The two men sat at the little
dining table as the sound of the toilet cistern noisily refilling was
joined by a sudden hailstone shower beating a timpani tattoo on the
corrugated metal roof overhead. Donald had grabbed the fully charged
laptop from the counter as he passed and, once he and Mick had eaten
the bacon sandwiches, he turned his attention to the computer. The
screen having now gone to sleep, he waggled a finger across the
touch-pad and woke the liquid crystals up again. He frowned at the
screen.
“What does “WB” mean?”
Donald shouted above the crescendo of icy shot striking the roof.
“It means you're getting old,
granddad. It's text speak, it means welcome back.”
Donald smiled, he did feel old.
He'd trimmed his beard and noticed that the grains of salt now
definitely outnumbered those of pepper.
“Oh, is that what they call
“user friendly”?” Donald clicked the cross on the
little message bubble and peered at the screen. He clicked the start
button and stared at the screen for a little while longer before
huffing and pushing the device away.
“I haven't a fucking clue.”
He muttered. Once, many lives ago, Donald had had a wife to laugh at
his steadfast refusal to embrace all things modern and to take up the
slack, taking care of the internet banking, tax returns and God knows
what else it was she did that made his life so much easier.
“Here,” Mick span the laptop
toward himself, “let's have a go.” The kettle began to whistle,
urging Donald squeeze himself from his seat and take care of the hot
beverages.
“I had a word with Michael,”
Donald began, “He says he's sorry but he'd got enough “fucking
Englishmen” on his team.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I told him you were
Irish. Then he asked if you were a Catholic and I panicked, told him
you were Jewish. I thought that'd cover...”
Mick stood, cradling the laptop
in one arm as he moved closer to the seating area and the extra light
that fell through the large plates of glass.
“...whichever, you know.
Bloody religion, Ill never under...”
Mick sat, placing the laptop
before him on the coffee table that would later provide support for
Donald's bed.
“...says if you come with me
tomorrow he'll give you a...”
“I'm not Irish.” Mick
muttered, unheard by Donald as the tinkiling of the teaspoon in the
cup he stirred drowned out the diminishing din of the rapidly abating
storm outside.
“...other bloke, Harry, he was
a fucking liability, he went...”
Mick manipulated the keyboard,
pressing several keys at one, then leant forward and began typing
into the DOS window that he had opened up on the desktop.
“...absolutely covered in
piss. Anyway,” Donald placed Mick's steaming cup beside the laptop,
“Any luck?” He began trying to coax the little telly into life.
“Luck? Yes.” Mick replied,
wide eyed as he tapped away at the keys, “But I dunno if it's good
or bad luck yet.”
____________________
He'd brought with him a pair of
gloves, a torch and a pinch bar and it was the latter of these three
items that Owen used to smash the window at the side of the property
he'd selected, this elevation providing the greater cover and having
very little illumination from the street. He held a piece of
cardboard in front of the pane as he struck it, lessening the noise.
There was a thud and a tinkle of broken glass.
Owen reached through the newly
created access point with a gloved hand and unfastened the latch, but
in the gloom and shadow he'd not seen the knitting needle shaped
shard of glass that remained fixed to the bottom of the frame. There
was a tearing sound as the glass ripped through the fabric of his
sleeve and the flesh of his skinny forearm. Instinctively, even
before feeling the pain that would soon follow, Owen snatched back
his arm, creating a second wound in doing so. Less deep than that
which was already releasing Owen's precious blood, the intersection
with it's partner became a postage stamp sized triangle of skin that
flapped as he twisted his arm to examine the damage. Owen wretched
and clasped a hand over the wounds.
“Shit, shit, fucking shit!”
he hissed. The world around him swam, but not because of the blood
loss. Everything was fucked. Everything.
The arrest that had led to
Owen's stint in prison had involved a process that included the
taking of a DNA swab, a record of which had been kept on file. Owen
had no idea how much blood he'd lost but it was everywhere, appearing
oily black in the night. He was fucked.
Once he'd torn his tee-shirt up
to use as a dressing, Owen considered his options.
Without
a doubt he was sure to be caught, his DNA being splashed around the
point of entry. Owen shone his torch through the window and admired
the interior. A beautiful home indeed. Tastefully decorated to a high
standard and with obviously expensive fixtures, fittings and
furniture, Owen suddenly felt a pang of jealousy. Everything suddenly
felt so unfair.
He'd intended to break in and
steal a games consoles or smart phone, anything he could sell quickly
and easily tomorrow morning. He needed the money, otherwise he'd have
no food to eat or roof to eat beneath. His actions weren't driven by
greed but by necessity.
