Angel Factory

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Chapter 3: Spooky As we made our way to the house, I tried to explain to Gip that I wasn't exactly being serious. I had been in a bad mood all day because, although I knew my geography project would get an A, I felt the mark was not mine but my dad's. I said that it had all been a joke but, in Gip's upside-down world, anything serious is really a joke in disguise while what most people would see as a joke, he takes with deadly seriousness.I realized that I had made a big mistake confiding in him about my parents. Then I made an even bigger one. I let Gip into my house.As soon as we entered the hall, he asked to see my dad's computer. Still trying to play along with his little game, I showed him upstairs.Moments later, he stood in the center of my father's small, super-tidy office, looking absurdly out of place, like some giant bit of litter that had been blown in from the street."My parents are kind of into neatness," I explained.He took in the scene, the rows of folders on shelves, the filing-cabinet, the immaculately tidy desk. "It's plain unnatural," he muttered, sitting down in front of the computer. "It's spooky.""Not everyone has to live like you," I said, suddenly resenting the way Gip mocked anyone whose life was not like his.He switched on the computer. "Code-word," he said quietly. "We need a code-word to get in."He tapped in my name, waited a few seconds then muttered, "Nope.""Dougal?""Eh?""It's the name of my terrier."Gip shook his head as he typed in the letters. "Your life, man," he muttered.Nothing.As if I weren't there, Gip opened the top drawer of my father's desk and took out an address book. He opened it at the first page. "What's the Seraph Organization?" he asked."Something to do with my parents' work. They're the food company that employs them."Gip's fingers flew over the keys.Nothing.He returned to the address book, studying one page after another.I glanced at my watch. "Gip, they'll be back soon. I'll be so dead if they find you here."He ignored me. "Who are SO?" he asked suddenly."Search me.""More to the point. Why does their telephone number have only five digits?" He tapped the numbers into the computer. Suddenly the screen came alive."Welcome," said a friendly cybernetic voice."Welcome to you," said Gip.We were in.Gip is one of those people who never feels more at home than when he's in front of a computer. Within seconds, he had called up my father's files. They read:HOMEBILLSSERAPHTAX"Gip, this is wrong," I said. "There's nothing here."He opened "SERAPH."It was full of letters from my dad about schedules, visits, advertising, deadlines -- as dull and innocent as any business file could be.Before I could stop him, he opened "HOME." It was stuff about insurance and rates."So much for the CIA theory," I said.But Gip had double-clicked on "TAX." The screen suddenly filled with numbers -- five pages of batched numbers, like a telephone directory without the names."Good thinking, guy," he muttered. "Nothing could look more boring and innocent than the old tax file. But you didn't fool old Gip." He closed the file. "OK," he said. "We print these out and then we leave.""It's just some kind of tax thing," I said and I realized how absurd it all sounded. The truth was that, if my dad really did have some kind of secret life, I was suddenly not sure that I wanted to know about it."Knowledge is power," said Gip, pushing the "Print" key. "Now," he said, as the printer whined into life. "Where's this lavatory of yours?"I told him and waited by the printer until it had finished spewing out pages full of numbers. When I had switched off the computer, I made my way downstairs to my room.There are times when I forget just how weird my friend Gip is. After about five minutes, it occurred to me that he was spending more time than was entirely usual in my lavatory.