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The bloody idiot, why the hell did he tell someone like Derreck Warner chuffing Ayres that it was ready, that it worked? It’s true she’d had some minor success with the company portfolio but three words James ‘Small sample set’. You can’t judge a complex algorithm dealing with millions of inputs in a few months. So were the thoughts of Ruby Stoddard as she stepped from the train at Liverpool Street.
She was assailed by the yawning openness of the space around her, an instant country mouse, part-time commuter, not one of this throng. They all seemed to know that they were at point “A”, that their presence was immediately required at point “B” and she unerringly found a spot directly between the two.
She jostled or rather was jostled along the gum-spotted platform, deeper into Town Mouse territory, and scanned for an underground map. She was sure that ninety nine percent of this horde could tell her which tubes to catch for Canary Wharf if only they had the time.
‘Totally James’ fault’ she thought, he couldn’t help but boast about the algorithm at that ridiculous, overpriced ‘networking’ event. To make matters worse, Ayres now wanted her to demonstrate the package on his investment portfolio. She’d explained to James that Ayres’ investments were very different but as he put it ‘I’m sorry Ruby but the only thing holding the business together just now is your laptop.’
‘It might not work with Ayres’ portfolio, I could lose him a fortune.’ she’d replied.
‘But if it does work, he’ll pay a fortune for the rights to it… besides, you might end up with a top job. God knows we can’t afford to keep you on much longer, look, what have you got to lose?’
‘Not bloody much’ she told the map. One stop on Central and then Docklands Light Railway ‘thirty minutes tops, at least I can pretend I know what I’m doing for half an hour.’
An hour and a half later and considerably more stressed, she stepped off the DLR with scant minutes to spare.
“One Canada Square” was the address and she checked a map outside the station only to realise that it was already looming some two hundred metres over her. Revolving doors, cavernous atrium, familiar small feeling, heels to loud and fast on the marble floor and finally a lift up forty floors.
Forty floors up she was released into a funky looking reception area with neon modern artwork set behind a receptionist whose manicured nails probably cost more than Ruby’s shoes.
‘Mr Ayres’ office please, I have an appointment at…’ she consulted a neon clock that hurt to look at ‘oh er now.’
The receptionist switched on a smile that looked too heartfelt to greet a stranger ‘Certainly, what’s the name?’
‘Ruby Stoddard.’
‘Mr Ayres is ready to see you Ms Stoddard’ she indicated to Ruby’s right ‘It’s the last door.’
She set off feeling unprepared and out of place.
The unadorned door at the end of the hall seemed to be retreating away from her as she walked towards it or maybe she was just taking incredibly small steps, delaying the inevitable. She knocked.
 ‘Come in’ the voice was cultured.
She stepped froward through the door and back two hundred years, the office was all wooden panels, polish and old books. Floor to ceiling windows gave the impression that the colonial masterpiece were perched atop an immense cliff.
Behind an unassuming desk, a laptop and four mobile phones sat Derreck Warner Ayres, sharply tailored suit and greying hair but for which he could have passed for forty. His equally grey eyes caught hers and expressed what? She couldn’t pin the expression down, it wasn’t hostile or warm, more assessing.
‘Mr Ayres?’
‘Yes, Ms Stoddard isn’t it?’ He seemed friendly enough.
‘That’s right, James Byrne said you wanted to see me.’
‘Indeed I do Ms Stoddard,’ he gestured for her to take a seat.
‘Thank you.’ She balanced on a wood and leather swivel chair trying not to set it spinning.
‘I’ve heard good things about your investment package, a new take of the old Gjerstad-Dickhaut algorithm.’
‘Well, inspired by… but I started from scratch, it’s really something new.’ Dammit, she was supposed to be playing it down, not bigging it up, what was she thinking?
‘Very interesting Ms Stoddard, I have arranged a selection of investments for your demonstration, would two hundred million sterling be sufficient to show what it can do?’
‘Um… yes, that should be a good… um proof.’ Keep it together for God’s sake.
‘Excellent, in that case I will have Selena on reception show you to a spare conference room and arrange everything you need. You have what you need I take it?’
‘Yes’ she said indicating her laptop bag ‘it’s all in here.’
‘Then if you’ll excuse me Ms Stoddard, I have business in Geneva to attend to, I’ll be back in two days to see how my investments are getting on.’
‘Of course.’
He led her back out into the neon light and left her with Selena. ‘Have a good flight’ she managed as he headed for the lifts.
Selena showed her to the room with a connection to the electronic trading system of the London Stock exchange. Added to this were the codes required for her to shift around precisely two hundred million pounds in stocks and equities. She set to work inputting the various parameters.
A little over two hours later she was ready to set the software running. Two hundred million? ‘He must be having a breakdown.’ She double checked that the various displays showed her all of the necessary information. In the top right hand corner of the screen was the red figure “£200,000,000.00”. She made sure that it stayed visible the whole time, around the screen were various other readouts for keeping track of what the software was doing. Centre screen was the red kill switch that ceased all trading.