But now he was going to go back
to prison. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but incarceration
was inevitable. Owen cursed himself.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid
bastard. Stupid.” He furrowed his brow and tried to see a way past
the shit storm that was approaching. There was none. Owen's shoulders
slumped.
He'd
been given a glimpse of a better life ahead. He'd lay on his bed in
his flat and he'd dreamt of the day when he'd buy a car or take a
foreign holiday, maybe even get married. Occasionally, during one of
his THC induced stupors, he'd imagine his future. A little house
near a canal, a dog, a son and a daughter by a wife that looked a
little bit like that actress he liked and a flat screen television.
Clearly, that was too much to
ask.
The universe, karma, God,
another god or whatever it was that was in charge of writing his
life's story had now clearly indicated to Owen his station. Right
down there, at the bottom. He opened the window and climbed in.
Fuck
it.
He wasn't going back to prison
if he could help it so he wasn't going to sit around and wait for the
police to come calling.
Owen gave scant regard to
covering his tracks now. He walked from room to room, dragging out
drawers and tipping their contents onto the floors, dragging the
contents of cupboards out and rifling wardrobes. He even used the
lavatory, flushing the chain when he'd finished.
His bag held a decent haul. A
games console, three laptops and an iPhone. If only he'd not pissed
his blood all over the place he'd be set to survive for at least
another month.
But piss his blood all over he
had and that was that. His new plan was to take the bounty he'd
accrued in his holdall, head home to collect some possessions and,
well, that was that. Not the most forward looking plan, more a roll
with it kind of attitude.
London. Yes. That London. He'd
never been to the capital but he'd heard plenty about it. If you're
going to be homeless and on the run, surely a rich city where
everyone stares at their feet rather than make eye contact with those
around them is preferable? He could reinvent himself, change his
name, be something. Yes.
That London.
____________________
He turned on the webcam.
Not his own webcam, the webcam
that he'd turned on was, according to the map now hidden by the image
being remotely streamed, four hundred and sixty seven miles north of
Spiderman's office.
A curious location.
A coincidence, surely? Spiderman
watched the chest of the man now transporting the remote machine from
dining table to coffee table as he picked up his phone and unlocked
it. The other gamers didn't have the app he now used to send a group
message, he was still Beta testing. Hopefully, once finished, the
four remaining gamers would be able to live-stream
events, maybe even to take requests from the “audience” without
fear of discovery. He tapped away at his screen.
____________________
Hitch-hiking wasn't as much fun
as he'd been led to believe.
He'd spent a few minutes short
of three hours standing in the pissing rain and holding a piece of
soggy cardboard on a slip road before someone took pity on him, a chap
with a Transit van full of furniture.
His name was Neil and he was a
pleasant chap. He was being paid a ridiculously small amount of money
to transport the furniture south. He'd promised to deliver at
breakfast time so, as he generally did when visiting “that London”,
he took advantage of the empty motorway system and drove overnight.
He would arrive a couple of hours before dawn, set the alarm on his
phone and find somewhere free to park where he could grab a couple of
hours sleep. Then, bright eyed and chirpy, he'd arrive outside the
address a few minutes before the arranged time and be as efficient as
one of the bigger services, those that charged the bigger prices. He
made very little profit, barely enough to live on.
That was why, as Owen washed his
hands in the toilets of the motorway service station just outside
London, Neil had driven away and taken everything he owned. Neil's
needs, Neil considered, were greater than that of the chav in the
lavatory. He had bills to pay, the kid was homeless, homeless meant
low overheads.
Fuck him.
____________________
The mini-bus had seen better
days.
It was rarely used now,
attendance having dwindled so much in recent years had meant that
there was little demand for the church to even have a mini-bus. Rust
lined the wheel arches and the edges of all but one door. The one
door that wasn't rusted, the rear door with the handle and lock,
wasn't original and, although also white, was a distinctly different
colour to the rest of the vehicle. Both sides of the bus bore the name of
the church, the address of the church's website and a simple, black cross.
The driver, the gamer known as
Shepherd, sat behind the
wheel awaiting his companion. He smiled at the passing police officer who, in turn, touched the peak of his cap and nodded respectfully at the man
in the collar.
The
passenger door opened, squealing on its ageing hinges as Shepherd's
apprentice clambered aboard. The pair exchanged no words as they
drove away from the little parade of shops and it wasn't until they
joined the M8 that Shepherd's apprentice, Breadman,
removed the two packages from inside his coat, placing them on the
empty seat between the two. Eventually, Breadman broke the silence.
