The Pitcairn Perspectives by Philip Spires - HTML preview

Edward receives an email

He had overslept that morning. It was eleven thirty before Edward Pitcairn opened his laptop, loaded his word processor and accessed the file of research notes from which he had gradually, slowly would be a better word, been extracting and ordering material. He was, item by item, point by point, inserting detail into a paper he was preparing for publication. He was still not happy with the title, “A comparison of human foot bone fragments from fossil remains on Sawu, Flores and Mindanao”, because the file retained evidence that this title had been edited each time he had opened the document. This particular morning, he paused on retrieving the document, swapped the names Mindanao and Sawu, and thus recreated the text in the same form as three days before. He had explained to Gemma the previous evening that the order was as critical as the message.

“If I put Sawu first, it makes it look like I am blowing my own trumpet.”

“You are, dad,” commented Gemma. Edward ignored her words.

“If I put Mindanao first, no one will read it……”

“…because it’s just a less well researched area…”

“Precisely. And if I put Flores first…” Edward Pitcairn had paused.

“It looks like you are being accommodating towards Sarnu.”

Edward nodded his agreement. “I can’t put it last because it might appear vindictive.”

Gemma smiled. “Perhaps you should ditch the idea and write a piece on fossilized detergent tablets.” At the time, she was loading the washing machine at the far end of the kitchen. They let the matter drop.

But when his thoughts returned to that late start of a morning, Edward Pitcairn, having recalled the discussion with his daughter, and having edited his title yet again, began to scroll through the entries in his file of notes.

“I wish I had brought a copy of the database,” he mumbled, ruing the fact that he had only copied the summary material from the desktop computer that lived beneath his desk in Yogyakarta. He had thought about contacting Fatima back at home in the apartment with a set of instructions of how to locate the file, zip it and send it, but he had rejected the idea. She was never any good with computers and the chances of her finding the right document he judged small, never mind the technical challenge of transforming it and attaching it to an email. Fatima, try as she might, could not get the idea of a hierarchical directory structure, having been brought up with information technology wholly in the age of the mobile phone app, which accessed recent data of relevance automatically. There were, of course, other reasons for his not having contacted his girlfriend, which were about to become explicit via actions that would not be his own.

As had become his habit, he was mumbling to himself as he read through his document. He commented on the hour, chided himself for sleeping so late, tortured himself with the error of having taken a painkiller the night before, when, at two o’clock in the morning he found himself still unable to sleep. He could now find no comfort, no release from the pain which seemed to intensify only whenever he lay down. It seemed that the complaining internal organ only did so when gravity acted at ninety degrees to its usual axis. He had not experimented with the hundred and eighty degree shift, however, reminding himself that the last time he had stood on his head was in the gym approximately twenty years ago.

But that ninety degree shift seemed to bring the pain to life, if that was not an oxymoron. The minute he lay down it seemed to start. Whether it might have a physical cause, or whether it might be as a result of solitude refocusing his self-pity, he did not know. Generally, in the two weeks since he had procured the first of his painkiller prescriptions, he had avoided using the pills. He had correctly predicted, those weeks before, while talking to Khan, that they would make him sleep and thus force him to lose valuable time. But he also recalled saying to Gemma that if morphine were an option, then he would have it. He said out loud, “I wonder if this is it.”

He drank from the tepid tea at his bedside. Gemma, as always, had put a mug by his bed, probably as much as two hours before, having first visited his room to check if he might be awake. It had become the new norm, if norm might be applied to a practice of less than a month. “Why,” Edward asked her several times, “do you bother to check if I am up? If I am asleep, you go downstairs, make me tea and then bring it up. If I am awake, note the difference, you go downstairs, make a tea and bring it up. Why not just bring me the tea?”

“Because if you are awake, I can say good morning dad,” had been Gemma’s reply, it’s quality of non sequitur eliciting neither comment nor qualification from either father or daughter.

There was a ping. It was a sharp little sonorous note that accomplished the interrupt it intended. An icon on the bottom left of Edward’s screen added a miniscule, coloured blob at its edge. He noticed immediately, probably seeing the change before he had heard the alarm, since, despite now feeling that he was surely close to death, his eyesight remained perfect and acute.

