Click, Flash and it was Done

The day was unexceptional except for closing a huge deal with a famous investor.

He could have stolen my invention; I didn’t have the capital to pursue him in the courts. I was acting on faith (I know, stupid, right?). J. P. Moneybags was true to his word and decided to stump up the monstrous capital needed to bring my invention to production.

He gets 95% of the profits, and I get 5%. But that's not as bad as it sounds because the patent is in my name.

5% of a lot of money is, well, a lot of money.

My needs are small, but my curiosity is insatiable, and that’s where it all started — my insatiable curiosity.

We needed a photo to mark the occasion. I could have shot it on my phone camera, but I wanted a chance to handle the fantastic camera my benefactor had lying on his office desk.

“May I?” I said, and he smiled.

“Do you think you can handle it?” said Moneybags.

I knew enough about digital cameras to know that there are way too many dials. I come from a time where we put film in cameras and, it has to be said, you needed to know a bit about shutter speeds and iris settings, but it wasn’t that hard.

“When was the last time you used it?” I asked.

“Earlier today. My secretary is having a birthday.”

“Did the shot come out well?”

“Yes, it did. Perfect, in fact.”

“Good, then the current settings will work fine. I can always tweak it a bit when you send me the photo.”

I grabbed the camera, found the command for a timed shot, scrambled across the room, held up my invention while standing next to J. P. Moneybags and his lawyer.

Click, flash, and it was done.

I handed Moneybags my card with my email address underlined, “When you get a moment, send it here,” I pointed to the spot on my card and Moneybags ignored me.

I wondered if I would get the photo, but it was in my inbox as soon as I woke up the next morning.

No matter what I tried, the file would not open. I regretted my decision not to take a backup shot on my phone.

At the end of a hectic day, I rang a friend, Michael, who knows a lot about computer files, “Can I send it over and see what you can do with it. I wouldn’t bother you but it’s an important photo,” I said brushing a piece of confetti out of my hair from the celebrations at work.

“No, worries; send it over.”

I parked the car outside Michael’s house on his leafy street -- well lit and looking like a set from a 50s sitcom.

Michael opened the door when he saw me pull up. I hoped he didn’t offer me a drink because I didn’t think I’d make it home if he did.

“Mary is off at some book group or other, so we have the place to ourselves.”

Michael ushered me in with his usual flourish.

I’m out on my feet, and he’s just getting started. I’m buggered if I know where he gets his energy from.

“The kids?” I said.

“Asleep,” said Michael and I wished I was, asleep that is and not with his kids — they drive me crazy. One of them tried to push a crayon up my nose when I fell asleep at their Christmas barbecue. He learned a few new words that day.

“I’ve been working on the file, come and have a look,” said Micheal leading the way to his basement — his inner sanctum.

“It’s a photo file alright, and it’s a good thing you mentioned it otherwise I would have been at it all night. There’s a jpeg in there, but it’s protected by a folder I’ve never seen before. Cracked it, but. I rule.”

He does rule; it’s true. I’d follow him if he decided to be a king.

“Where were you when you took this. I thought you said you were in the financial district?”

“We were,” I said.

“As you know, (I didn’t) there’s all kinds of stuff embedded into a photo assuming that it is a modern camera, and it comes up as data if you know where to look. GPS data tells you where you were when the shot was taken (I did know that), but this is precise data — military-grade information. The kind of shit that drone pilots use to put out a cigarette and the bloke who is smoking it, on the other side of the world.”

“Holy shit,” was all I could think of to say.

“Where you say you were and where the photo says you were is about twenty kilometres apart. A swish new apartment block. Second floor up, south-east corner, in the middle of the room.”

“Does it say what colour my underpants were,” I said.

Michael checked the data, which made me nervous and said, “No.”

“Can you write that address down for me?”

Michael wrote it on an envelope which had the Pentagon as a return address.

“Really?” I said as I waved the envelope at him.

Michael laughed. “Just a friend I knew from my college days, remember that exchange student thing I went on?” (I did)

“He does that because he knows I will get a kick out of getting a letter from the Pentagon. And it might impress my friends.”

“It did,” I said.

We chatted about family and friends and work because I didn’t want him to think that I only called when I wanted something. I’m not sure that I fooled him, but I did find out that his youngest (remember the crayon incident?) is good with numbers and likes to climb trees but has no idea how to climb down. That revelation made me like this kid a little more than I had.

My eyes were in danger of closing, and I still had to drive home, so I made my leave and headed for my car.

“You have a good life, Micheal; you know that, don’t you?” I said, and Micheal agreed that his life was amazing.

As I drove off, I heard my phone ding and saw the photo file appear.

Tomorrow would be time enough to look at it and maybe check out that phantom address — for that’s what I was confident it was, a phantom, a rare mistake from a system that does not make mistakes.

I slept late, rang the office while I was having a pee, “What’s that noise?” said my secretary. “Just washing some veggies before making juice,” I said. “You had better not be talking to me while urinating,” said my secretary. “As if I would,” I said. I juggled my phone with one hand and zipped up my fly with the other. “That sounded like a zipper,” said my secretary, sounding ever more hysterical. “No, just grating some lemon zest,” I said while wondering why I was tap dancing around my secretary — like she never makes calls on the toilet.

She assured me that the office would be fine without me for a day, and I felt a little letdown.

“See you tomorrow,” I said, before flushing.

The apartment building was indeed ‘swish’ as Michael and Google had predicted.