“Does he have a plan?”
“Doesn't he always?”
Shepherd had called his apprentice earlier, after having exchanged a
legion of messages with Spiderman. The call had been brief, an
arrangement to meet. They drove from the gates of the park where
they'd met to the little parade of shops in the shadier part of town
to collect the items in the packages on the seat.
Guns.
Two of, plus bullets and a quick
demonstration. Breadman thought the price cheap, just a few hundred pounds. He'd spent more on a meal.
Neither man had ever used a gun
before. Knives, scissors, anything with a nice blade were their preferred tools. Such weapons
gave time for the victim's terror to fully ferment, to provide the
exquisite rush of pride and arousal that both men sought, to whet
their appetites for the inevitable climactic satisfaction. A gun was
a blunt instrument, a tool, a means to an end.
Guns were no fun.
Tonight was set to be a very
different hunt.
____________________
Mick had recognised the kind of
software the laptop was running. It was of a similar design to many
he'd come across in the past. Insurgents, rebels, terrorists, all
revelling in the power the internet gave them to organise their
affairs, all investing heavily in secure communications systems in an
effort to remain undetected amidst an ocean of electronic porn and
marketing whilst Mick and his colleagues silently watched, unseen from a distance.
His fingers flew across the
keyboard, occasionally bridging combinations of keys and bringing up
black boxes on the screen. Then, once he'd ensured he'd be able to
log back in again and rejoin the intriguing conversation that seemed
to be developing, he flipped the laptop over and popped off the
battery.
“What are you doing?” Donald
sat beside the old soldier and placed his feet on the table.
Mick took a small penknife with
a half dozen attachments from his pocket and began to remove screws
from around the screen, oblivious to the man beside him. He used the
blade of the little knife to prize the trim from around the laptop's
screen and removed a small component, the lens of the camera, from
behind it. Still attached by fine wires, he used the slack to raise
the webcam up and turn it around to face away over the top of the
screen before using the trim to gently trap the twisted wires and hold his modification in place.
“Move your feet.” Mick
muttered as he replaced the battery and positioned the laptop on the
coffee table, framing the television as the quiz-master quizzed his
quizzers behind Donald's ten toes. The hard drive whirred and clicked
into life as the screen did likewise. Finally, Mick took the knife
and used it to destroy the casing of the laptop around where the
microphone dwelt, then digging deeper to destroy the microphone
itself.
“You're making a right pig's
ear of that, I only wanted Netflix.” Donald sat up straight and
removed his feet from the table and from the image now being
transmitted to the server in Spiderman's office. Hopefully, Mick thought, whoever
was watching would think no one was at the computer whilst, sat
behind the camera, he could take a closer look.
Unseen, from a distance.
____________________
Spiderman
had seen the face of the man now using Stationmaster's laptop and,
more importanly, had pinpointed his location to within a couple of
metres. A caravan site
in the middle of nowhere, out of season. Easy pickings and,
fortuitously, just seventy-five miles from the Glasgow stomping ground
of the vicar and the man from the bank.
The
battery on the laptop had lasted just long enough for Spiderman to
have circumnavigated the complex security he'd put in place and to
add a small piece of code to the main applet. Now, so long as there
was life in the battery, the laptop would continue to transmit video
and audio even when apparently turned off. If the laptop was charged
it would begin transmitting again, if he was lucky he'd be able to
watch the arrival of his fellow gamers and the violent dispatch of
the man who may already have discovered the images the computer's
hard drive would now contain.
Spiderman opened the top drawer
on one of his filing cabinets and withdrew a bottle of Johnny
Walker's, along with a substantial whisky tumbler, before stepping
out onto the balcony and enjoying the sunset.
Life was good.
____________________
Mick hunched over the laptop,
his fingers flying across the keys as Donald tried to get a decent
picture on the telly.
“Bloody hell, Mick, you sound
like you know what you're doing.”
“Uh huh.”
“Found any films? Music?
Porn?” Donald settled into the deckchair that sat by the gas fire.
He drew out a box of matches and lit the little blue flame, watching
it flicker and flap across the asbestos grills.
“Uh huh.”
“That really is some
impressive typing, Mickey.”
“It's MICK.” He sat back,
tilting his head and continuing to scan the screen, one finger poised
over the mouse pad.
“Where'd you learn the office
skills, Mick?”
“It was my job.”
“What, before you were a
soldier?”
“Whilst I was a soldier. I was
a comms. sys. engineer.”
