This time Edward ran the deal past everyone—Liz, David, even 
popping in to let Raymond know. Everything came together—Liz 
reported confidently that voluntary redundancies in Western 
Instruments were sky-high. David confirmed something big was in 
the works from Slasher Khan. Edward was authorised to buy up 
eighteen million in shares in Western Instruments. 


"What, that old thing?" asked his American contact in disbelief. 
"They're dead, son—you might as well invest in abacuses." But 
Edward pressed ahead, confident that as soon as the Slasher made 
his move he would be holding gold dust. 


A week passed. Two weeks. Then the news—Edward's heart leapt 
as he saw the headline 'Slasher strikes again!’. It might have been a 
grisly murder—which in some ways it was—except it was in the 
Finance section. 


Bashir 'The Slasher’ Khan has struck again, 
announcing a hostile takeover of Global Merchandise 
Limited, the international PR firm, which had been 
languishing for years following the collapse of the dot- 
com bubble... 


Edward couldn't believe it. Surely there had to be some mistake, 
something misreported. He scanned the news for any mention of 
Western Instruments. And there it was. 


Western Instruments today announced losses of twenty 
million in its second quarter in a major blow to the ailing 
scientific calculator manufacturer. 


He had been set up. Instead of gold dust he'd been left with fool's 
gold. In under an hour the face value of his stocks dipped by eight 
percent. While desperately trying to find a buyer, any buyer, he 
dialled Wil's number. 


"Hi there Edward." He sounded horribly, nauseatingly chipper. 


"Hello Wil. Is there something you want to tell me now?" He couldn't 
prevent the note of panic from entering his voice. 


"You know, Edward, some companies have institutional memory. 
Not Cooper Drake, of course, but proper companies. Companies 
with history and character. You fucked us over, Edward. Did you 
think we'd just forget?" Edward was speechless as Wil continued. 
"RB gave you your break, forgave you all those months you farted 
around twiddling your thumbs like the spoilt brat you are." 


"| thought we were friends," Edward said. | wonder if Peter finally 
realised, he thought—put Wil up to this. There's a justice in it, | 
guess. 


"| thought we were," said Wil. "That was before you screwed with 
Redmayne—Bracknell." 


Edward's mouth went tight. "Then screw you, you piece of shit. 
You're a bloody racist, as well, you know that? You run your fucking 
HR department like the Klu Klux Klan. Go to hell." He put the phone 
down. One more bridge well and truly burned, he thought. 


In some ways this was worse than what had happened over Cliffes 
—though the trade had been above board, signed and sealed by 
Cooper Drake's management, it had been based on lies, lies 
predicated on a personal vendetta against him. Lies he had believed 
and presented as fact. Even Macintyre wouldn't fire me for this, he 
thought mutely. He'll just move me quietly to a back room and make 
sure every other investment bank firm in the world knows | can't 
handle the trading floor. And now, only now, did the sick lump form 
in his stomach, as he saw his only option to make good. 


The first time he had gone to the Beaumont residence he had 
forgotten his umbrella. This time it was with him, but he left it on his 
passenger seat. He walked through the rain to the porch and rung 
the bell. Just like the first time. Put things back to how they were. 
Another visit to Mr Stathopoulos would be in order, of course. 


Maria came to the door in a thick, fluffy dressing gown, hair tightly 
wrapped in a towel. She looked at him and a suggestion of tears 


began to form again in her eyes. 
"I'm sorry," he said. 


"You poor man! You poor man!" she said, grabbing him and bringing 
him inside, where she rested his head on her shoulder and allowed 
the water from his suit to soak into her robe. He didn't allow her to 
take his bag but placed it on the newspaper she brought out. 


"Maria," he said, "| came—that is to say | stopped by—I felt bad for 
leaving the library in such a state—and even if you didn't want—I 
wanted to finish it—and | was so out of line—and—" Edward was 
unable to tell if his own breathless incoherence was an attempt to 
win sympathy or not. She took him by the hand and led him back to 
the library. To his amazement the books and styrofoam remained 
where he had left them; scattered on the floor. 


"Nothing has changed, you know? | was just waiting for you to come 
back. | was worried." 


He leaned closer to her, kissed her hair. She took his still damp 
collar with both hands and guided his face to hers, kissed his mouth, 
hard. You bastard, he wanted to shout at himself, you fucking 
bastard. He was crying now, and she took a tissue and wiped his 
eyes. 


"Please," she said, her smile illuminated in that little plaster room, 
"don't cry. I'll bring tea and biscuits." 


After she left, he watched his body move over to the bookshelf 
where the Gervase codex sat, taller and wider than the books 
around it and 'Gervais' scratched on its spine. He watched himself 
take the iron box off the shelf and swap it for the shoddy replica he 
had pieced together from the remains of an old washing-machine, 
smoothly transferring the manuscript to his bag. And that was all 
there was to it. 


