Mr Computer Cleaner Ch. 02

Jilli led him to the computer. "We had two very erotic films on our computer and now they have disappeared. We need you to check to see if they are still there somewhere. We don't fully understand the techniques of searching," she said, gently dropping three twenty dollars into his hand and stroking his arm gently before stepping away. Out of the corner of his eye Dio noticed her loosen the tie of her gown.

"Did you load the film clips off a disk or off the Internet?"

"The Internet."

"Where were they saved to?"

"The My Video folder."

"Of course."

"The problem is all but three have being deleted, the remaining three are so tame we could easily allow the children to view them."

Dio opened My Videos and saw almost fifty clips were there.

So what was the problem? Then he saw it – only three had their extensions. Those three had an avi extension, so he copied the other forty-two to a new folder, used one of his tools to systematically add '.avi' to each filename and then searched for all avi files in Windows Media Player. All appeared; he opened one that showed a couple going hard at it on what appeared to be a concrete wall overlooking a beach.

"Ouch," said Dio, and Jilli clapped her hands. "Splendid – just look at them go!"

Dio flushed, and closed down the program. "They are all there – someone had deleted the file extensions."

Jilli clapped her hand over her mouth, but Dio still heard the exclamation, "Oh, dear!" She explained that before she and her husband went on a ski trip to Wanaka, Frank had deleted the extensions in case his mother, who was staying with the children, roamed the computer and opened those files.

"Time passed and I guess Frank and I simply forget what we had done," she said. "These were the best of hundreds that we had downloaded from the web. Now, how can I reward you," she asked needlessly, already having opened her housecoat.

Dio observed that she was a little plump and was red-hair top and bottom. Clutching his toolbox of disks, screw drivers, tweezers and an assortment of other items including a compressed air aerosol, Dio knew that he should leave, the inclination to do so turned into a klaxon-like warning blaring in his brain. She began walking off, inviting him to go with her to the bedroom, pausing to whisper, "Frank's in the wardrobe – he likes to watch."

Dio can't recall his feet hitting the floor as he raced out to his vehicle and backed down the driveway, almost clipping a heavy gatepost.

"I bet some of those video clips are of their bedroom victims," Dio thought angrily before he grinned and then burst into laughter.

Victor Tuson, 2a Church Lane

If this client appears at the doorstep in a housecoat I'm off, Dio promised. He noted that the first property in the street was a pretty Anglican Church, now converted into tearooms. The little weatherboard and rusty iron roofed house behind it, 2a, was obviously the former vicarage. Amid such an historic background, it was unlikely there would be a deviant living here, and that naïve assumption proved correct.

A white-hair elderly man leaning on a walking frame was waiting for him at the door. He certainly didn't look the type who'd have his zip undone, thought Dio with relief.

"Are you a boy racer?" challenged the old fellow.

"No, why should you think that"

"Your vehicle boy, your vehicle; that's no Morris Minor!"

"No, it's got a whole lot more horses under the bonnet than the half of horse the Morrie had – but great little cars in their time, weren't they?"

"Yes indeed boy. When I arrived in this parish I inherited my predecessor's Austin Seven, which many years earlier had been purchased in exchange for the pony and trap. Then many years later I was given a Morris Minor by one of our wealthy parishioners who coveted my baby."

"Good heavens, you traded in your baby?"

"Heavens used in that context is blasphemy my boy. You remember that."

"Yes sir."

"No, you twit - my old Austin Seven. It had such a low mileage and had been so carefully cared for that the so-called generous William T. Battersby knew that his generous gift in the name of God would return dividends. With that exchange he possessed a car that fetched a great price from a collector. Well, let's get on with it. Call me Vic. The whole community knows me as Vic the Vicar – makes me sound almost as infamous as Max the Axe Murderer, doesn't it. Aha, aha, aha; I never tire of that joke."

A joke? "Very good, sir. I am Dio as you know, from mobile Helpdesk."

"Greetings to you, Dion," said the retired or redundant vicar, shaking hands.

"Dio."

"That's what I said, Dion."

Vic the Vicar's problem was that the illustrations in his folder called 'Good Heavens' were a mixture of angelic images painted, drawn or etched by Old Masters mixed with fantasies and extremely luscious portraits photographed by pornographers.