“So, no guns and bombs and shit?”
“Plenty. Look...” Mick
turned the screen to face Donald.
The screen held an image. The
edge of a desk, a chair swivelled away from it, in a modern looking
office space. Cabinets and shelves lined the visible wall and, to the
left of this wall, vertical blinds had been drawn back to reveal a
door to the outside.
“What is it?”
“Well, I don't know, but see
there...” Mick pointed at the screen, indicating the space through
the door where stood a table with a glass on it.
“What?”
“Hang on, there,” On the
screen , a figure approached the table and plucked up the glass,
“See?”
“Yes, who is it?”
“I have no idea, but he's been
watching us. And check these messages out...”
____________________
“In a bit, just after that pub
but on this side, see?” Breadman pointed through the windscreen.
It was dark. The headlights of
the knackered mini-bus were sufficient to illuminate the mean streets
of Glasgow but out here in the sticks they were proving to be less
than ideal. The journey was taking them twice as long as was
necessary since they'd opted to travel over land rather than cross
the Clyde. Gourack ferry terminal wasn't an international port but it
would certainly have more than it's fair share of CCTV cameras, so
they followed the road as it wove it's way around the mountains and
through the Trossachs.
Spiderman was in contact with
them via the new app he'd remotely installed on Shepherd's smart
phone and, although hundreds of miles away, it was he who had spotted
the short-cut ahead, a steep, narrow and winding track that led up
and over the ridge of mountains currently separating the gamers from
their prey. This alternative route provided another bonus beside the
reduction in journey time, it would take them to the little caravan
park from the north. The only residence that the vicar and the man
from the bank would have to pass was a farm and, at this time of
night, any self respecting farmer would surely be tucked up safe and
sound in bed.
It was a struggle for the big,
old bus to drag it's metal carcass up that gradient, but it made it.
Just.
Shepherd stopped the bus and
killed the headlights once the gradient had levelled out. The two
murderers climbed from the cab and stood gazing out over the dark
landscape. Stretching out before them, the loch mirrored the sky
above, the light of a million stars reflected in the choppy waters
that twinkled and shimmered.
Shepherd looked at his phone and
pointed in the direction of the loch.
“It's the caravan sitting in
front of that water tower,” The moonlight reflected off the white
painted roof of the structure, making it visible from their vantage
point, “We park the van on the road just this side of the entrance,
turn it around. Straight in, do the deed, straight out and away.”
He turned and headed back toward the mini-bus.
“No half measures. No being
cocky”, Shepherd called over his shoulder, “Put a gun in his face
and subdue him. When we've finished, we'll walk out through the main
gate. Keep our heads down, no dilly dallying.” Shepherd patted his
stomach, “We'll be home in time for breakfast.”
____________________
The messages had been explicit.
Donald and Mick had watched the conversation unfold on the little
screen in the caravan. Shepherd and Spiderman spoke in code,
abbreviations and acronyms abounded, but it wasn't a particular
elegant cipher and the conversation was easily followed. The old
soldier tapped away at the keys while Donald sat open mouthed beside
him, pinpointing locations and...
...opening the inbox.
Footage and still photographs
crudely edited together, subtitles added in unprofessional looking
fonts, a hard-rock soundtrack on some and classical works on others.
Men, women, children and dogs, all subjected to the most sickening
and diabolical of acts.
The pair watched in silence, the
video playing in the top left hand corner of the screen as the chat
unfolded bottom right.
They were coming, the two known
as Shepherd and Breadman.
“We need to get rid of this
laptop and fuck off somewhere, quickly.” Mick had said. Donald
nodded.
“Agreed.” Donald stood,
stepping over Mick's legs and squeezing by so as not to pass in front
of the camera, “Take the land rover, just dump it before you get
near civilisation.” He called as he squeezed into the little
bedroom, re-emerging a moment later with a hold all.
“What do you mean? You're
coming with me, aren't you?”
Donald pulled the cash tin from
within the canvas bag. It's lock having been shattered by a brick
whilst Mick slept in the back of the land rover, Donald flipped it
open. He removed two of the three items the tin held, throwing them
onto the seat beside Mick.
“That should keep you going a
while.”
Mick picked up one of the thick
bundles of banknotes.
“What the fuck is this? And
why the fuck aren't you coming? You've seen those messages, they
don't know who we are and they're fucking dangerous, and what the
fuck are you doing with THAT?”
Donald turned the third item
from the tin over in his hands.
“Do you know how to use one of
these?” He asked the old soldier.
“Of course I fucking do.”
“Show me...”
