Roth couldn’t remember the technical details and didn’t care about them either, but he remembered that ‘Marshall Contractors’ became ‘Marshall–Pearce Solutions’ when his boss’ old university roommate failed at his own business. Pearce’s pharmaceutical company had been a casualty of Britain’s worst economic downturn in thirty years (although his terrible business sense hadn’t helped either, according to a ranting Marshall). Marshall had created a senior staff position for his old friend, allowing the near-bankrupted Pearce to desert his sinking ship two months before the rest of his company collapsed into dust.

It had gone well for a while, until a man called Nicholas Grant wandered in and bought their company in a day. It was—

‘Well, here’s Oliver,’ came Marshall’s voice from the other side of the thin glass. Roth brought himself back to reality and scanned his keycard against the door. He scurried through as it opened, making his remaining energy as visible to his superiors as he could.

‘Made it with… fifty-five seconds to go,’ said Pearce.

‘Adults always start their meetings late,’ Roth said, dumping his rucksack on the floor next to his chair. ‘Besides, you may be three minutes from your bedroom but I had to walk here from Harpenden. Made it without sitting down along the way, you know.’

Before Roth could check their faces for reactions, the countdown on the television flickered off. The screen turned pure white, and a monotone buzz of blank noise suggested Grant’s microphone was on.

He’s not showing his face. For all we know he could be s itting at his desk in his underwear, playing chess against himself or something. Or maybe he thinks a blank screen is more imposing.

Roth understood. Reputation was far scarier than a visible face. Marshall had once taught him that.

‘Let us begin,’ came the voice of Nicholas Grant.

‘Great timing,’ said Roth, ‘I’ve just arrived! But of course you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘Perceptive boy. Yes, I was watching.’

Roth tried to look around for wherever the camera was, without it being obvious he was searching. He felt more comfortable knowing which part of his head was being watched by the world’s most controlling dictator.

‘Hungry, Nathaniel?’ asked Grant. Roth’s glance landed on Pearce as he swallowed his mouthful of cheese and jalapeños.

‘I’ve got to eat here,’ he said, ‘hope you don’t mind. Struggling to find time for nourishment with the AME project where it is.’

‘Lose the sandwich, Nathaniel,’ Grant boomed. ‘What you’re doing is a transparent attempt to impress me with how busy you are, and I’m not gullible enough to fall for it. Unless you think I am?’

‘No sir,’ Pearce answered, ‘I don’t.’

Pearce’s trademark smile collapsed at the edges, and he placed the cheese and jalapeño sandwich on the table.

‘Bin, Nathaniel.’