Ruby puffed out her cheeks ‘here goes nothing’ and hit the ‘go’ icon. The figure in the top right hand corner started to fluctuate giving an average total every second.
Down almost point two percent initially but that was expected. She should start to see an improvement any second now. Her pointer hovered over the kill switch as she started to panic. Realising that each point one percent was worth more than her mortgage. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the climb came, a slow but steady accumulation of wealth. The software making thousands of transactions per second and winning. Almost at break-even again then another slip, another slow climb. Subtly the rhythm changed, Climb-climb-slip became slip-climb-slip. In moments it was all slip, loss upon loss, she was stunned, her co-ordination shot, in trying to click the kill switch she missed and brought up an obscuring window. Two, three precious seconds were lost getting it back before she could shut it down. In under a minute of trading and she had lost precisely £10,523,124.71. Staring at the dumb machine 'Fuck’ then louder into the space beyond it ‘FUCK.’
The laptop chimed a sound she'd never heard before.
She peered through fingers realising as she did so that they were covering her face. Sweat pricked the nape of her neck, post adrenaline come down made her fingers tingle and the backs of her knees feel heavy.
A little green box had opened on her laptop <<Are you having financial difficulties?>> she coughed a bitter laugh at the absurd pop-up and its uncanny timing.
‘No.’ She lied and clicked the window shut.
<<Are you sure?>> Read another box.
‘Yes’ she said savagely clicking the window shut.
<<So you've got a spare £10,523,124.71 to give Mr Ayres then?>>
She froze.
‘How the hell…’ another box opened and and she didn’t finish the question.
<<I can help you.>>
‘Help with…?’
<<With your software, I can make it work with his money.>> boxes were opening seemingly in response to her voice.
‘Can you hear me?’
<<Of course I can hear you.>>
‘Who are you?’
<<That’s for me to know and you to find out.>>
‘But how…’
<<Never mind how, I can fix your algorithm and you can make back your losses.>>
‘You’re serious?’
<<Just say the word - but…>> The box vanished to be replaced by a pair of pale green eyes filling the screen and a voice coming out of the speakers making Ruby flinch ‘What will you give me if I do it for you?’ A thin voice made metallic by small speakers.
‘Um, if it works then… um I don’t know… money?’
‘What will you give me if I do it for you?’
‘Look, I don’t have much to offer.’
‘What will you give me if I do it for you?’
‘I don’t know, what do you want?’ half shouting now.
‘Your life.’
‘What?’ She shrieked, jolting back from the screen.
‘No, not like that, I mean your job with Mr Ayres, when he returns and sees what we have done he will offer you a job. Take that job and in twelve months you will resign and recommend me as your replacement.’
Seeing no other way out, she agreed.
‘There is one other thing’ the twisted voice continued, green eye’s narrowing ‘I am a fair man and will give but one chance of keeping your new job.’
‘How?’
‘You must guess my name, click this link, type my name into the box and be released from your bond.’ The word “guess” underlined and blue appeared at the bottom of the screen ‘but know this, never has it been guessed, though many have tried.’

Eleven months and two weeks later.

Ruby made her way into the hotel lobby, it had been hot outside and the conditioned air gave her goosebumps. She made for the conference room full of investors, each as bland and inoffensive as the hotel lobby.
She found herself thinking of the mysterious hacker to whom she had promised her very well paid job and town mouse lifestyle. What had brought that thought to her mind so unbidden aside from the fact she had to give it all up in two weeks? Her handwritten resignation letter had been burning a hole in her pocket for several days now.
She had been passing one of those idiotic, indoor hedges that separated the main thoroughfare from a suite of leather chairs. A thin voice could be heard on the other side.
‘What will you give me if I do it for you?’
It was him. After that conversation a year ago she had typed countless names into the box on the his website, enthusiasm ebbing after three or four months as inspiration ran dry.
She peered through the hedge, carefully peeling back plastic leaves. Two men sat hunched away from her over a coffee table. Hushed now, Their conversation was indecipherable. On the table was a room key in it’s paper pocket and by squinting she could pick out the number “213” written in the receptionist’s spidery scrawl.
She bolted for the reception desk.
‘May I leave a note?’ She asked.
‘Certainly madam,’ said the receptionist and provided her with paper and an envelope.
Discarding the paper the drew her letter of resignation from her pocket and on the back wrote “Gotcha!” and folded it into the envelope. ‘Could you pass this to the gentleman in 213 please.’
‘Of course madam.’
Ruby sat down opposite the reception desk hiding her face by reading a newspaper and feeling ridiculously conspicuous. Some time later the receptionist called out.
‘Uh… Mr Rumpelstiltskin, there’s a note for you.
‘Bingo’ she calmly walked past him and out onto her streets.