Caleb moves house all the time but everyone knows how to contact him. If he stops to reflect he realises that he hasn’t had a home, a base, a nest for as long as he can remember. Moving is a way of life for Caleb, or ‘big C’ as his friend Nero cheerily calls him. Nero’s an eco-monk, you know the type, ultra-vegan, recycles everything and to help save the world lives the most inconvenient life possible. It’s not that Caleb doesn’t care about the environment, but asceticism is more than he can take.
Most of Caleb’s life travels in two cases. Those silvery metal ones designed to survive anything. Customs is hell and security is worse.
“Are these your bags, sir?”
“Why, yes they are.”
“May I have a look?”
“Please.”
Caleb always stands back, folds his arms and watches with a resigned look as a goon clacks open the warped buckles.
If they inspect the smaller case first then it’s normally not too bad. Clothes, a complete set of Clinique men’s grooming products, one pair of scramble shoes and the occasional aerial. As long as the goon resists the urge to squeeze out the shaving foam then they move swiftly on to the larger case. This is when the problems begin. Caleb has learnt that he’s one of the few people who actually does need to arrive three hours ahead of time. Maybe it’s the passport which gets them going first… seventeen years old, Swiss and no biometrics. A gem, a pearl for the traveller – free movement and no iris scans – but less than three years left.
The second case contains Caleb’s systems. He needs them for work. That’s what he says to the goon, but truthfully he couldn’t exist without them, they’re not just work they’re life. Customised, modded, overclocked and repackaged, Caleb’s big metal case of gear is a mess, a clever, powerful tangle of computing.
There’s the hi-res scanners wedged in next to ultra-density disks. A few mini-format motherboards jerry-rigged to custom image processor cards. Tucked around the edges are enough wifi and satellite transceivers to shotgun huge packets of data wherever Caleb needs. The remaining spaces are used to squeeze grubby notebooks between loose chunks of foam.
* * *
“Can I have another drink?” she asked.
Caleb looked up from the search he had running on a notebook perched on one knee. “Sure, the juice is in the fridge. Can you manage?”
“Yesss,” the little girl responded proudly. He was babysitting – part of the deal with Don. If he fixed up their home PC and filled in looking after the neighbour’s kid on card night, he had a place to crash. Sweet.
Caleb didn’t see himself as paranoid, just careful. It was inevitable considering the amount of time he’d spent with hacktivists, anarchists and cypherpunks. Ignorance was truly bliss – before he’d really understood how easy it was to see everything he did online, he hadn’t worried at all.
He’d been in the desert with Lucsor and his crew when it had fallen into place. Laptops resting on the dusty bonnet of the Quattro they’d ridden in on, Lucsor had demoed packet sniffing to Caleb. As Caleb’s every password, email and instant message whirred by on Lucsor’s screen, Caleb had slammed his notebook shut defensively. The pasty-faced hackers had laughed at his feeble reaction, but they liked him and soon they taught him how to keep things safely locked down.
“Uh-oh,” she wobbled back into the lounge with an overflowing glass held in both little hands.
Leaning, Caleb tried to see into the kitchenette without shifting the computer, but couldn’t. He groaned out of the third hand couch, laptop in hand. A puddle of orange juice had formed around the fridge door. Caleb glanced back to see apologetic eyes below her brown fringe. Out came the kitchen towel.
While he knelt to mop up the mess, she questioned him.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning up your juice,” Caleb said with as much patience as he could muster.
“Noooo, on your comput-a.”
“Oh, I’m running a clearance search.”
“What’s that?”
“Well… I’m trying to find something for my customer.”
“What are you trying to find?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“Tell me PLEASE, please, please.”
“Ok, ok.” Caleb scooped juice into the towel and dropped the ball of juice mush into the trash. Unrolling more towel he sat back on his legs. “To use some things like movies and music you need permission. I’m looking for those permissions.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. It sounds boring.” And with that she was hunting for the TV remote.
Caleb didn’t find it boring. One of his tipsters had found some good new sources so he had recalibrated his search and who knew what he might find. Something new, something that would delight his clients or just entertain him for a short moment.
Finished with the cleaning he retrieved the laptop and moved back to the couch, happy to have the kid obliviously watching girly kung-fu cartoons. The search hadn’t found anything yet, so he flipped to his email and began working through the backlog of client requests.
* * *
Growing up had been psychologically tiring for Caleb. He’d felt loved, no doubt, and his father had instilled in him a great love for good, real food. But he’d felt the burden, the debt of his mother’s life.