I pushed the button for what I assumed was the right apartment, and nothing happened. So, I did what I had seen on TV, I pushed all the buttons, and finally, the security door buzzed and clicked open. Thank goodness for midday pizza delivery.

I skipped the chrome and glass elevator and headed for the stairs. The foyer was clean and bright, and an original oil painting was fading in the sunlight on the wall. I touched the frame as I walked by, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it was a good luck thing. I’m sure I’ve seen Bruce Willis do it in a movie.

The white marble stairs gave a satisfying click under my heals. The dark timber polished handrails felt pleasant to the touch, and I ran my hand over them as I climbed.

A large 2B sign was on the door at the top of the stairs, and I watched the ornate 1930s style peephole to see if anyone looked out after I buzzed.

The thick timber door swung open, and there stood another me.

He wasn’t dressed the way I would dress, but if he climbed into my clothes, he would pass as me. He didn’t look at all surprised to be looking at his double, while I was lost for words.

“Can I help you,” my other said, and he sounded like me.

“This is going to sound a bit strange, but how long have you lived here?” My ‘other’ seemed confused by the question.

“Forever, I guess. Not sure exactly. Is it important?”

“Not really, I was just wondering,” I said.

“Come in, let’s be comfortable while you wonder.”

The apartment was spectacular. Like something that Buzby Berkley would have designed. It took my breath away. A building on the other side of the street obstructed the view just enough to be annoying, but even so, the outlook was pleasant.

“Do you live here alone?” I asked, and I expected him to be annoyed by my questions.

“No. There are two other fellows who I share with.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, forever,” he said in a dreamy tone.

“Where are they now?”

“Oh, Peter is in his room, but Jason went out a while ago. He’s very successful,” said my ‘other’.

“Drink?”

“Yes, please,” I said. “Scotch, if you have it.”

“I do like a man who isn’t frightened to drink during the day.”

Drink was the least frightening thing in my world at that moment.

“Oh, Peter, this is …”

“Sebastian,” I said and there before me was an exact copy of the lawyer from Moneybags office. He put out his hand, and I shook it.

“Your other friend, Jason. Is he older, grey hair sounds like a walrus when he talks.”

“Why, yes he does.”

“How long have you blokes know each other?” I asked.

“Forever,” they said in unison.

“Can you remember last Friday?” I said.

They looked at each other and said, “Not really. Is it important?”

“No, nothing to worry about,” I said.

Neither of the men had shown any irritation at my barrage of questions, and I’ll bet that if I’d kept it up, their memories would have extended back to about the middle of yesterday.

“So, did you check out the address I gave you,” said Michael.

“I did,” I said as I dodged one of Michaels small progeny. “Is there any chance of continuing this conversation somewhere less dangerous. Your boys seem to head for my balls at every opportunity.”

“Yeah. They think it’s funny,” said Michael.

We escaped to the relative safety of Micheal's dungeon office. The room looked exactly the way you would expect a mad professor’s office to look. The ceiling was so low that I could only stand upright between the ceiling joists. Michael is an inch or two shorter than me, so he skimmed under the threatening beams without too much damage. I sought the safety of an old office chair.

“You might want to sit down,” I said. “You aren’t going to believe what I found, and when I get to what I think is going on, you might want to call the men in white coats.”

Michael sat down without speaking.

I explained my encounter with the duplicates from my photo and their general lack of awareness.

“Could be a dozen reasons for all that,” said Michael none too convincingly.

“Really. Dozens?” I said.

“Well, maybe not dozens,” said Michael.

“I’d settle for one reason,” I said.

Michael was silent.

“You said there was even crazier stuff,” said Micheal.

“You remember the movie, Invasion Of The Body Snatchers?”

“Yes. Awesome movie.”

“Well, I think it’s something like that. I think someone is planning to replace important people and do it slowly and quietly so as to not give the game away. Think about it. A lawyer and investor and an inventor. All high profile people with access to other high profile people.”

“So what happens to the people who have been replaced?”

“I haven’t worked that bit out yet, and I’m not sure I want to know,” I said.

“If I could just get a look at that camera I’d know a lot more,” I said.

“Good luck with that. Imagine the security your investor has. You’ve got no chance.”

“I don’t know what to do. Maybe I’ll go home and wait for them to come for me. At least then I’ll know what happens next.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’re freaking me out,” said Michael.

Just then Michael's youngest burst into the room with a crayon on each hand. I jumped up so violently the inevitable impact between my head and the ceiling joist caused me to lose consciousness.

When I woke up, a small boy was hovering over me with a blue crayon.

“You went boom,” he said. It was a difficult observation to argue with.

When my brain cleared, I went home, and they didn’t come for me, and it never occurred to me that I wasn’t important enough for them to worry about.

A newspaper article, about a month later, talked about the disappearance and sudden reappearance of a famous financier and his lawyer while on a hunting trip.

Apparently, the two men were lucky that they were found after going missing in rugged bushland. Some arsehole dumped a dog in the bush and it found the men and led them to safety. The woman who wrote the article said that the men would take some time to recover from their ordeal and that they seemed confused and disoriented — which was only to be expected. She didn't mention what happened to the dog. The writer also said that there had been a string of high profile disappearances and reappearances over the past two years, but police sources said that it was only a coincidence. The chief of police, who went missing on a hunting trip with friends, said that the experience had done him no harm and that there was nothing to be worried about. The article was accompanied by a series of photographs taken before the hunting trips began, but no shots showing the survivors after their ordeal.

I made a mental note to refuse any invitations to go hunting now, or at any time in the future.