All the Rage

Adam Fawley
2 April 2018
14.05

When I get back to the incident room there's a map up on the board. Thumbtacks show where Faith lives, where she was abducted, where she was found. Mute but insistent.

Asante is sitting quietly at his desk. I asked him not to say anything until I got back, until all the team are here. But now they are.

I catch Asante's eye and he gets to his feet.

`˜OK, everyone, can I have your attention, please. There's something we all need to see.'

People look up, register the fact that Asante is linking his iPad up to the projector. Ev's curious, Baxter's sceptical, Quinn's downright irritated and doing very little to hide it.

Asante fires up the screen and navigates to the page. I don't look at it; I don't need to. I've seen it already. But I watch their faces change as they realize what they're looking at.

Seen that titbitch on TV? `“ another roastie riding the cocksucking carousel

submitted 2 days ago by supremegentlemen89

17 comments share hide reportOnly good femoid is a dead femoid spread their legs ok then no wot I mean

submitted 2 days ago by suckingthatblackpiller

10 comments share hide reportWe need to scare these sluts `“ I mean acid-in-your-fucking-face TERRORISE the c*nts

submitted 1 day ago by justyouraveragecumpanzeee

35 comments share hide reportThe fukking game is rigged from the start `“ 20% of Chadfukkers getting 80% of the fux

submitted 1 day ago by proudtobeaunowot

24 comments share hide reportDont have to be that way mate `“ all these whores and feminazis fantasize about getting raped. Ud be doing them a favour

submitted 17 hours ago by furiousmadomegger

22 comments share hide reportU know whats worse `“ those fucking shemales that's who `“ they deserve everything they get

submitted 16 hours ago by downwiththegynocracy

35 comments share hide reportNo kidding `“ my mate grabbed a hot cunt only to find she was packing a dick

submitted 9 hours ago by YeltobYob

6 comments share hide report`˜How the hell do you get to know about this?' says Gislingham. He can scarcely believe what he's looking at, and I can tell you now, he's not the only one.

Asante shrugs. `˜We had an incident last year in Brixton. A twenty-three-year-old woman was attacked by a bloke who'd asked her out and been knocked back. He was a bit of a loner, obsessed with gaming, you know the type. Turned out he stalked her for weeks afterwards, online and off, and when we checked his PC he'd been logging on to known Incel sites all that time. I was on the case, so I ended up knowing a certain amount about it. That's how I found this `“ I knew where to look.'

Quinn gives him a look that says smart arse, and I give Quinn one that says takes one to know one.

Baxter meanwhile is frowning. Thus far the internet has been his uncontested domain and he's clearly more than a little miffed at this sudden incursion.

`˜Incel as in what, precisely?' he asks.

`˜Involuntary Celibate,' says Asante. `˜Men who can't get enough sex `“ or any sex `“ and blame women for withholding it from them. As well as the alpha males who get more than their fair share. That's what the bloke on this board is referring to. Incels call men like that Chads.'

Quinn flushes a little at this, but if he starts getting called Chad in the canteen I suspect he's not going to be doing much complaining.

`˜And of course their own pathetic chauvinist inadequacies have nothing whatsoever to do with it,' says Ev acidly.

There are a couple of half-hearted laughs at this, but Asante's face is like stone. `˜This is way beyond casual sexism.' He gestures at the screen. `˜This is just a sample of what's out there, and believe me, there's a hell of a lot worse if you know where to look. The hosting sites keep closing these boards down, but they just spring up somewhere else.'

`˜Don't you just love the internet,' says Somer bitterly. `˜Helping psychopaths make new friends.'

`˜It's worse than that,' says Asante, holding her gaze. `˜Our attacker in Brixton `“ he wasn't just having a harmless vent with other losers. It's like any other type of radicalization `“ these people egg each other on. Each round of replies got angrier and more violent. Right up until the day he threw a can of bleach at the girl, after one of his online pals told him to `њburn the cum-dumpster `“ let's see how many fucks she gets if she's got no face`ќ.'

