The Writing on the Firewall

The first one - three days before - mene mene

~

"I don't give a shit! Get fucking rid of them! Have they all signed NDAs? Make sure they have, and then I want them gone!"

Spittle flew. His bathrobe flaps, as if joining in with his rage. Martin snatched at the garment, and fastened it properly at his waist.

"Sir, I don't think-"

"Don't make me repeat myself," Martin snarled. It wasn't a good snarl, either. A snarl never is, but in this case it was because he isn't the type of man who could pull it off.

He's a weedy person, awkward, and something unlikeable about him besides. Even all the work he's had done has failed to make him handsome. It's only given his skin a stretched, shiny, quality. Like a balloon.

Apart from anything else, a snarl just looks out of place on his odd, porcelain-looking face. It hardly matters. His main feature, the thing he's really known for, is his obscene wealth, accrued as head of a tech giant company.

That's not to say he can't do anger convincingly. Combined with his personal brand of weird, it lacks a rounded, healthy quality, and comes off sinister. Brittle.

He blinked at last.

"Just get them all out! I'll find out who it was from security footage." The thought, unspoken, but heard loud and clear: and I'll make them pay.

"Shall I call the cleaning team, as well?"

"Of course you fucking should! I don't want to have to look at that all day do I?" He gestured with one rubbery arm at the mess on the wall.

Someone had painted a blue hand with one digit extended. Next to it, in the same colour, the words:

your days are NUMBERED

Martin seethed. How dare they! He was never hosting a party in his actual home ever again.

+

Martin wondered whether he should tell the police. This was a brief thought, and squashed fast. He had little more than contempt for law enforcement. Or laws, truth be told. Laws were for other people. Normal people.

No, the party just got out of hand, that's all. And okay, it sounded a bit threatening, but it could have been aimed at someone else. In any case, he had security, didn't he?

The cleaning crew had done their usual stellar job of cleaning up, except for the one thing he'd wanted scrubbed away more than anything. The words still sniggered at him every time he was anywhere near them.

The head of the team looked like he was bracing himself when he broke the news to Martin that the paint simply wouldn't come off without damaging the wall.

"Then damage it!" Martin hissed, barely holding his temper.

"It'll cause a lot more mess, then you'll have to paint over it anyway," the man explained, braver than most. "It might be better to just paint over it."

Some part of Martin wanted to grab the fussy little man by the collar of his overall and wail I just want it gone! but this time, he held it together.

Instead he growled "Fine!"

The crew left. Martin didn't thank them.

He called Stuart. Stuart was a handyman. He was competent and reliable, the sort to suck air in between his teeth to make you think the job was impossible, or expensive, or both. Then he'd get on and get it done.

Martin may have be acted like a spoilt, petulant child to most of the people who worked for him, but Stuart was different. Stuart was one of the few who commanded his respect. It had never been said out loud, but Martin suspected Stuart would just resign at the first sign of temper. He seemed like a patient man, but there was something about him. A no-nonsense air that suggested he had no patience at all for certain things.

"Someone got it in for you, boss?" he said, when he saw the impromptu mural.

Martin schooled his tone. "Can you paint over it? Today?"

"Right you are," Stuart said, and that was that.

The actual bit Martin didn't want to see was covered up. Stuart said he'd be back the next day to "make good" the whole wall. Where Martin might have exploded at someone else, insisting it wasn't good enough, it had to be done now, if not yesterday... He accepted this meekly from Stuart.

It was a pleasant feeling, actually. It never felt like Stuart was the bearer of bad news. On the contrary, it was like Martin was being included in a special club of competent people who fixed things. Who knew how things were done, beyond code. People who mowed lawns, and kicked tyres. People who drank pints, and knew how to wire a plug. The people who knew where a stopcock was, and what it was, and what to do if the power went out. People who said boss and make good.

+

The second one - two days before - tekel

~

Emerging from his bedroom the following morning to be greeted by more paint daubed on the wall sent Martin's rage to new heights, courted by panic.

Now, underneath the first message, another:

you have been WEIGHED

you have been found WANTING

What looked like a small drawing of scales had been depicted next to it, in a few lines. A triangle, a semi-circle, a squiggle.

To make it even worse, with the eye drawn to that fucking mess, the original message seemed to shine through the thin layer of paint.

Having sacked anyone who had been on the property the night before, there was nobody to scream at to clean it up. He found the number for the cleaning team, but they were mysteriously unavailable.

Martin stormed to the kitchen to snap at the coffee machine.

