Writing for Fun
September 2016
Doppleganger - Jan Osborne
It was the end of a particularly long and frustrating day at work. I swept all my current paper work and mail from my desk top into the drawer below and locked it. My employers, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, demanded a high level of security. People’s tax and VAT details were not for public viewing.
I slid out my personal ID card from my computer and gazed abstractedly at the piece of blue plastic. A miniature Gerry Madders face peered back above a barcode. I grunted in amusement. To me it looked a bit like a prison mug shot. I shoved it in my pocket and leaning back reflected on my job.
I had worked here for more years than I cared to remember and even as department head my salary barely covered the cost of living and certainly left nothing for luxuries even though I was still single at 35. How the hell my married colleagues survived was anyone’s guess. Sighing discontentedly I pushed back my chair and left for home.
That evening, after a not very exciting pizza, I sat down in front of my only joy in life; my computer and Skyped Harry. As roommates at University we had burned midnight oil hacking into national and international corporations and government departments for excitement and to prove to ourselves that we could. We had prided ourselves in being able to slip in and out of secret files like wraiths, leaving no trail and that had been enough for us. After university, however, Harry had hacked for profit and consequently had spent time inside. Even so we had remained friends and kept in touch.
Tonight I was bemoaning to Harry Revenue and Customs’ latest VAT Policy, or rather lack of policy that was causing chaos. Vat was calculated and charged in whole pounds and pence even though VAT owing calculations seldom came out as pounds and whole pence. Fractions of pence were common. This meant that final VAT payments demanded were altered with the fractions of pence either being rounded up or down; which was fine. The trouble came because our rules were unclear as to who benefitted from this process; sometimes it was the customer and sometimes it was the government.
Harry jokingly suggested if someone had to benefit from this why not me? I should round up everyone’s VAT invoices and then salami slice or penny shave the fractions of a penny left in limbo from everyone’s accounts. Then siphon the money into a newly created bank account under a false name but accessible to me; the loss of a fraction of a pence was not likely to be noticed by the masses but would accrue millions for me. I was so surprised I choked on my mouthful of whiskey then realised the idea really appealed. We talked late into the night discussing the ins and outs of this potential fraud and my chances of pulling it off.
Next evening Harry and I started work in earnest. I was to do the hacking and Harry, to earn his cut, would use his prison contacts to suss out a bent plastic surgeon to give me a ‘no questions asked’ new face and forgers willing to make false passports and IDs.
Using a laptop and Internet Cafes I hacked into my employer’s tax and VAT accounts; rounding up to the nearest penny the VAT owed and funnelling those fractions of pounds to a new account under the name of James Miles, my soon to be new persona.
I had picked on James Miles as he had been a real person, I say had been as 30 year old James had died; a letter from the executors of his estate had landed on my desk at work to inform HMRC that his tax and VAT accounts needed to be updated and closed. It also meant I had his National Insurance number, last known address, date of birth and all other details necessary to hijack his driving licence and other necessary IDs.
Harry set up contacts for a false passport and booked surgery for full facial plastic reconstruction at a clinic in Rumania. The flight was for tomorrow.
The hack was running as I boarded British Airways Flight 201 at Gatwick bound for Bucharest.
Six excruciatingly painful months later I, as James Miles, stepped off British Airways Flight 732 at Heathrow and made my way to customs.
At the desk the customs official scrutinised my passport and then my much altered face several times and then asked me to follow him. In great trepidation I followed. Had my scam been detected? Had I failed to cover my tracks? Had Harry ratted on me? My mouth went dry and my hands began to shake.
Several other officials came and went but no word was spoken or my shaky questions answered. Security guards posted at the door was not in any way reassuring.
Forty long minutes later four plain clothes cops walked in, introduced themselves and sat down. One said, ‘Finally we have you Gerry.’
They knew; no point in denying. I took a deep breath and started my confession.
‘What are you on about man,’ interrupted one of the detectives. ‘You know full well why you’ve been detained you bastard – this!’ He threw down a copy of a newspaper on the desk in front of me.
My heart nearly gave up. Headlines screamed ‘Man hunt for terrorist who killed four unarmed cops in raid.’
Underneath was a huge close up of the man wanted, Gerry Hargreaves, not me Gerry Madders. Relief. Then I looked at the guy’s face, it was a doppelganger for my newly constructed face. I went into shock. The irony. My real crime, a comparatively trivial crime I had got away with but fate was laughing at me. I was now about to be charged with murdering four cops. I started to laugh and laugh and laugh until my heart attack began.