Somer has gone pale; Everett has her hand to her mouth. They don't say anything; they don't need to.

`˜So what makes you think our man is part of this shit?' says Quinn. `˜I mean, it's disgusting and all that,' he says quickly, `˜of course it is. But the scum who spend their lives on these boards `“ it's all bloody talk. That story about his `њmate`ќ `“ it's just a load of bollocks. Doesn't mean he actually did anything `“'

`˜Oh, I don't know,' says Baxter darkly. `˜Sounds suspiciously like `њasking for a friend`ќ to me.'

Asante turns to him. `˜I've seen at least one Incel talking about abducting a woman and holding her captive to rape and torture. And no, that doesn't mean he went ahead and did it, but the line between fantasy and actuation can get very thin here.'

Quinn rolls his eyes. He clearly considers the line between clued-up colleague and pretentious know-it-all tosser is pretty thin too.

`˜So why do you think this is different?' says Gislingham.

`˜Exactly,' says Quinn quickly. `˜Even if this tosser did do something, what are the odds it was Faith? It could be absolutely bloody anyone. We don't even know where these wankers live `“'

`˜Look at that last username,' says Somer quietly.

They stare at her and then at the screen.

`˜What, the YeltobYob one?' says Quinn, none the wiser.

Baxter turns to her. `˜That's just a name, isn't it `“ like that BBC bloke, whatsisname `“'

`˜Alan Yentob,' says Everett. `˜It's not the same.'

But Somer is shaking her head. `˜It's not a name at all,' she says. `˜It's backwards. Yob is Boy. And Yeltob is Botley.'

* * *

At Summertown High the bell has just rung for the end of the period. In the GCSE art class, students are rolling up sheets of cartridge paper and stacking paints and brushes on the long bench that runs underneath the window. Outside, the clouds are racing across a low grey sky.

The teacher stops behind Sasha Blake's chair. She doesn't seem to have heard the bell. Or if she has, she's not as bothered as her classmates about getting to the next class. She leans back a little to scrutinize her watercolour of the still-life arrangement in the centre of the room. A white china bowl of plums and lemons, and a pale-blue jug with a sprig of forsythia. Along the side of her sketch she's dabbed swatches of different purples. Reddish mauves, bluish indigos; none of them quite match the colour of the fruit glistening in the bowl.

`˜You're coming along, Sasha,' says the teacher. He's perhaps thirty-seven, with sandy hair thinning a little and a check shirt in a thick cotton that's gone bobbly from long use. He's not wearing a wedding ring.

`˜You have a real eye. You should think about doing A level.'

She turns round, finally, and looks up at him.

`˜There's a book you might like,' he begins tentatively, `˜Still Life by A. S. Byatt `“ it has a wonderful passage about how to describe the precise colour of plums `“ how to capture the bloom on them. In fact, it's why I chose this particular arrangement `“'

He's just getting into his stride when one of the two girls lingering at the door calls over.

`˜For God's sake, Sash! Get a move on, can't you?'

Sasha looks round and gets quickly to her feet. As she reaches for her bag, her long dark ponytail swings forward over her shoulder.

`˜Sorry sorry sorry!' she calls to her friends, rushing to clear her materials away. `˜Just got a bit sidetracked.'

`˜Yeah yeah,' says the other girl with a smile, `˜like that's never happened before.'

Sasha grins and hoists her bag over her shoulder, throwing a half-apologetic, half-relieved glance at the teacher still standing behind her chair. The classroom door bangs shut behind the girls but he can still hear their voices filter back as they go down the corridor.

`˜Was Spotty Scotty actually hitting on you back then?'

`˜Er, that's like, totally gross! Imagine him actually kissing you!'

`˜He is such a creep!'

The man stands there, his cheeks flaming and his fists clenched, as their arrogant young laughter drifts slowly away.

* * *