That, at least, did what he told it. It couldn't leak his secrets, because he hadn't told it any. It didn't threaten him, betray him or judge him... Martin didn't like to be judged. That was another thing that was for other, ordinary people.

The ever-reliable Stuart didn't arrive and wasn't answering his phone.

Martin would have to hire new staff. Until then...

It took a while to locate the cleaning supplies. Muttering and cussing non-stop, he squirted bleach into the bucket, and manhandled it under the kitchen tap. He lugged it to that fucking mess, a strong bleach solution slopping over the rim on to the expensive carpet. Someone else would deal with that. A new carpet would be installed almost without him noticing.

Next, he grabbed an assortment of sponges and brushes, and set to work.

More bleach splashed over his sleeves, and he yanked them up to his elbows. The fabric would be ruined, of course, but he didn't know or care about that. It would be disposed of, and a replacement would appear, just like the carpet.

The sponge wasn't cutting it, so he swapped it for a brush. The harsh bristles left plenty of marks on the surrounding wall, but made no impact on the stubborn paint.

Who had done this?

He glared at the words, and they glared back. He stabbed Stuart's number into his phone again, but now it was going straight to voicemail.

Martin felt very alone, and more than a little bit unnerved.

He called Val, the head of his security team, for an emergency meeting. Val didn't sound too happy. He was enjoying some time off (how was Martin supposed to remember that?) and he balked at the idea of cutting it short and rushing back to Martin's side.

Martin could hear a woman's voice in the background, and screaming brats.

"Who paid for that vacation? Get back here now. This is important. And buy some paint on your way."

"What colour?"

"Whi- no! Black. Yes! Get Black. Lots of black paint. And hurry!"

Martin did not need this. Not so close to the event.

+

The third one - one day before - parsin

Martin felt good. The entire offending wall had been made good, but in black, so the messages wouldn't show through. He had people going through the footage to figure out who had been on the property. He'd had the whole security team in place last night. Locks had been changed, passcodes had been updated. There was no way. No way.

The fucker, whoever it was, had gone over the whole thing in pale, fluorescent blue.

The hand was back, extending the middle finger as boldly as ever. The scales were drawn more carefully drawn this time. The vandal had taken time to edge the letters in bright white so they really popped against the dark background.

your days are NUMBERED

~

you have been WEIGHED

you have been found WANTING

~

DIVIDED. BROKEN. RE-DISTRIBUTED.

~

The charity gala for Ethical Technology was tomorrow. Martin had arranged for the big unveiling of the company's latest innovation, incorporating generative AI smack bang in the middle of it. Investors and shareholders would all be there, business reporters, philanthropists, A-list actors and musicians... It was important, but he'd barely had a moment to think about it with all this graffiti inside his own damn house.

+

He left. Just up and left. Called his driver, threw a bag into the car with his new suit, and went. Checked into a random hotel under a fake name. Surely, whoever it was that was tormenting him wouldn't follow him here?

The hotel staff were puzzled at first, in denial that a man with that kind of wealth would be patronising their establishment. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him...? He was flanked by bodyguards, though, and the car he arrived in was huge, flashy, and brand new.

He was a bit of a prima donna, with all kinds of stipulations about the security he required (he had brought his own), his room, who could enter it (no one) and what the exceptions were (serious safety or security concerns only, like a fire in the building, or a bomb).

"Are you... are you expecting someone to bomb you, sir?" The staff within earshot were frightened, now, and wondering if the money was worth it.

The rich man looked stony, but then, he always looked like that. It was all that Botox.

He paced his cheap room like a mangy lion in a cage. It was tiny. Not even a proper suite. Just a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom.

It did make him feel better to know there were three serious looking men out in the corridor with the sole aim of ensuring nobody came in. Every so often he peeped out and checked they were still there.

Nothing happened. Nothing kept happening. Martin plugged in his phone and used it to check the cameras on his property obsessively, until he fell asleep.

The one thing that eased his mind was that no one had made a physical threat against him. Well. Depending how you read the first message.

+

The day of

It's a lavish venue, because of course it is. Women pose in dresses that covered very little and cost more than several months' rent. Men stand beside them in suits that all looked pretty much the same, but cost just as much. Cameras click and champagne bubbles. The chosen few step inside, away from prying eyes, where they can mingle with their own kind, and drink cocktails.

Touchscreens dotted about manage somehow to be ostentatious in their discretion. These show details of auction items. A small art collection. A brief flight to space. A stay on a private island.