"What is the problem?" asked Dio, grinning.

"You're a bit of a smart-ass, aren't you Dion," said Vic, smacking himself on the hand and saying, 'I must not use that term, I should say smart-bottom'."

"So, you want me to build you a folder within 'Good Heavens' for the celestial images and another for the others called 'Images from Hell'?"

With a faint smile licking his mouth, Vic said, "Let's get on with it, Dion. I want all of the images from hell deleted and I want you to show me how to blockade my good computer to prevent it being over-run by such filth."

"It's in your hands, Vic; in your hands. You should look at files you find by searching for 'Angels' before downloading them. But look, you've spent your career upholding community standards, so I shall make it easier for you. I shouldn't really be giving you a copy of this software..."

"Is giving it to me illegal, Dion?"

"No, well technically, yes."

"But no spiritually illegal?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Then your innocence is good enough for me, Dion; download it please."

Dio did that and wrote a prompt file with a shortcut to the desktop to remind the old fellow how to use it.

"See, select this button that says, 'Scan for Adult Material'. It will do its best to bring up all filthy stuff but you'll have to excuse it if it brings up an angel or two. Then you have the option of what images you wish to delete, and bingo – mission accomplished. The software will overwrite those dastardly files several times, completely destroying all traces of them, leaving Satan gnashing his teeth and the on-duty archangel smiling at you and saying, 'Bless you my son, although isn't that what Catholic priests say?"

"You're a smart prick, aren't you Dion," said Vic, sighing. He didn't admonish himself over that lapse, but went off to get the money.

Dio was wondering whether it would be held out to him in a souvenir collection plate, but was disappointed. It came as a little muslin bag of silver coins. That prompted an uncharitable thought about the origins of that silver, but he quickly diverted his mind.

Vic limped to the door supported by his trolley.

"Having a knee replacement done next month," he explained, pointing to his left knee but then hastily pointing to the right knee. "It will be a freebie – the surgeon and the rest of the team are mostly former parishioners as is the administration manager of the hospital. Technically they should not be doing it without charge, but they confided that spiritually they had no inhibitions about doing what they thought was right."

What a character thought Dio, turning to wave at the picket gate.

"Good bye Dio," called Vic the Vicar. "You're quite a character, you know. Take care with your driving, your tenancy towards blasphemy and be very vigilant against succumbing to indecent propositions when making house calls. I wasn't always successful with that one."

Dio drove away chuckling. The old prick had known all along his name was not Dion, and to think of him humping away in his cassock.

Do vicars wear cassocks?

* * *

After buying four sausage rolls, sauce, two bananas and a carton of milk from a convenience store, Dio went down a side road to a deserted area on a cliff top over looking the river. Most nights the parking lot would be packed with the vehicles of courting couples as they still were called, although these days perhaps half of the parkers were married couples though not accompanied by their spouses.

Dio liked to revisit because of nostalgia. It was here that Sarisha after numerous frustrations finally had her way with him and thereafter repeatedly. He'd kept in the family by bringing her younger sister here. Celina Mellon had also liked him bringing her here as did ... "Cripes don't bring up any more names up," he chided. "They are now all respectably married women, or so folk assume."

Munching a sausage roll while leaning against the hood of the ute, Dio thought about his life, thinking that it had unraveled reasonably well, so far, the only really big minus being his mum's premature death. He recalled those early days when becoming aware that his mother was crying because his father had been hitting her, demanding more money to enable him to buy more drink. It was some time before he learned the significance of that term 'drink' – that his father meant booze, not milk or lemon squash that were the favorites of Dio's. Then the beatings seem to stop when more money appeared in the house and his mother became very happy. That made Dio happy, too.

He grinned, remembering the time when he asked his mom why didn't she do her work out in the greenhouse, and she had replied, "Do you school homework, you silly boy. My clients find it too hot out in the greenhouse, my bedroom is much cooler'. Then she'd laughed and said if the most profitable part of her consultancy took place in the greenhouse, wouldn't the neighbors have something to talk about? He hadn't understood the significance of that because his mother often spent quite some time talking to women in the greenhouse.

