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perfect.’
    Perfect was an overstatement, but it was starting to sound possible, and Malcolm, always the researcher, was loath to deny the opportunities.
    ‘So who do they send it to, this money? You can’t put your name on it.’
    ‘I don’t have to. I’ll use a made-up name, Eileen say, and your address. You can be the money man.’
    ‘No way.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I have a price.’
    ‘Name it.’
    ‘I get to film your first call.’
    ‘You’re on. Here, can I use your computer?’

Phonics
    Brian wasn’t much of a man for computers. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see their usefulness. In times of loneliness or overdue assignments they could be quite helpful. But in the list of priorities he kept pinned to the insides of his eyelids spend time with computers did not figure. Women did, and drinking , and maintaining popularity amongst my peers , and although he rarely admitted it (except when under the influence of one of the other three) he was rather partial to cooking too.
    Computers had a place in his life, but not a big place. He e-mailed regularly, understood that www. delicious.com was a European cooking site, and www.deliciouxxx.com was not, and on occasion used the machine in his little brother’s room to release his inner geek, but that was as far as it went. Never, not even once, had Brian entertained the thought that a computer might change his life. And then it did.
    Local was the word that first caught his eye as he scrolled down his Hotmail inbox, sorting the substance from the spam. Then Sex . Then Free . There were any number of other messages that might have called him; promises of increased size, greater staying power, thicker hair or easier access to credit, but they were too slick, too automatic, too carefully translated from the original Eastern European dialect to lodge in his brain. Measured against them, the simple modesty of this message screamed out to him. No desperate capitals, no exclamation marks, no promises—just the everyday language his mother might have used, though mercifully the phone number offered was not hers.
    Hi, I’m Eileen, and I’m offering free, local sex. Click me, please.
    Brian clicked.
    I’m interested in making you happy. Call this number for a free trial, and if we get along, well who knows?
    Local was important. Local was no awkward Ghanaian call code on the next phone bill. Local was no accent, no barrier to imagination. Local was a girl-next-door fantasy just waiting to be indulged.
    Brian dialled.
    ‘Hello.’ The voice was young and innocent, or that of a fifty-three-year-old with an acting background, saving to take her recently laid off husband for a surprise trip to the Gold Coast. The tingle of the illicit teased his deeper instincts as he leaned back against the bed head and wriggled the phone to a more comfortable position.
    ‘Yeah, hi, I’m Kieren. I saw your ad on the internet.’
    ‘Hello, Kieren. What can I do for you?’
    ‘Well, ah, what are ya wearing?’ It seemed as good a place as any to start. There was a certain ice to be broken first, that was only natural. ‘This isn’t costing me is it?’
    ‘Only for the call.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘You sound strong to me,’ the sweet voice of commerce continued. ‘I like strong men. Do you have strong hands?’
    ‘Well yeah, you know. Do some weights and that.’
    ‘Strong gentle hands I bet.’
    ‘Yeah, I guess.’
    Although to be honest it wasn’t a place Brian was all that comfortable going. This wasn’t about him. This was the sort of experience best enjoyed with the mind and body disconnected. A professional should have known that.
    ‘Just tell me what you’re wearing.’
    ‘What would you like me to be wearing, Kieren?’ The voice lowered a touch, as if the pimp at the controls had hit ‘seductive’ on the voice synthesiser.
    ‘Just tell me.’
    ‘Well I’m sitting on my bed, and I’m wearing a tank top, without a bra, um it’s white, and it matches my panties. Is