Mick stared at the item in
Donald's hand.
“First, flick that switch on
the right hand side down, and stop fucking waving it around.”
There was no way Mick was going
to leave Frank. Mick owed Frank, big time. And there was no way
Donald was going to walk away from these sick bastards.
Not now that he was in
character.
____________________
At least it wasn't raining when
he arrived.
The streets, disappointingly,
didn't seem to be paved with gold although he had to admit they were
far cleaner looking than those he was more familiar with.
The sun had risen, though the
tower blocks that surrounded him meant that he still walked in
shadow, staring at the floor and wishing he had a spliff. He reached
a river.
Owen leant on the concrete wall
that lined this section of the Thames. Finally, those warm rays
reached his cheeks. Owen tilted his head back, closed his eyes and
enjoyed the sensation of sun on skin.
He looked left and right. Boats
both big and small ploughed their way through the waters, unusually
coloured buses coasted left and right along the far bank. Office
blocks, skyscrapers, palaces...
...a whole new world. Maybe,
Owen considered as he watched the city wake, the future could be
bright in a place like this. Maybe.
It began to rain.
____________________
“Where is my fucking laptop?”
Breadman asked again.
The face of the victim, so
easily subdued when Breadman and his fellow gamer had arrived, was
now unrecognisable. Both eyes had been reduced to slits set into a
vicious, purple swelling. His beard was matted with dried blood,
blood that had once flowed through his own veins and had recently
exited his pulverised nose.
The victim was naked. Gaffer tape
secured him to the garden chair the torturers had unfolded. He cried,
though the only evidence of his weeping were the snotty bubbles that
swelled and burst around what once were nostrils. He tried to say he
didn't know but couldn't, he shook his head and moaned.
Breadman had enjoyed pistol
whipping this scruffy bastard, but it hadn't yet had the desired
effect. There was a click, Breadman crouched beside the man with the
face of purple pulp and whispered...
“Hear that?”
The pulp gulped.
“Last chance, where is my
fucking laptop?”
More sticky bubbles burst as the
man in the chair once again tried to sob. Breadman stood up and
stepped away as Shepherd approached.
The man in the chair saw the
steam. He wriggled and struggled against his bonds. Breadman took
hold of the chair and tipped it backwards, stepping aside as it
landed. The impact forced the wind from the man in the chair's lungs
as, at the same moment, Shepherd began to pour.
It took five or six seconds for
the kettle to be relieved of it's boiling contents. Five or six
seconds of agony as scolding water cascade over the victim's naked
genitals. He screamed, this time successfully...
...and died.
___________________
Triangulating the wireless
signal had given Spiderman the location of the laptop, accurate to
within a couple of metres. Of course, some environmental factors can
affect the signal. Mountains, weather systems...
...water towers.
Shepherd and Spiderman exchanged
messages once the owner of the caravan site was dead.
The laptop had ceased to stream
it's image, it's battery clearly once again exhausted, soon after the
Glaswegian killers had begun their descent from the mountain and so
Spiderman hadn't been able to watch the floorshow and the death
induced, premature closure of the interrogation. Nor could he now
pinpoint the signal, but it couldn't be far away.
The killers had rifled every
door, cupboard, nook and cranny of the wrong caravan without success.
Shepherd's phone pinged.
“SPIDERMAN: Is there a
vehicle?”
There was.
The pair stepped outside.
___________________
Donald and Mick crouched in the
dark, nestled between a rock and the trunk of a fallen tree. The
ground there was slightly elevated and gave them a clear view of
their lodgings while being far enough away for them to be confident
they would remain unseen.
Mick had popped the battery off
the laptop again once the men coming to visit had informed the third
party of their arrival at the layby half a mile north of here.
Between the two of them it was decided that the man who'd actually
held a gun before be the one to carry it. Then, wrapped up in the
coats they'd liberated from the now devastated cottage a couple of
hundred miles south, they retreated to the vantage point they now
occupied and waited.
They couldn't see the main gate
from back there, so they'd not seen the men arrive. As a result they
went on to not see the men approach the wrong residence.
“What was that?” Mick's
attention was drawn to a flicker of light. Torchlight, flashing
across the manicured area of grass outside the caravan in which their
landlord lived, then a crunch as the butt of a pistol broke the
safety glass of a car window.
A car alarm went off, the amber
lights of the indicators intermittently casting their own light all
around as the horn blared in time.
The alarm sounded for a full
sixty seconds before one of the intruders had managed to find the
keys, cursing himself for not doing that in the first place, and
managed to press the correct button.
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