It was the icon that indicated mailbox activity. It regularly recorded new messages and these alarms, usually, he ignored, assuming they would emanate from the usual array of spammers, who ought to be hung, drawn, quartered, burned at the stake, dunked by ducking stool, gassed, hung, strangled, or even pulverized and used as fertilizer, depending randomly on the day of the week or the hour of receipt.

He would, no doubt, have received notice of closure of a non-existent bank account. He might have won fifty million dollars, several times. He might even have been mentioned in the will of someone he had never known and could become a millionaire just by clicking the link. There might even, possibly, be something worth reading.

But that particular morning, whether by virtue of some subliminal difference in the quality of the alarm, weather by virtue of the time of day, or, more likely, by virtue of a concordance in the mechanism of his own thoughts, he instinctively knew he must open the message. His mouse pointer hovered over the icon. Click. The email client took a moment to load. There were twenty new messages, most of them junk, but there was one he had been dreading, mailed from himself to himself, but not written by him. He opened it and read.

‘Edward, kumusta mahal?

It has been a long time now. I do not hear from you. Please tell me your news. You are in London, far away from here. I am alone here, but I have some help. It is many weeks.

I am sorry.

I have done a thing you will not like.

My money is finished. Let me explain.

You were good. You gave me the card and the number. I was getting cash from the machines at the bank. I am doing exactly as you were saying. No problem. You say you will be away for two weeks. But now it is more than seven weeks, nearly eight. Please tell me the news of you. Did you see a doctor? What did he say? Are you still well?

The bills have come in. I paid the electricity and the rent. The bills are for May and June. The May bills were overdue when you left for London. I think you forgot to pay them when you were in hospital. And now I must pay the rent for July and there is no money. I went again to the cash point and took a balance. The account is in the red. I cannot go into the bank to ask a question. The bank account is in your name only and it is very clear to everyone that my name is not Edward Pitcairn.

Yesterday, I saw some new clothes and tried to buy them. Maybe they were a bit expensive. But usually that is not a problem, is it, my love? Well, this time, because I had no cash, I used the card in the shop. The salesperson asked me to wait a moment because the machine was not connecting properly. It was only a few moments later that the manager came and told me to come to his office.

He told me he knew this was not my card. I tried to explain. But he said that his employees were within the law to ask to see a proof of identity for anyone using a credit card. He said it was illegal to use someone else’s credit card without their written permission. Also, as you know, I am in trouble because I am not legal here. I have some papers where my name is Fatima, but the only official document I have is from the Philippines, where my name is Josie, of course. When you are here, it is no problem, but when you are away for so long, things start to go wrong.

The manager kept the card, and he called the bank. And now they have cancelled the card and blocked the account. So, I have no money. Edward, please tell me your news. It has been so long. I need to know. If you are away for more time, you know what I will have to do. I have no choice. I am not legal here. I cannot work. Officially. You know.

I am sorry I went to the University to ask. I thought you might have sent a message. I went to your office, but I found the name on the door has changed. There is now a Bahasa name from the Public Policy department on the door. I spoke to the man. He said he has been in the office for a month and that your things have been put in store by the Personnel. I went there. They told me they have your files, your computer and your books. They are stored in boxes waiting for you to come back. They gave me a letter. I asked them why they did not send you the letter. They said they thought you were coming back. It was addressed to you, but they said I should open it. It was only in Bahasa. I have translated it using Google and copied the result. It says –

Dear Professor Edward Pitcairn

First of all, let me thank you for your years of devoted and professional service to the University, the Ministry of Culture, and the archaeological project on Sawu. Your contribution has been immense to the international reputation of the University and its work has benefited tremendously over the years as a result of your involvement.

