OK, so I *had* revisited my view of Maggie, had begun to take more of an interest in her ... in *her*, indeed. And the sudden re-emergence of my long time collaborator and fulltime pain in the nuts, Tim, did throw me a bit. But, then, so did the phone call.

This time, it was Simon. Simon, interestingly, I felt, even as I was listening to his ... *contribution* ... alternating between emollient and threatening – offering me the Earth and threatening damnation by turns. It was curious. I mean, I was sitting on Maggie's couch, listening to the wanker and watching *her* shove analgesics down *his*  – Tim's – throat, providing glasses of fruit juice, that sort of thing.

And, when that got a bit nauseating, actually concentrating on what The Man was saying. Which focus achieved, was ... not a lot. Well, apparently we had a deal which would make us all rich. Alternatively, we had A Contract – you could hear the capitals – which gave him, at a minimum, a majority share in our immortal souls, and which he intended to enforce to the max. It was all, I concluded, almost distractedly, mostly grade A bullshit.

When his rant down, momentarily, I told him so. Pointed out that we'd signed nothing, contract wise, that I'd prefer *not* to get rich if it involved working with his sort of methods – or just with people like him. Which was good, and I was glad I'd said it and vaguely hoped that it would get back to Steve and the rest of the 'community'. 

Simon just laughed, asked if I knew the status of a verbal contract in English law ... and rang off.

+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +

Call ended, I had an uncomfortable gooseberry moment while Maggie and Tim continued their spooning or grooming or whatever the fuck you'd call it and I had nothing to distract me. Well, aside from an as yet untouched glass of Bushmills, to which I applied myself with gusto.

Surprisingly, it was Tim who first realised that I was still there or, perhaps, that I was no longer talking on the phone. Coming up for air, he asked what was up, seemingly picking up on my thunderous expression. Well, lots of things, I thought, but decided to concentrate on the work side for the moment.

"That was Simon," I said, after a while, "and not a happy Simon, either. Seems to think he has some sort of hold on us, seems, in fact, to think that *we* owe *him*."

Which, of course, went straight over Tim's head – he'd been pickling himself while things had been developing, after all – but it certainly got Maggie's attention. And, after I'd given her the gist of Simon's call, she asked, reasonably enough,

"Can he do that? I mean we got a DVD out of him, and promises of vast amounts of new capital, but we haven't actually seen any *money* have we? And we *do* have actual written contracts with our other backers, don't we? So what's he actually capable of doing?"

Well, I thought, *that* was the question. Mag had, as ever, made a good point – whatever assets we had, our existing funders surely had a better claim to, if push came to shove. Not that that was a particularly happy thought ...

I decided that talking to lawyers – hardly my favourite occupation – had to be priority number one and said so, even as I was gathering my stuff together and making ready to depart.

"Shit, man," Tim chipped in, "shit ... I ... oh, hell, look after yourself mate. Whatever the *fuck* is going on ... just look after yourself."

Which was about as profound a comment – and as near to an apology – as I was going to get, so I left it at that. Except for arranging to meet *both* of them in the office the next morning, 9am sharp.

+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +

Being part of a small tech start up does not, unfortunately, give one priority access to one's lawyers – they tend to want to be sure that they'll be paid, for one thing – so by the next morning I was no clearer about our legal position. Nonetheless, we sat around for about an hour, taking most of the time to bring Tim up to speed, with a little while at the end spent inconclusively meandering around the issues in a fairly dispirited way.

The bottom line was that we had very little concrete information, little to base decisions on. What we *had* was a rapidly growing collective paranoia, a DVD – I was quite tempted to play the damn' thing, just for the hell of it – and ... well, we had Steve's implausible idea, didn't we?

It was, I felt, time to phone Steve. Gratifyingly, he answered pretty much straight away and seemed almost pleased to be talking to me. And talking tech again, reviewing the field and doing what amounted to an option analysis – that was quite reassuringly comfortable. And maybe it was just the comfort and familiarity of our conversation – and my need to feel OK about *something* – but at that point it all sounded almost realistic. Something like a core group appeared to have emerged within the 'community' and something approaching organisation was developing. OK, so the mooted consolidation and its inherent mass self-sacrifice was still some way off, but ... Well, at that point, it didn't sound *entirely* ridiculous.