He swept up the packing chips and picked up where he left off. A 
few minutes later Maria brought warm, sweet tea, and he drank it 
like a man dying of thirst. 


« Act I - "Jellybeans" | HUB | Act II - "You are invited" » 


Personal Diary of Dr. JuliusL — s 


Diary Entry 573-1: 


In my research with the Foundation, | have found that the official log 
is rarely the place to input personal observations. Therefore, | am 
logging this diary in an attempt to keep my own ideas readily 
available to myself. 

SCP-573 is a flute, capable of lulling and entrancing animals and 
children. While entranced, subjects will do anything the flute player 
requests of them, without limit. So far, testing has been done solely 
on animals, without any negative consequences. Senior Staff has 
given me approval to move the testing up to children. 


| will be testing six children, all aged eight years old, three boys, 
three girls. One of each will be tested in mental and physical 
assignments, with the final two children acting as a baseline study, 
being put into a trance without any outside stimulus. 


Current Test Subjects: 
Cindy, Female, Physical 
Tom, Male, Physical 
Mariah, Female, Mental 
Stewart, Male, Mental 
Relanna, Female, Base 
Sam, Male, Base 


Diary Entry 573-2: 


Met with the children today, everything went well. The kids are, well, 
kids, alternatively monsters and angels as they wish. Seeing as 
SCP-573 is capable of keeping the children in line, | have been 
informed that | will have no assistance in these tests, and that even 
the children's nominal caretakers will be leaving for other duties 
while they are in my care. Due to this unfortunate circumstance, | 
will be handling the children as one group, instead of in separate 
chambers as | had hoped. 


Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale Act II 


FoldUnfold 

Table of Contents 
Chapter Four: "You Are Invited" 
Chapter Five: "There's Five" 


Chapter Four: "You Are Invited" 


"| must say," Jeremy said happily, "| was beginning to think you had 
taken our money and run. | mean, investment bankers." He chortled 
as he caressed the codex with long fingers, feeling the texture of the 
illustrated letters. "But | shouldn't have doubted. This is quite 
incredible." 


They sat in a long tearoom at the clubhouse—this time Edward had 
been allowed the privilege of walking through without a blindfold. 
Thus far he had seen at least two of the Dragon's Den judges, a pop 
star and a member of the royal family. There was a tray of jam 
scones with clotted cream on the table—Edward had not dared take 
one. Jeremy, on the other hand, showed no such compunction; 
Edward winced at every crumb that fell onto the fourteenth century 
document. 


"And what's this?" Jeremy's voice changed to one of genuine 
surprise as Edward held out a traveller's cheque for ten thousand 
pounds. He held it up, chuckling. 


"You certainly give good value for money. | am impressed. How did 
you ... no, don't tell me. However you did it, | have to admire your 
ruthlessness. | think it's time you got to know us a little more 
closely." Leaning back languorously he pulled on a white silk cord 
which engaged an intercom. 


"Please tell Mister Carter that we're ready for him." 


A few moments later the doors opened and an attractive young 


nurse entered, preceded by a shrivelled figure in a wheelchair. If he 
had to guess, Edward would have put Mr Carter's age at a hundred 
and ten or more—alarmingly frail, folds of liver-spotted skin rippling 
inwards towards a collapsed, toothless mouth. The ears and 
downturned nose seemed overlarge on him, in the way they often 
appeared on the extremely elderly. Edward had read somewhere 
that cartilage continued to grow throughout one's life. A thin ruff of 
white hair surrounded the lower back of his head, with the 
occasional straggling hair clinging to his pate. The eyebrows in 
contrast were thick and bushy, and the eyes underneath still alive 
and twinkling with a sharp, predatory brightness that belied his 
outward decrepitude. His hands fluttered from his lap and shook as 
the young nurse poured him a drink. 


"So! Mr Marshall. What do we have here? That—bright young man 
you were talking about?" When he spoke it was in short, anoxic 
gasps. Nasal tubes connected Mr Carter to a bulky apparatus 
mounted on the back of his chair, discreetly covered by a deep blue 
throw with silver threadwork; some sort of iron lung, Edward 
supposed. He found it vaguely disquieting to look at—it wheezed 
with him, rising and falling in a disturbingly organic way, as though 
there were some horrific tumour or Siamese twin under the cloth, 
growing out of the back of the aged man. 


"Mr Gradley," prompted Jeremy, smoothing his tie. Or rather, 
Edward realised, Mr Jeremy Marshall. He found it incongruous that 
the two could have undertaken any enterprise together given their 
difference in ages. Mr Carter might well be old enough to have 
founded a prestigious gentleman's club, but Marshall? Most likely, 
the named partnership had been transferred dynastically; Jeremy's 
father had clearly had no compunctions in giving his son the keys to 
the kingdom. 


