21
The shed looked as though it hadn’t been opened in years. The wood was rotting, the locks were rusty, and grass grew around it as though the structure had emerged from the ground. Moss and cobwebs were abundant, and the window was so ground in with dirt that even the most powerful torch would barely be able to penetrate it.
Anthony was staring at it from the doorway of his backyard. His mother and father had recently departed for Blackpool to stay overnight with their childhood friends, so Anthony had his best chance to write the letter to the police. The old typewriter was in there somewhere, he thought. It was basically now or never.
The shed was not locked, and its contents would have been no good to thieves. A cracked bucket. A rusty fork and spade. A well used museum piece of a lawnmower. It was crowded with bits and pieces of paraphernalia that at one point had stopped being of any use, but was still good enough not to throw away, just in case one day they may be useful again, but they never had, and they had weathered down in time to be of little use at all.
Anthony hoped the typewriter was still useful, and still had ribbon. He crossed the lawn which was in serious need of mowing, and opened the shed, and instantly knew he would have problems locating it. It was in there somewhere. He clambered around inside, moving pieces of furniture and carpet, and eventually located it right at the back. For his efforts, he was jabbed in the side by a broken handle of a sweeping brush, but he got the contraption out, and carried it back to the house. The underside was rusty, and some of the side, but it seemed workable.
In his bedroom, he had already prepared his small desk by laying a towel across it. He placed the typewriter on it and wound in a sheet of paper. He then decided that he was hungry, and went downstairs to the kitchen and made himself a strawberry jam sandwich. He sat in the living room eating it, reading a pull-out section of a newspaper about property, but after a few minutes, he had to admit to himself that he needed to face up to the letter. He had to write it. Finishing his sandwich, he went upstairs, sat down at the typewriter, and began to write:
‘Dear Sir/Madam,
I am writing to you because there is something I have to tell you. My conscience will not let me let him get away with what he is doing. As you are probably aware, there is a medical research company called ‘Ryvak’ which is intending to open in the Wirral, just off the M53. This is a facility that will use animals for experiments that I feel will enhance our medical knowledge. However, because of this, because they are going to use animals, somebody I know is hacking into it. He is quite adept at hacking into various places, and Ryvak is his latest attack. Basically what he is doing is manipulating the finances of the company, so it looks like they’re losing money. When the managers realise this, then what will become of the employees jobs? Nobody will be able to contemplate the research while they are losing funds. They must continue this work, and I cannot sit back and let him do it. So I am appealing to you to please investigate, and stop him from doing any further damage than what he has already done. His name is Thomas Parker. He lives at 35 Glenmere road. Widnes. That is the address where he is hacking from.
Yours Faithfully
Anon.’
That should do it, he thought. He read it over. The ink was grey, and some of the letters were smudged, but it was readable. He found an envelope and wondered whether or not he should just post it at the police station. That way he would not need to travel to a different postal district.
Yet, paranoia usually always got the better of him. What if there were cameras outside the station, and they recorded me posting it? he thought. No, he guessed he would have to travel a few miles, post it, then listen to Tom’s frantic worrying. ‘They’re on to me. They’re on to me’. He hoped they wouldn’t discover his bank activity, which in turn would perhaps mean that Anthony’s infiltration may be discovered as they may investigate whether or not other banks had defective firewalls that allowed hackers access. They could then easily trace it back to the perpetrator.
Anthony knew he had to risk it. The advancement of medical knowledge was a higher priority to him than being wealthy, and wished he could just tell Tom his way of thinking. Wished he could simply disagree and have a proper discussion about the pros and cons of the argument. Yet, it may lose Tom’s friendship, which he did not want, in becoming the thing he hated. He would basically be the enemy. If Tom ever found out, then he didn’t know what would happen. Yet he knew that if he did discover it, there would be no tears. So be it.