And so, after I'd finished with Steve, and after spending a couple of hours helping Tim clear up the workshop – and listen to his latest ideas as to how things could be yet further improved, engineering wise – I was in a vaguely optimistic mood when I set off for my half hour 'slot' with the solicitors.

+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +

Back in the office, barely an hour later, I had to admit that I wasn't a lot clearer about anything much. As far as I could interpret the lawyer speak, Simon was correct vis a vis the verbal contract stuff, but whether he could capitalise on that depended on a whole load of factors ... all of which involved lawyers, lawyers' bills and probably many other things we simply couldn't afford. And all we were trying to do was provide sustainable energy ... on a *cost effective basis*.

Ah, well ... whoever said life was *fair?*

Tim and Maggie were ... well, Tim and Maggie. Specifically, he was down in the workshop, cutting an alloy rod on a lathe, distinctly complicated designs and calculations showing on the various CAD monitors, she was in the office ... dealing with stuff. As soon as I walked into the room she handed me a printout  and even I was scanning the first couple of sheets – spreadsheet, by the look of it, not one of ours from the formatting – also gave me a cup of coffee. Which I took, looking at her for some sort of explanation. She smiled, patted me on the shoulder and suggested that I should stop scanning and actually *read* the thing.

So I did. I admit, it took time to get my head into gear but I began to realise that this was good stuff: It was the activity breakdown that Steve (or his 'core group') had put together, a pretty comprehensive overview or the strengths, weaknesses, synergies and unique factors of all our various tide and wave power projects ... and it looked like there were enough overlaps and general 'fits' to make some sort of consolidation possible after all. Oh, and it was gratifying to see Tim listed as something like 'most valuable engineer' (Steve had been to school in the States and sometimes it showed) while both Maggie and I appeared to have high approval ratings amongst our peers – and not hard to imagine why, my cynical side put in, at least in Maggie's case...

I wondered how much of all this Simon knew – how good his and *Ruth's* intelligence gathering had been, quite what opportunities he'd seen and when. Which made me wonder whether our original meeting on the train had been quite such an accident – except that it had to have been, I told myself, firmly – and then to go over again some of the stuff the lawyers had told me earlier. I realised that I really didn't want to have to deal with this shit – not now, not ever – and sat heavily in the nearest chair, wondering where Maggie had got herself off to ... and whether there was a chance of another consoling pat on the shoulder ...

Except that Mag was nowhere to be seen, presumably having gone downstairs to help Tim grind something or the other – and just at that point, my phone rang again.

Ruth.

+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +

"Oh, I got you ... how *nice*. No, don't bother to give me your *particular* take on proceedings, I already know. Face it, you *hate* my father, however much he's tried to help *you*, and, as a consequence, you're probably not that keen on me. Sad, really, but that's life ... and I *do* have things to say."

She paused and I stayed quiet. And then she went on. I wasn't sure that I was entirely happy about that.

"My father," she said, as my subconscious tacitly supplied the 'Who Art In Heaven' addendum, "is not happy. Well, you probably gathered that, I assume, so maybe I should add some *value* to this conversation. He knows that – his phrase – the muppets are organising. This 'consolidation' you guys are working at ... he knows about it, OK? And he's working to prevent it. My father is *working* to *prevent* it. My father ... oh, hell, you do see the significance, don't you?"

There was a pause.

"Well, maybe you do, maybe you don't. When he fucks you right over, though ... well, don't say I didn't warn you."

And then she rang off.

+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +

I went down to the workshop, if nothing else to share this latest bit of info with my *colleagues*. What I found was a note from Maggie – gone home, didn't want to interrupt your phone call – so I wandered round the place, in lieu of conversation, switching off computers, and wondering whether I should phone one or the other of *them*.

Probably not, I thought, after a brief stint in the office – where nothing was happening – and, eventually, decided to go home. Live with it, I thought, realising that apparently nothing had transpired across Steve's network all day and that ... well, that it was time to decant for the day.

