R ~ A betrayal of the mercenary's trust

There is a very regular and usually infallible piece of persuasion I
will use against my detractors, when their criticisms of my many ways
threaten to put me at the edge of patience. I will tell them that, for
all their disapproving mutterances, I don't do anybody any real harm by
my climbing on walls, singing to myself or making off with the keys to
people's rooms. They get them back soon enough, I say - it is nothing
more than a brief distraction in the course of what may be in danger of
becoming a dull evening. The retort to this claim of mine will most
often suggest I have convinced no one of its truth. I have, however,
convinced one very important person, and that is myself. Happily
believing myself to be on the right side of reason, I manage to stave
off anger and bile for the time being, and all is well.

Fate has recently played one of his famously tricky hands, however,
and it is testament to his style that the harpy who most consistently
brings me to the brink of ire should be the same who throws my little
piece of self-persuasion into disarray, by becoming genuinely hurt and
betrayed by none other than the gracious Henstoat. Oh, Lianne.

As a prelude to the actual events that led to this sad occurrence, I
will recall a time when I was moved to unruly bitterness by the
mercenary during a game of poker. An oriental girl called Roxanne had
recently moved into the room Si?n used to occupy - she now appears from
time to time in the H1 kitchen in her nightwear. When she first arrived
on the scene, it naturally stirred the harpies into a mild panic, and
they immediately wished to do everything for her - greet her, make her
tea, show her where to go and where to be, talk to her, sympathise with
her and generally make her feel as momentarily popular as possible. One
remark made by Beth remained in my thoughts, and that was this: "I can
take her down to the Accommodation Office in the morning, but what if
she can't find her way back?"

The Accommodation Office is down the road past Nelson Court, a three
minute walk. There are signposts around the campus pointing back to
Waveney. Most of the people you would meet around the Accommodation
Office can point you in the right direction. The idea that a newcomer,
however foreign and gentle looking, should become lost for any length
of time is something I found then, and still find, utterly ludicrous. I
even went so far as to state that I thought it was an insult to the
girl's intelligence. I said so during a poker game, which was a grave
mistake. I have mostly learned to avoid such mistakes by imitating
Manley's quiet acceptance of spurious comments and not taking them up
as I used to. In this matter, however, I couldn't contain myself, for
Helen's news that Roxanne had spent the day with a friend caused an
outbreak of emotional ahhs, as if it were the sweetest little thing
imaginable.

"But we were only trying to help," Lianne protested, after I had made
the blunder.

"I know that," I returned, eager to close off the subject. "I don't
mean to suggest your intentions were dishonourable - it is simply that
I found you overreacted."

There was a general clamour of contradiction.

"It's only my opinion," I said, hopeful that this would seal the
deal.

"But don't you think you're being unfair?" Lianne persisted.

"No, I don't. But equally, I don't mean to criticise. All I have said
is I found it to be an overreaction."

Again, a chorus of discontentment, and Lianne said, "But we were only
looking out for her. There's nothing wrong with that."

"I know, I know. But she seems a very capable girl, and you appear to
treat her like a bewildered child. That is all."

"But it must have been strange, coming to live in a completely
different country."

"Yes, yes. Not that this is a completely different country, but
still?"

"And we just wanted to make her feel welcome."

"I'm sure you did. I just thought that some elements of your reaction
were unhelpful. I really don't mean to criticise, but that's how I feel
and that's all there is to it."

"But that's not fair."

"Fine, fine. It's just my opinion, and I don't mean to
criticise?"

"Oh, why don't you just drop it, Jon?"

I was stunned, mugged and left for dead. After all, I had been trying
to drop it since first it had come into being, and I wanted to make
that point clear.

"Excuse me?" I barked.

"No, not another word."

"But I?"

"No! Leave it! Enough!"

"It wasn't me who was?"

Besse joined in the chant of, "Drop it, Jon!"

My voice rose to hysterical heights.

"You just wait til I start up a mundane conversation, repeat the same
point over and over and then tell you to drop it, eh? What'll you say
then?"

Lianne returned sharply, "I wouldn't be bothered in the slightest. I'd
just walk out of the room."

"That's not the reaction of someone who isn't bothered in the
slightest."

A dry and razor-cold silence fell, but my eyes seemed to blaze like
furious, weeping onions. Arguing with Lianne is like trying to put out
an inferno by waltzing across it blindfolded in high heels, and I liked
even less the implication from across the table that I was the sole
disturber of the peace. Helen eventually broke the silence.

"Right. I'm going to my room," she nervously said. "I'll see you all
later."

The poker game continued, but it took some while for the hot currents
that ran across my entire body to finally burn themselves out. She
would pay, and she would pay dearly, I thought to myself, but little
did I know then how unsatisfying my revenge would be - and, indeed, how
utterly accidental.