"Gradley! A good— Yorkshire name," wheezed Carter affably. "But 
the build doesn't match. Actually -" he struggled for the spectacles 
hanging around his neck with the hand and the nurse retrieved them 
for him—"yes, the face is all wrong. | consider myself an expert in— 
anthropometrics. | can see that you're—baltoid, gracile, brachy— 
excuse me—cephaly—I'm going to guess Baltic or perhaps—West 
Slavic." He scanned Edward's face for a reaction. "Am | close?" 


"My mother was Polish," said Edward, feeling a sudden twang of 
revulsion towards him. 


"| Knew it! Still sharp, eh, Mr Marshall?" The blond nodded, almost 
affectionately. "Ah, yes, Bernard Gradley. | remember him well. 
Thought he was much too good for us in the end, as | recall, and 
after all the help we gave him. Mail order bride, was it?" He chuckled 
for a second before collapsing in a coughing fit. Edward sat silently, 
reasoning that contradicting the ghastly old man was unlikely to yield 
results. Another thing you never told me, father, he thought. 


"Mr Gradley has completed his first Acquisition for us. The Codex, if 
you recall." Jeremy Marshall reached into his drawer and withdrew 
something wrapped in a rich velvet cloth. 


"Ah—at last! I've been waiting to get my hands on it for some time. 
Try not to lose that one to You Know Who; at least until you've 
perused every last delightful inch. It seems like only yesterday they 
sent the poor fellow back..." 


"Indeed. Perhaps the status of our mutual friend might be 
reconsidered after being so thoroughly beaten to the prize by Mr 
Gradley here—even after we fulfilled his perverse little Cinderella 
fantasies." 


"Ye-e-es, the problem being that at midnight he turns into a 
pumpkin!" Carter chuckled. 


Marshall, seeing Edward's bewildered expression, interjected to 
return the conversation to something approximating sanity. 


"Accordingly | felt it time for us to present Mr Gradley with 
provisional membership—and to discuss his reward, if he feels this 
an appropriate time. Would you care to do the honours, Mr Carter?" 


Carter put his wine down and took the cloth in hands which suddenly 
seemed a lot surer than they had a few minutes ago. He leaned in, 
eyes lit by an unholy light, putting it in Edward's hands. 


"This is knowledge. This is power. Take a look." 


Unwrapping the soft fabric his fingers encountered a cold, 


transparent sheet about six inches by three. Perspex? No, glass, he 
realised, turning it over in his hands. In one corner, the MC&D 
cartouche, in another, a contact number. In the centre, in almost 
unreadably tiny gold lettering, the words 'Edward Gradley, 
Acquisitions’. The reverse side showed what at first glance 
appeared to be a circuit diagram but which on closer examination 
was a tiny map of the City of London engraved into the glass, with 
several clubhouses marked. 


"Take good care of it, my boy," wheezed Carter. "Keep it safe. You 
only get the one!" 


"Thank you," said Edward, coolly. "Now, as to my reward..." 


Edward knew that Marshall, Carter & Dark had held up their end of 
the bargain when he walked onto the trading floor the next morning. 
Went, MacIntyre and a couple of the other early risers had made it in 
ahead of him and had populated his table with little pots of bombay 
mix and bottles of champagne. 


"| think congratulations are in order," Macintyre hailed him. 
"Oh?" said Edward. 


"We were getting a bit worried about your Western Instruments 
speculation. But you came through in the end, even if it wasn't quite 
the way we thought. Cheers!" David popped a cork and filled 
glasses for the early brigade. Edward casually walked over to one of 
the touchscreens and saw the headlines. 


Western Instruments to be acquired by 'Mad Hacker’ 
Reginald Price 


In a shock announcement, troubled scientific calculator 
manufacturer Western Instruments has become the 
subject of a hostile takeover by American cost-cutter Reg 
Price. Nicknamed 'The Mad Hacker' due to his efforts to 
restore profitability to failing firms by making steep 
efficiency savings, Mr Price will be looking to reverse the 
fortunes of the ailing giant... 


Edward trotted back to the table with the others and accepted a 
glass of champagne. He raised his glass and smiled at Liz, who 
didn't smile back, instead looking away with a troubled expression. 
Now what have | done, he wondered. 


That morning Western Instruments’ shares rose by thirteen percent; 
Edward cashed out at midday, making a profit of £540,000. Edward 
couldn't comprehend the magnitude of what MC&D must have on 
Reginald Price to be able to compel him to launch a hostile buyout 
worth hundreds of millions in the space of a few hours, but right now 
he wasn't complaining. And, he thought, feeling the heft of the folder 
Jeremy Marshall had presented him, this was only the beginning. 


"Edward, thank you. Come in." 


Edward closed the door of Raymond Macintyre's office. MacIntyre, 
David, Liz and a couple of other partners sat around a table. Edward 
felt a frisson of anticipation but also apprehension. Their faces were 
neutral.