Chapter 7

I was a little surprised that I got through directly. I mean, I was expecting some sort of answering service, at the least a voice-mail message but what I got was Ruth herself. Albeit Ruth apparently on a train — from the background noise — and about to go into a tunnel, I gathered as the signal cut out. Quite a long tunnel, too — 50.5km, in fact, under the Channel — but to an extent that was a relief, in that it gave me a chance to realise that I hadn't a clue what I'd been intending to say. Or, come to think of it, why. Then again, as I doubted that she'd call back, I could probably claim some sort of moral high ground just from making the attempt to talk to her.

Or so I thought. I was constructively engaging with one of my new found minions — OK, Maggie, and her news regarding Simon's activities across the rest of the 'community' — when Ruth, did, in fact, return the call.

"Hello," she said, and left it at that.

"Hello, indeed," I replied, trying not to sound flustered while simultaneously wondering why I'd ever thought this was a good idea. So.

"I thought you'd like to know that we had a visit from your family goons, this morning, and I was wondering whether there was anything you'd like to share with us on the subject?"

It was a lame sort of question, I knew, and it didn't get an immediate reply. Then, after a brief burst of almost static type noise over the connection and some sort of announcement over the train PA system, Ruth came back on line.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," she said, matter of factly. "Also, I'm a bit engaged at the moment, what with my job and stuff, but ... Well, my father is not happy with you — as you've clearly noticed — but, I think I can say, he's not that confident in his position. Trust me, if he were, the 'family goons', as you put it, would now be in possession of everything you hold to, probably up to and including your grandmother.

"So what I'd suggest — if I was minded to help, of course — would be for you to..."

And then there was another brief burst of PA-type noise ... and the connection cut out. Obviously, I immediately tried phoning back — and more than once — but all I got was the voice mail I'd originally expected. So I shoved the phone back in my pocket and returned my full, or almost full, attention to Maggie.

Whose news was, well, mixed. Which is to say, quite a few of our colleagues — or competitors, as we'd called them a few days before — had had visits similar to ours, including one group who'd never done more than talk to Simon on the phone. At least no-one had been stupid enough to agree to anything that had been proposed to them and, even more of a relief, even if from a slightly solipsistic viewpoint, no-one seemed to be blaming us. Which last point Maggie also seemed to take particular heart from — possibly because she'd been the one actually doing the ringing round — and we were thus more or less cheerful as we trooped downstairs to fill Tim in on the latest.

He, of course, was doing something with machinery — the data was safely secured and at least a copy of everything was off site, he told me — but we dragged him away for long enough to have another conversation. This time it was a little more focused and, given that the situation was a little clearer, by now, actually achieved something of a result.

So, before we all went down the pub, in search of what we unanimously agreed was a well deserved pint, we all hit the phones again and started to set up an actual, face to face, flesh and blood type meeting with as many of our fellow entrepreneurs as possible. Which seemed to me, in my new Great Leader persona, to be a good idea ... but which clearly seemed to be a much better one to a lot of the people we spoke to, given the enthusiasm with which they responded, and the ease with which arrangements were made.

And then we did all head off to drink copious quantities of proper beer, where a pleasant time was had by all. And where I was reminded of why I'd wanted to work with Tim in the first place, where Mag and he seemed to restore their relationship to something like its previous, mysteriously committed level and Maggie and I ... perhaps achieved a degree of understanding. It was a good enough time that I wasn't even that bothered to emerge at the end of the evening to discover that I'd missed a call back from Ruth while we were carousing.

No matter, I thought, with the sort of nonchalance that comes with being half plastered, there'd be another time ... and, anyway, the voice mail she'd left me said no more than, 'I'm in Strasbourg, bit busy, will call when I can.'

So I stashed the phone away, again, and went home, slightly sinuously.

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Next morning, I was actually woken — and I'm a naturally early riser — by Ruth's promised call. It was just gone five, I noticed, muttering something about still being in bed even as I tried to squeeze the residual alcohol out of my brain and get myself together for what I assumed would be a challenging conversation.

Except that Ruth went off at tangent and started asking me what my bedroom was like. I mean, what? I was so surprised that I told her — carefully ignoring the large pile of dead socks and wearable-if-desperate T-shirts cluttering the floor — and then she threw me once more by giving me some detailed observations about my local neighbourhood and the state of the housing stock therein.