In fact, some weeks later, any ideas I had of doing harm of any kind
to Miss Robinson had been whittled away with the comb of forgetfulness,
and I again found myself in a state of deep admiration of her talents,
and curiosity at her eccentricities. At the long-shadowed end of a hot
afternoon, which we had both spent outside on the lawn, I invited her
into my room to show me a website she had been excitedly gushing about
(Ah! The world wide web! The only constant thing in the journeys of a
twenty-first century mercenary.)

The website belonged to a distant ally of hers, an ally whose handle
was so lengthy and fantastical that Lianne could not accurately recall
it.

"Lliryukariknohrauiianbabel, or something like that," she said.

Now in order to find the real name of this ally, and thus locate their
site, we had to load up a certain messenger programme and log into
Lianne's personal account. After the usual pandering around like a
ferret in an ice cream factory who doesn't know how to work the
machines, we found the name and were away. All went well, and we were
suitably rewarded, but if only that had been an end to it - if only, if
only.

The following day, Manley, Joe Hell and myself were in my room,
faffing about with guitars and recalling our many adventures with
uproar and all. It was the last merry moo before the slaughterhouse,
for just as I came to the punchline of a particularly good anecdote,
Manley alerted me to the computer screen.

Someone was trying to make contact! But who? I didn't recognise the
handle.

"Hello?" said the screen. "Are you there?"

None of us knew what to say.

"Lianne?"

In a truce, I knew what had happened. Upon being booted up in the
morning, the computer had logged back into Lianne's account without
telling me it had done so. Now one of Lianne's contacts thought she was
online. What to do? I could have - I should have - reported the error
to our assailant immediately. Instead, I was seduced by the prospect of
becoming a fraudulous impostor.

"Hey there," I typed.

Manley realised immediately what I was up to.

"You'll get in trouble," he warned.

I'd been in trouble before though - mostly for very little - so it was
no deterrent.

"How are you?" blinked the screen.

"Actually," I replied, "I've been thinking a lot lately."

"What about?"

"You know. Life, what it means, why we're here. Maybe I haven't been
as opened minded as I could have been."

Both Manley and I could see that this was the remains of my vengeance
coming to the surface. This was something more than fraudulence. Given
the chance to actually be Lianne, at least to this one ally of hers, I
found myself changing her the way I sometimes hoped I could. I was
becoming a monster and madman, intent on control and mastery. Nothing
could stop my descent into evil.

At this point though, Joe asked if he could have a go at being Lianne,
and I relinquished the reins.

"I had a dream last night," he hungrily tapped, "A little elf called
Colin jumped on my shoulder and told me all the pixies loved my
socks."

"Lianne," replied the ally, "are you alright? What's wrong?"

Manley fell about laughing, unable to believe that our correspondent
hadn't perceived the element of impostery at work. I wrestled the
controls back from Joe Hell, who made his excuses and fled the room. I
became the monstrous control freak again.

"Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all. I've just realised that maybe I could
be a little less dismissive of other people and things, you
know."

"What things?"

I looked toward my bookshelf and spied a book on Wicca that I had never
read.

"Like Wicca, for example. It's actually quite interesting. Nothing
Satanic, but just listening to the trees and understanding the spirits
of nature. I always used to say such things were a load of rubbish, but
I think, as I say, that I've perhaps been a little rash in the past."
(It occurred to me that this ally was probably a fellow role-player and
fantasy gamer. "I'll still roleplay, of course, but I'm opening up to
other interests. It's like being reborn."

"Are you coming home soon?"

"Maybe. I'll tell you when the exams are over."

That last question had caught me off guard. I never thought the
mercenary had a home as such, more a series of bases where she stowed
her belongings. I began to feel the conversation was straying into
dangerous territories, so I was relieved that the next message was,
"OK, must go now. Goodbye. Love you."

"Bye. Take care."

I closed the programme down, and as I did so noticed that the ally's
handle came from the 'Family' section of Lianne's correspondent
list.

"Must have been her sister," I said out loud. "Crikey."

I let out a great breath as the demon avenger released me from its
grip. Never again! I turned to Manley, who shook his head and asked if
he could resume his Neopetting. Then I sat down in a corner and mused
over what I had done. Attempting to console myself, I invented a future
scenario where Lianne held a phone conversation with her sister. After
their usual banter, one would have to ring off, and the sister would
say, "Oh, by the way, whatever happened with that Wicca thing you were
going on about?"

Lianne would reply, "I'm sure I don't know what on earth you're talking
about," and recount the conversation to us that evening, whereupon
Manley and I would exchange knowing glances.
Yes?

That all seemed fine. Having convinced myself that these events had as
good as already happened, I settled down to distracting Manley from his
games, and was caught utterly asleep at the wheel when Lianne opened my
door a matter of minutes later, mobile phone in hand, and demanded to
know if I'd been talking to her mother on the computer.

"Your mother?!?" I yelped.

"Yes, my mother."

"Well?" Henstoat gasped as the daggers of Cassius and Brutus seemed to
cut into him again and again. "Maybe!"

"You idiot! She thinks I've been calling up demons - she's crying down
the phone!"

She slammed the door and I waited desperately for the stage direction
that would order me to slump to the vaseline.