It is with regret, however, that we must hereby inform you that the relationship between yourself and government agencies must now come to an immediate end. After consultation with Professor Sarnu and your doctors, we have concluded that the work on Sawu, which would be hard even for a younger, fitter man, is now too difficult for you, and your returning there is no longer an option. We cannot put the health of a prominent academic like yourself at risk by requiring you to do field work on such a project. The insurance risk for the University of your collapse or injury on the site is now too great to bear. On this last occasion, when your ill health on site led to a collapse, we had to use emergency air services to bring you back to Java. The cost implications for the project of a recurrence of this event would put the whole study in financial jeopardy.

I must stress that this decision is in no way a criticism of yourself, or your work on Sawu. Throughout, you have conducted yourself in an exemplary manner and the quality of the academic study you have carried out is on a par with the very best in the world. There comes a time, however, when, in the best interest of all parties, someone like yourself should step back and accept that the time has come when such arduous activities can no longer be sustained. We wish you well in the future, but we inform you that your relationship with all government agencies in Indonesia is hereby terminated.

The last regular payment towards your ongoing costs was made at the beginning of May and no further payments will be made. This, of course, does not change or affect the relationship you retain with Hackney Metro University, nor does it change the status of your emeritus professorship with them. Furthermore, Professor Sarnu has stated without qualification that, if you want, all future research data will be shared with you so you may continue to pursue your personal analysis of the material.

We appreciate and understand that these will be difficult times for you. The relationship between yourself, the University and the Sawu project has been exemplary. But there comes a time, in the interest of all parties involved, when such a relationship must be ended.

We wish you well and hope that your medical condition improves.

Yours, Sidono, Vice-chancellor

Edward, does this mean that there will be no more money coming into your account? If so, how can I live? I remember you saying how you used to transfer money from your London salary to here. Have you done that recently? Can you arrange a transfer?

Edward, I am worried. My father in the Philippines needs an operation. He needs a new hip. He is only sixty. That is too young to become an invalid. I need to send money for the operation. What can I do? Please send me a message. Can I do anything about the university letter?

We have been together for two years. I am grateful to you. I cannot thank you enough for giving me the chance to get away from that terrible life in the club. Life there can be dangerous. You have given me a chance in life. But without money, I have to go back. I have no choice. Please send me a message. I want to know about you. I don’t want to become Josie again. If I wear a scarf and call myself Fatima, I can live. As Josie, shut up in the club, I am nothing. And there will be that terrible work… Please send me a message.

Love Josie.’

Edward Pitcairn left the message on the screen for several minutes. He obviously read the entire text several times. There was a lot to take in, but he made no discernible or audible comment, save for a grunt or two and a sigh.

What he did do, twenty minutes later, was access his online banking page on the YogyaBank website. He entered his personal identifier and password, which was his usual cipher of ‘chupesi,,99’ and spent several minutes checking the status of his account. He then went to the transfers page and began to instigate the regular pull transaction from his UK account, the details of which he had permanently stored on his YogyaBank records. He had completed the form and pressed the actuate button to transfer five hundred pounds from his UK account into Indonesian rupiah when the message, “Verify using the code sent to…” appeared on the screen, the mobile number completing the text being, of course, his Indonesian MudahComm, mobile.

There followed two minutes of frantic activity in Edward Pitcairn’s room as he searched bags, surfaces and drawers for his recently untouched phone. He finally located it in the inside pocket of the jacket he had been wearing on the morning he arrived at Heathrow, almost three months before.

He switched on the phone, but it displayed a message to say its battery was dead. Another two minutes of frantic activity were needed to locate its charger and lead, which was still in the same wheelie carry-on that had accompanied him on his flight. By this time, however, the screen prompt had expired and the transaction he had requested had been cancelled. He turned on the MudahComm phone anyway, now plugged into its power supply, and then set about repeating the instruction to the bank. He had the relevant page loaded again on his laptop when the phone, having rebooted and started, beeped. He turned to read the message. It was a further reminder that MudahComm regarded his status as ‘roaming’ and that extra charges would apply.

He thought for a moment. He paused for as long as a minute, still clicking and swiping back-and-forth between the laptop and mobile.

Then, with a deliberate, rather slow manner, he closed the phone and logged out of his YogyaBank account. He closed down the laptop and then slowly shuffled across to the bed, where he lay down, initially with a groan of pain. Just moments later. He was asleep.