giving challenge. Her husband did rather volunteer her for it. By the sound of it, she’ll be giving most of her clothes away.”

“Oh my goodness,” says Howsing the tourist. “But...”

The Corkles had watched Ice Cream Days mid-week as well. Some had been about the new girl at the girls school, most of the rest had been about pretty young wife Nieti Yorkle. That strand had centred on the church clock and tower - a feature of the show from the start - which was supposed to be in need of serious repairs. The Priest, Father Cloar, had got his parishioners to volunteer their time for a Charitathon Challenge. Nieti’s husband had volunteered her for it, to cycle up and down the hill they live on for sponsorship. He had also volunteered her for Charity Tasks with funny conditions, like when one woman in the past had had to do gardening in over-sized boots. As Nieti’s husband stuck his hand up on Nieti’s behalf, he’d also made a comment that she didn’t do much all day anyway. He’d then also volunteered her to contribute items to a charity auction, saying she had to give away 80% of her nice, expensive clothes.

Then Shishelle Maloody, the new schoolgirl, had got spanked by her dad on the backs of her legs for having been caned by her teacher at school. After which he’d taken her skirts away as extra punishment, so she’d been walking around her house in just a pair of knickers and a tee shirt. Then he’d spanked her again.

After that, Nieti’s husband had made her dress in just a pair of light cloth knickers and a light, flimsy top, both of which she already knew had an in-built problem. The show finished with Nieti being offered a charity modelling job by the priest Father Cloar, which he told her she wasn’t allowed to refuse - or even tell anyone else about.

Ridiculous, silly plots, Yarra had thought at the time - but then, it was a soap. But she’s still here on the sofa now for Friday’s edition.

Mr Days is on the screen, still talking to the tourist family. He says, “Her husband picked those clothes out for her and insists she wears them when she’s cycling up that hill. I do think it’s rather mean-spirited on his part. They’re trick clothes, you see. They go transparent when they start to get wet, and poor Nieti knows it. Her husband tricked her with them last year, in the public Lido swimming pool - down the promenade, just that way.”

He points the opposite way to the church. “Apparently he claimed to her then that he hadn’t know they’d go see-through when wet. But he was the one who bought them for her, and you’d think he ought to have known what he was buying. But he definitely does know now, because he was there at the pool. And he’s still insisting she wears them for this challenge!”

“Oh I remember that bit,” Lazabel says from her too-narrow armchair. “That was last year. But they didn’t actually show anything then. They just showed a hint and left her looking embarrassed by the poolside with everyone else looking.”

“I remember too,” says Molcum, “I tried to see if I could buy a set like that for you!”

Lazabel pouts. Taudren giggles.

“Is she carrying on this afternoon?” asks Mr Howsing the tourist, of Mr Days in the ice cream shop.

“No. Just mornings,” says Days. “She’ll be back along several times tomorrow, though. And the next day. And the next, I expect. Maybe more after that, who knows? But she’s only doing that Charitathon Challenge in the mornings. In the afternoons, she’s doing Charity jobs for people, here and there. Different one each afternoon. I’m thinking I might ask her to work behind my counter, to give her a break from all that hard slogging. Though I’m not sure what my Elsperetta would say, if poor Nieti comes in dressed all sweaty in those see-throughs.”

Next on the Soap, Lamona Crickles - we’ve learned this is the trouble-maker schoolgirl’s name - and her three friends are standing before the headmaster Mr Chollum - his name is there on an oblong brass plaque attached to a toblerone-bar-shaped triangular weight on his desk, behind which he’s seated. Their class teacher Mr Spiggins is there as well, standing with his hands folded, one within the other. He has a nose-upturned expression of distaste on his face. A snidely, smug young man, the teacher’s assistant, is standing just past Mr Spiggins, leering at the four girls, who he’s already given one cane stroke each to.

“You girls,” says Mr Chollum, “stood up in protest and demanded a vote be held by your classmates over whether Mr Spiggins should continue as your teacher. You have no doubt heard of other striking girls and wanted to copy their example. But we do not tolerate protests of this kind, or indeed of any other kind, in this school. Now I need you to explain your actions. Just what is it about Mr Spiggins that you so dislike, Miss Crickles?”

The leader girls answers, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” asks the offended head. “Yet you, Miss Crickles, were the first to stand. Spiggins and Oligem confirm this independently.”

“It was Shishelle Maloody,” Lamona Crickles says.

“Nonsense. Both witnesses confirm she stood last.”

“She made us,” says Crickles.

“Made you? How, if she stood last?”

A second girl speaks. “She said if we didn’t, she’d tell everyone that we diddled each other.”

The headmaster leans forward, frowning. “Diddled, Miss Siminkin?”

Lamona Crickles says, “She said she’d say we did rude things to each other in the bike shed, Headmaster. Course we never did none of it and never would neither, but she still said she’d tell!”

“I was dead scared,” says Siminkin, “cause she’s such a good liar. You can’t even tell when she’s lying, she’s so good at it.”