As his father told him countless times, something had gone wrong. In the hours leading up to his birth his mother had become feverish. His father had known something was wrong but the doctors didn’t spot anything until it was too late to do anything. So with his wife lying on a gurney, writhing in pain, and his child yet to be born waiting inside the doctors presented the man with dilemma that would weigh on him for the rest of his life. Your wife or your child. The love of your life or your own flesh and blood who you are yet to see.
How he came to decide, Caleb will never understand, but Caleb was removed by Caesarean as the life slipped from his mother and there he was. Father and son facing life together but alone. Caleb could never be sure, but when the few friends his father allowed over spoke, Caleb felt sure his father had been different before. So the house sagged with his father’s guilt and Caleb’s shame for taking his mother away from his father.
Caleb didn’t want children. He occasionally enjoyed sex but he’d had himself sterilised at nineteen. The doctor had taken some persuading but now he didn’t have to worry.
* * *
“Did she cause any trouble?”
Don’s neighbour was back to collect her daughter.
“None at all,” Caleb responded whilst still typing an email.
“Great, thanks. Come on Ellie, time for bed.”
Ellie made a show of leaving her glass tidily in the kitchen before waving bye to Caleb and disappearing off into the next apartment with her mum.
The lounge decompressed with the sense of solitude Caleb relished. Pulling open his big case he began firing up his kit for a serious work session. He had enough searches to last him a week.
Late the next morning he awoke, rubbing his gummy eyes as he stumbled to the bathroom. He was always on the move but he created stability in his life nevertheless. His routines were his comfort zone. Unpacking his wash kit he lost his waking self in a rigid order of scrubs, washes and tonics.
He stepped out of the washroom scrubbed pink, oozing clean smells and feeling ready for whatever the day could bring. His wardrobe had only two settings, scruffy or elegant. In preparation for meeting, and winning, a new client he slipped into a black silk shirt and his white linen suit. He pulled on his beloved black Italian leather shoes and he was ready.
He’d received an email from this guy a few weeks back. It had taken him a while to work Quebec City into his schedule but he’d squeezed some new contracts out of some old Montreal-based clients, then it was easy to justify the trip.
It took him a while to find the place. He knew it was in the lower old town, outside the city walls. He bussed into Vieux Quebec from Don’s apartment and then failed to resist the cheap thrill of taking the funicular down from Chateau Frontenac. He wandered up and down the narrow street searching for number 4½. Finally he gave up and squeezed out some French to ask. He could scarcely believe it when he was shown the small green door half-hidden behind a postcard display of a shop perched alongside the staircase leading to the upper town. Caleb’s questioning look was returned with a nod by the waiter who’s help he had enlisted.
With a shrug Caleb knocked and waited. He was soon greeted by a tall, thin dark-skinned man with a small pony tail holding his glistening hair tight.
“Hello, you are Caleb, yes?” the man said with a beautiful smile.
“Yes, pleased to meet you…”
“Robert” the man answered while gently guiding Caleb inside. His exotic accent had shades of French blended with trickles of something else. He certainly wasn’t Rah-burt he was Ro-bear. “Please, please…” he said amiably as they came through a musty little corridor into an arched room the walls and floor covered with Persian carpets. Caleb plopped into a low slung couch, his curiosity burning.
“I have a very demanding client, or should I say clients, and I believe you can help me to help them.”
“I see…”
At this point Robert disappeared behind a carpet-covered arch to rustle up something Caleb hoped was coffee. Left dangling by Robert’s introduction Caleb sized up his surroundings, noting the elegant wooden side tables and the curious lack of computer. Caleb glanced at his phone to see that it was picking up a wifi node; Robert was online but clearly favoured aesthetics over hardware for his guests.
Robert backed through the hanging carpet holding a tray of coffee and sticky baklava. Once they had both had a sip and a bite Robert sat back in his chair, only now ready to speak fully.
“My clients have a grievance that goes back many years. They are Polish, you understand? They want back what is theirs.”
“What do they want?”
“Many things,” Robert replied staring meaningfully into the bottom of his coffee cup. “Like you I track down the copyrights of work people want to use. For me it’s a sideline, I’m not a professional like you, but I find it passes the time when my business is otherwise slow.
“Many years ago I started supplying various things to the Polish community in Wilno, up north from here. They were the first, you know. The first Poles to settle in Canada and they still have this wonderful spirit. I visit occasionally.” Ever so delicately Robert picked another piece of baklava from the plate whilst offering Caleb more with the slightest of glances.