His mom helped him with his homework. She also wanted him to excel in some kind of sport. He tried roller skating but fell on the third visit to the rink and broke his arm. When that was better it was winter, so she got enrolled him into his grade at rugby. But on the first occasion the coach called him out to play, with five minutes to go, he went down in the first ruck and stayed down, this time with his other arm broken. Nancy decided that as he had liked making sand castles as a youngster, perhaps he could become a famous potter. So he was enrolled at Mrs Hannah's School of Pottery, but lasted less than a month, bringing home a note and a refund from Mrs Hannah saying he was disruptive in class and that he was displaying "absolutely no talent". Nancy went down to "sort out that horrible Mrs Hannah", whatever that meant. He remembered her coming home with a bleeding mouth, but smiling. Dio heard her say to his father, "You ought to see Mrs Scumbag Hannah."

At school sports day one of the sprinters limped off with a sprain just as Dio was passing. Coach Holland grabbed him and said, "Take his place boy." The winner of the 100 yards race was over the line before Dio had got to the 50-yard mark, and when red-faced Dio finally crossed the line everyone was rolling about laughing, parents as well. Dio, who was fourteen at the time, vividly remembered the embarrassment and slinking away, tears running down his cheeks. His thoughts drifted back.

"I'll show the tit-lickers," he'd swore, not having a clue what it meant but big boys caught saying it were strapped by the headmaster, so he knew is was even worse than saying Christ or Bejesus – words that his parents regularly used but cuffed him when he attempted to follow their example. So, every day after arriving home from school he went down to the river flats and practiced 100 yard and 200 yard runs, and start and finishing sprints. Eventually he was ready to try himself out competitively. He saw Sarisha's younger sister walking along the flats, so challenged her to a race.

"Why?" she'd asked.

"Just because," he replied, the profoundness of that reply satisfying her.

Kamala chose the one hundred yards, which was marked out with stakes. She streaked off as soon as he shouted "Go" and won by at least ten yards. Dio was devastated.

"Oh you poor thing," she cooed, noting the tears in his eyes. "You can only get better."

Dio, who thought that was an odd thing to say, sat down and sulked.

"Should we try 200 yards?"

Dio looked at her: "Only if you promise to do your very best."

She nodded, they raced, and she just won.

"Perhaps you should practice running longer distances she suggested, as the first of the winter's rain began to fall.

It rained all winter, and the river flats flooded twice. But each day after school Dio pounded down the length of the strip which he had calculated was half a mile. Each late afternoon Kamala turned up to encouraged him. It was a slog through the water and especially the mud. But he realized something was happening; it became easier to do one whole length without stopping and before the winter's end he was doing at least three lengths; then on one glorious early spring evening, he accomplished ten non-stop.

In the first week of the third term at school, which was early September, the whole school practiced for the cross-country running race. Dio's class was in the intermediate section, and he worked on following the leaders. Old Ma Holland watched him on the final practice day. She was the oldest teacher at the school, and had been a runner in her day. She fancied herself and that's why she appeared in running gear with a whistle around her neck and all the kids had to call her Coach Holland.

"Dion." (he wasn't in her class) she called. He cringed at being bawled out and went over to her.

"Who's been coaching you?" she demanded.

"No one, Miss," he'd replied, wondering why she'd invent such a thing.

"Coach Holland, if you please. Look, you're running with great fluidness but good God boy, hold your arms up higher and pull your finger out – you look as if you can run much faster."

"Pull your finger out?"

Dio knew what that meant, as his mother was always saying it to him though he was never aloud to say it. Ma Holland was being very naughty saying that. But he had no idea what she meant by being fluid or whatever she'd said. "Yes coach," he said, noting a couple of other kids had heard her comments and were smirking at him.

He arrived at school next morning for the big race. The juniors were to run their course first, then his lot then the seniors. As he walked to his schoolbag his heart sank; he'd forgotten to bring his sandshoes as sneakers were called in those days. He secured Miss Jones' permission to go home and off he ran, changed shoes and ran all the way back.

Coach Holland greeted him with a bellow. "Dion you butthead; where have you been? I thought's you might get a top ten finish but the intermediates left two minutes ago. Off you go."

"No Miss."