Nothing untoward has happened, but Martin is still chewing his lip bloody and pacing, unable to stay still. His eyes dart and flick like a lizard's, giving him a shifty appearance. He waves away hors d'ouvres.

When the cocktail reception morphs into dinner, he squirms in his seat, and drinks slightly too much wine. This, on the back of hastily gulped champagne and several colourful cocktails, helps him finally relax. More screens glow gently at each table, allowing people to bid extortionate amounts casually in between bites.

His heart, which has slowed its gallop during the early courses, begins to mount again when his plate is cleared away. One more dish, and after that he is making his big speech. Before the main course.

Everything has gone well so far. Why shouldn't that continue? He clenches his fist to stop himself biting his nails, a habit he hasn't indulged since high school.

Quite drunk, but masking it well, thanks to long practise, he makes his way through the forest of elegant chairs. His opening joke is hardly slurred at all, and well-received. The titter that ripples around the high-ceilinged space is a gratifying one, and his bolsters him to continue.

The curtains at the huge windows draw back with a soft, mechanical whir. Martin beams, in that shiny way of his. Gasps echo around him. People don't like their meal interrupted, but people do like intrigue, and surprises, and new things...

The windows are revealed as not windows at all, but huge screens. They flicker to life. Martin is bathed in their glow.

All trace of alcohol gone from his voice now, only the spirit of it buoying him up, layering his confidence... He explains how his latest innovation works, how this latest iteration of AI will revolutionise the workplace. He can feel them all nodding around him like puppets, the motion sending another wave of wealth rolling in his direction-

The screens glitch, and, as if desperate to mirror his beloved Tech, his voice does the same. So does his face, but it's hardly noticeable in that expanse of stretched skin. Before he can apologise, or make an excuse, they flicker again, and he continues talking, hoping nobody noticed...

There's a murmur around him, building and slopping towards him. The light he's bathed in is red, not blue. He takes a moment to look at the screens, and there, rolling slowly before his eyes, his encrypted messages discussing insider trading, and statements of his offshore accounts...

The nodding has stopped. He can hear the clicking and scribbling of reporters, like hungry venomous spiders.

Frozen, like a deer in headlights, he feels the tsunami coming for him, and the foundations of his empire shaking and cracking.

+

After

Ousted by the Board within a week of the Gala, lawsuits he couldn't afford anymore started piling up. With his accounts and assets frozen, he bobbed about in a sea of panic, and huge holes of debt where mountains of cash used to be.

Friendless - all the people who sucked up to him before: gone. He's sold off most of his valuables to pay legal fees and living costs. The stupid cars, the extravagant penthouse, the various homes dotted about... including the one with the messages on the wall... all gone.

He's scratching a living in a modest condo, gambling what little he has left, (and quite a lot of what he doesn't have) on bad investments and crazy schemes. Chasing wealth like a toddler scampering after a soap bubble.

Someone has made a Netflix documentary about him, with gleeful focus on his fall. There's endless footage of him in his horrible suit with his shiny, shiniy face... Not just at the gala, but at the many court cases that followed. He's a meme, now. Dissected brutally, beyond his fraud and hubris. Even the way he drinks water is crucified.

He wears a cap, pulls it down over his eyes. With his collar turned up, and his gaze aimed at the ground in front of his feet, no fleet of cars or security detail... he's learning to blend in.

When he steps out of the sliding doors with his weekly supply of ramen noodles and frozen vegetables, he pauses beside the man with a bowl and a piece of card, asking for change. Martin puts a hand in his pocket. He hopes, one day, someone might do the same for him.

+

Than you for reading!

Important note: it's a work of fiction, and any similarity to any person is a big "oops, really?"

Taking a break from the detective story for this one!

I wrote this yesterday as part of my Sunday series (below), but some tech problems ironically prevented me posting here before I went to bed. Finally fixed now!

This is inspired by the Bible story, The Writing on the Wall. A mysterious hand appears and writes words on the wall, which freaks out a king. (Belshazzar, I think, possibly related to Nebuchadnezzar, the second one, not the ship in The Matrix). The prophet Daniel explains the meaning of the writing. The king doesn't listen, and loses everything. It's a neat story, one of my faves. It's where we get the phrase, "the writing on the wall".

The actual words that appeared on the wall were:

MENE MENE

TEKEL

PARSIN

They were interpreted by Daniel something like this:

your days are numbered

you have been weighed and found wanting

your kingdom will be divided between your enemies

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This is the fifth in my Sunday series, for those who are not easily offended:

Thanks again!