“Of course they still hate the Germans, and the Russians. It’s only natural. So I wasn’t totally astonished when they made their request.” Robert sat back to finish chewing.
“Which was…” Caleb asked, unable to wait.
“Which was that they wanted to recover the rights to the writings, paintings and photos of their ancestors. They have formed a co-operative and they are willing to pay for the return of what they regard as being morally and legally theirs.”
“I see.”
***
Childhood had been a mixture of loneliness, boredom and intermittent bursts of ambition. Caleb had coped with all this by reading extraordinary quantities of books. His father would always grumble as they packed to go on one of their little holidays together. Caleb would pack three items of clothing and fill the rest of his case with books.
“Great company you’re going to be,” he would grouse to Caleb. But they both knew his father only wanted to lie in the sun and snooze. Working, looking after Caleb and continuous nervous turmoil left his dad exhausted.
Every spring and summer they would drive down to a little seaside resort in the south of France. Caleb would stand out on the deck as their ferry pushed through the Channel to the tinkle of slot machines and sizzle of cheap breakfasts. Caleb loved to suck in the sea air as Dover disappeared behind them, seagulls squawking righteously.
If the winds picked up and it got cold he would run back inside, nose and ears burning in the heat, to sit next to his father sadly flipping through a newspaper in the observation lounge. They rarely said much to each other but they understood each other well. They shared their guilt for being alive, both ashamed and yet unable to resist life.
He’d pass the week at Easter or two weeks in summer hiding in the shade, destroying his reading pile a book or two a day. He read everything from classics to biographies to science fiction or trashy thrillers. Some years he wouldn’t pace himself and he’d end up with a few days and nothing left to read. If he was lucky he’d find a book or two in English at a tourist shop but otherwise he’d wander the town and its beaches passing the time in contemplation, waiting for the next meal when he’d meet his father in their favourite café.
***
Gripping the massive sword in both his hands Caleb plunged the blade with all his might into the back of the giant, scaly beast. Shocked with pain and anger the dragon bucked wildly, threatening to throw Caleb as he desperately struggled to hold onto the grip of his weapon buried in flesh.
It wasn’t often that he got to take such a big one down single-handedly. Grimly ignoring the scream of his muscles, Caleb rode out the beast’s struggle, it’s body slowly but stubbornly realising it was dying.
As the last of the twitching subsided, Caleb hauled his blade out of the dragon’s neck, deftly avoiding the gush of blood it released.
He hadn’t played a computer game in a long time. Something had drawn him back to his favourite dragon slaying game. He still enjoyed it, but somehow it wasn’t the same as it used to be. He quit the game, dissatisfied.
***
Robert’s co-operative of Poles proved to an excellent client. Caleb’s first win, tracking down a stolen painting in Chile, had cemented his position. He had been staying at a friend’s house in Mallorca, enjoying the summer there, when he’d hit the jackpot. After enhancing the client’s tatty photo of the original painting, he’d sent his search bots out for anything that looked similar online.
Walking back from an iced latte at the beach cafe, his watch had vibrated a celebratory rhythm. Wary of the many false positives he’d experienced before, Caleb hadn’t quickened his pace. He felt the strain on his legs has he climbed the rocky path up from the beach towards his friend’s modern cube of a home. Josh was taking a year off work as an extended honeymoon gap year. His wife, Bella, hadn’t yet had a chance to bring her touch to the holiday home. It was all sharp edges, monotone furniture and big screen TVs. Slipping through the side-door, Caleb kicked his sandals off and padded quietly to the small home office at the back, furthest from the sea view.
His jerry-rigged suitcase of tech was plugged into Josh’s mammoth three-screen setup. While not one to settle, Caleb did appreciate home comforts like this amount of screen to play with. Not bothering to sit, he clicked through security and opened the bot notifications. A strong positive hit on an estate agent website, all in Spanish.
Ten minutes later and he had ascertained with high probability that a recently deceased Nazi had been displaying the painting with pride in their home for the past seventy years. Blissfully unaware, his children had put the family home up for sale and there it was for all to see. Another win for the Internet, thought Caleb.
After a few more checks, and confirming as much as he could, he passed the details on to Robert he responded with an avalanche of delighted emoji.
Fifteen days later a large sum of crypto pinged into Caleb’s wallet. As he closed the notification on his phone he flicked through his news feed: Polish government celebrate the return of long lost classic artwork.
Jason Kitcat 