"Coach Holland, if you please. What do you mean by disobeying me?"

"I've no hope of catching the leaders; I would have more chance winning the senior division."

"Fat-so King, the school bully, chortling himself into a choking fit, until Coach Holland slammed him on his back, knocking him to the ground.

"Running outside your age grouping is against school rules Dion. I am sorry, but that's that."

"Come on Coach, my sister says he's developed into a neat runner," said Kamala's big brother Jivin.

"Yeah," said his mates.

"Don't be a wimp, Ma Holland," said a voice from within the group assembling behind the start line.

"Who said that?"

"He did."

"She did."

"He did."

"Stop, you cheeky buggers," snapped Coach Holland "Line up, smartly. She told Dio, "You start at the back; I don't want you being killed in the stampede."

Of course, the finish had one of those storybook endings. The whole school apart from the senior runners was at the finish and as the first two runners came into view Coach Holland was jumping up and down, her ample bosom flaying under her singlet like a melons on a conveyor belt.

"C'mon you little devil, c'mon Dion!" she shouted.

A roar went up as the whole school began to chant, "Dio, Dio."

Dio didn't know what to do. He could have been in the lead sometime back, he was sure of that. But he didn't know the layout of the route, so when Jivin went into the lead he simply ran up to follow him. Now it would be unfair to overtake Jivin because it was he who'd led the push to allow him to run with the seniors.

Jivin looked behind, saw that Dio was still there and waved him through. Dio loped up beside him, shaking his head.

"Go Dio, become a hero; it might be the only chance you get. You are the only non-Indian guy my sisters really like, you know."

The thought of the lovely sisters actually liking him enough to tell their brother fired something inside Dio; experiencing uplift he sprinted to the finish.

Sarisha and Kamala hugged him as soon as he crossed the line and yuck, so did Ma Holland. Jivin came in second and shook his hand, and that's when the photographer on the local newspaper took the photograph published in next day's paper under the heading, 'Dio, Dio – Be a Hero, chanted the School'.

Dio went home and his mother asked, "It was that run at school today, wasn't it – how did you get on."

"Oh, all right," was the reply.

Next morning when his mother was reading the newspaper Dio heard her shout, "You lying little bugger. Why didn't you tell me about this!"

Well, thought Dio, that was one of the most gratifying moments of his life. His mother came at him and smothered his with kisses and said, "Their hero? You're my hero." =

Shaking himself out of those long ago memories and drinking his milk before starting his two bananas, Dio thought he'd done a few things in his life that he was not particularly thrilled about. One was having sex with Kamala as he was her first seducer. He was unable to stop himself as she had become so passionate, saying if he were bonking her sister why not her? He didn't have a logical reply to her question and nor did he wish to disappoint her.

The other sin was being deceitful. He had no formal qualifications in computer technology; his knowledge was limited to his evolution of skills from working in IT departments and some training sessions, plus what he'd picked up using his home computer and reading computer magazines and visiting 'How To' computer sites on the web. He'd even created himself a computer technician's certificate from the School of Computer Technology, Kangaville, New South Wales – a place he'd invented. Because of his academic 'qualifications' he secured his first job on a company's Helpdesk, with the company not bothering to verify his background because he'd interviewed so confidently and seemed to project expertise. He left that firm possessing a glowing reference and thereafter successive employers added to his folio of testimonials.

Right, you lying, conniving bugger and wayward seducer, back to work and conform to being a model citizen, he told himself

He drove off thinking about Kamala, now a doctor in Dunedin and married with two children. Jivin was a economist with a bank in London and, of course, one of his favorite women, their sister Sarisha, owned and drove her own cab and was married to Amol who currently worked at stocking the wine shelves in the town's largest supermarket.

Maggie Manu, 17 Buttercup Lane

With that name she was probably married to a Maori, thought Dio, as he drove up the drive, parking behind a Ford Falcon turbo six.

A dark-skinned man answered the door, and yes, he was Mr Manu and Dio introduced himself as Dio Wellington, Mr Computer Cleaner.

"Good, was hoping it was you; I've come home because you indicated you would call after lunch. My wife is a good-looking chick and I've heard all about you guys who make house calls," he said, laughing.