Except that I was wondering, throughout, just quite what Ruth had been trying to say ...

+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +

Next morning, I arrived at the office just as the bailiffs did. Proper bailiffs, too – gorillas with ID, basically, but showing that Simon had *some* respect for the legal niceties. What he didn't have – what he couldn't *possibly* have, unless I was tragically mistaken – was any sort of court order, given that the UK still has a semblance of a justice system and getting a CCJ thus requires things like a court hearing, notice, the opportunity to defend one's self, all that sort of old fashioned stuff. Consequently, I felt, sitting on a convenient bollard and wondering when someone would notice me, this had to be the proverbial 'shot across the bow'. Faster than I'd expected, to be honest, but ... well, hardly a surprise.

Eventually the head goon noticed that their vaguely purposeful milling about was being observed and lumbered over to where I was sitting. I contemplated standing up but the guy was probably about 50cm taller than me, so, real;y, there didn't seem to be a lot of point.

"You connected with that bunch?" he said, with practised menace, waving an elephantine thumb at our little bit of rented real estate. I nodded and he went on, "Only, our client has an interest in your activities – a financial interest, primarily – and so we're her to ensure that his *investment* is protected."

I wasn't sure where this was going: I mean, the *implication* was clear enough, but, as yet, paperwork was significantly lacking, So I said nothing, thought better of whistling something jolly – my whistling has been known to annoy people at the best of times – and waited for him to get to the point. As he wasn't the most sophisticated intellect on the planet, this didn't take long.

"*Specifically,* Mr Josephs" – I recalled with a total lack of surprise that that was Simon's surname – "has commissioned me to recover a quantity of DVDs, belonging to him, and sundry other items sufficient to cover his actual and future liabilities. So, if you would like to assist, such as by allowing us *easy* access to the premises, that would make all our lives considerably more pleasant."

I wasn't overly impressed by the fact that he moved distinctly closer to me as he was giving this little speech, nor by the fact that he'd been joined by his two even uglier companions in doing so. Then again, I was sitting in a North London street at about 9am on a weekday, so it seemed unlikely that blackjacks or knuckledusters would feature any time soon. Also, a life living on or around the breadline had given me a degree of experience with bailiffs and, in particular, Rule #1 of dealing with the bastards: *Whatever you do, don't let them in.*

So I simply shook my head. "We did receive some DVDs from Simon – I mean, *Mr Josephs*, but in fact he kept most of them to distribute directly. I think there are maybe ten of them in the office, so ... call it 50p each – which is generous – that makes five pounds, so have a fiver and we'll call it quits, OK?

"And as for your *employer's* claim to anything else, well ... come back with a court order, at a minimum, and we'll talk about it then."

Which, strangely, more or less ended the matter. OK, there was a certain amount of residual bullshit and some, literal, flexing of muscles but, eventually, they gave it up for the day and left me sitting on my bollard.

Shaking like a leaf.

+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +

Mag and Tim arrived when I'd more or less got myself together and received the news with equanimity. Well, they hadn't been the ones dealing with six and a bit linear metres of steroid-inflated muscle, I felt, but ....

We talked. Not that we had much *else* to do, but we did give the latest developments a bit of a verbal kick-around and, within a reasonable amount of time, came to three conclusions: (i) Simon was an arsehole, (ii) he wasn't feeling particularly well disposed to us and ours and (iii) we didn't particularly like the way things were going. All of which, clearly, was a masterly summation of the situation but, as conclusions go, it did kind of miss one vital point. Which was, *quite what were we going to about it all?*

I floated this thought to my esteemed colleagues and got a disconcertingly rapid response: Given that I was in charge – which was news to me – they would happily go with whatever I suggested. And, Great Leader status having, thus, been conferred, I duly gave us all a task or two.

Tim, to bash metal to his hearts content ... and also to ensure that every bit of sensitive data we had was encrypted, backed up and copied off site. Maggie, I set to making coffee and then to pass on the latest news to the community, while I, myself, took on the twin tasks of drinking the coffee that Mag produced and ... phoning Ruth.

Something told me that that way answers lay ...
