Accidental Don. Episode six...

The young lady had worked hard over the six months since she'd been released.
Found guilty of shoplifting one time too many, her sentence had been a year's imprisonment. It seemed overly harsh given the value of the goods in question, but her proclivity for helping herself to other people's things and the fact that she'd spat in a security guard's face during her arrest had meant something need be done.
She broke wind when the sentence was handed down. Her knees buckled and her chin trembled but she didn't cry. Not then.
She'd arrived at the prison full of bravado, having regained her composure on her journey from court. She'd watched the world outside through the blacked out window as she was transported, people living normal lives and doing ordinary things in a monochrome world. She saw her cousin pushing a pram down the street, chatting into a mobile phone and smiling. She'd cried then, though only briefly.
The first fortnight was the worst. The constant fear, the loneliness, the longing, not to mention the withdrawal from the drugs that had necessitated her cashless shopping trips. She felt as if she was in Hell and that this was all there would ever be. The girl that had “gone off the rails” received a culture shock of immense proportions.
After two weeks, in which she'd not been stabbed or beaten and had been fed decent food, she finally accepted the help to overcome her addiction that had been continually offered since her arrival and that she had previously dismissed out of hand.
Eventually, she began to make better use of the time by studying for her GCSEs and soon, with fewer distractions than she'd had outside, she'd obtained certificates in mathematics and English language. She'd never been so proud of herself.
She'd never been proud of herself.
Being released brought with it fresh fear, though not the gut wrenching terror she'd experienced when first incarcerated. Just butterflies, fluttering by. The young lady that left prison was lucky, though. She had a wonderful mentor assigned to her by a local charity and managed to get a job cutting keys for a chap that ran a small franchise on the high street. After five months she'd moved, from the little bedsit she'd been helped to find when she left prison to this apartment. It was small, but it was clean and, other than the myriad of fire risks the landlord had been told to rectify, relatively safe.

Life was good.
She lived hand to mouth, no savings or assets other than her clothes and the few sticks of furniture she'd been helped to get, but she was going up in the world. She was a proper person. Her spare time was filled with evening classes at the local college or helping out at a church run foodbank. She'd been warmly welcomed into the flock by the vicar, a tall man with the warmest smile she'd ever seen, though she knew the older members of his following gossiped about her behind her back. She didn't care, she knew it would take time and effort before her past was filled with enough good to outweigh the bad that had come before but, she'd been assured by the tall vicar, both he and her God had already forgiven her. That was good enough.
She'd smiled as she'd opened the door to him when he arrived and hour ago, unexpectedly.
Oh, where's your collar?” She'd said as she'd stood back and allowed him to pass through the narrow hall and into the kitchen-diner, followed by the man from the bank. The man from the bank shook her hand when he was introduced, his palm so greasy the young lady grimaced as her own, smaller hand had come into contact with it.
His face had turned into a snarl as he'd squeezed, grasping her hand tightly with both of his. She tried to wrestle free of his greasy grip, but failed, as a plastic bag was slipped over her head from behind by the man whose forgiveness had meant so much to her.
____________________

Donald was a great believer in hiding things in the open. He'd spent many an hour, since his death, sat in doorways as passers by failed to see him. People gave him space whenever he walked down a crowded street, glancing up from their mobile phones as they sensed him approaching and quickly looking back down, ignoring him for fear of realising that they, too, could fall that far, shunning him rather than acknowledging the poverty that exists all around us.
Driving a police car in the open was asking for trouble, though.
It had been necessary that Donald put some distance between him and the devastation that, around about now, would be occuring. He pulled off the main road and onto a car park by an independent car dealership.
The majority of the newer, more expensive cars that the dealership had to offer were kept inside the big, glass fronted showroom on the opposite side of the road. A selection of those nicer cars sat on slightly raised plinths of concrete outside, sheltered beneath shiny, yellow canopies.
The less desirable vehicles, those that had been used as trade-ins against a nicer car on the opposite side of the road, were left to the mercy of the elements on the forecourt Donald now strode across. Each night, this selection of shit cars were reversed carefully into position in the secure compound at the side of the portacabin sales room and office.
The chap that did the reversing, Terry, had done so for many a year and had the task down to a fine art. He took great pride in his ability to pack so many cars into such a small space. The compound was secured by three chains and three huge padlocks, the keys to which were locked in the safe which, in turn, was locked in an office inside the locked showroom across the road. Terry would, as always, return tomorrow morning to open up and to re-deploy his employer's automotive wares.
Donald scampered up and over the chain-link gates of the compound, dropping to the floor and weaving his way to the far corner of the compound whilst bent almost double. He'd liberated a large, flat ended screwdriver from the glove compartment in the police car and he used this to remove the number plates from a Land Rover. The Land Rover would, by Donald's reckoning, be one of the last cars to reclaim their position and, tucked away as it was, the theft of the four by four's plates wouldn't be noticed for at least eight hours.
Plenty of time.
Donald threw the plates over the fence, ducking back into the shadows as an H.G.V. thundered by before following them.
He plucked the plates from the ground and made his way to the far side of the portacabin. He lifted the lid of the big, grey skip, tucked out of sight at the side of the cabin, reached inside and withdrew a length of blue, plastic strapping of the kind used to seal cardboard boxes.
Perfect.


____________________

The man from the bank washed his hands in the darkness, lost in his thoughts as the water carried the scarlet evidence of his sins away. His technique was methodical, thorough, obsessive. He used a nail brush on his knuckles, scrubbing hard and enjoying the pain the action brought. He held one of his wet hands up before his eyes and smiled at the swelling. He'd given them quite a work out tonight. Nice and clean, he rejoined his companion in the kitchen.
Here,” The companion held out a glass of wine, “Congratulations.”
The man from the bank felt a flush of pride as he took the glass, his hand trembling. He puffed out his chest.
Thanks. Did you get enough footage?”
Ample.” His colleague opened his briefcase and placed a laptop on the counter, connecting his phone to the USB port as the screen warmed up.
You're not going to do that now, are you?” The man from the bank asked.
Why not?”
Well, you know...” The man from the bank pointed over his shoulder, toward the bedroom, “...her.”
Yes, well, it's not ideal but I'm low on storage, you gave quite a performance. I need to free up space for the close-ups.”
Once the footage from the pair's earlier shenanigans were stored on the laptop and deleted from the phone, they topped up their glasses and headed to the young lady's bedroom.
It was time for the money shot.
____________________

Donald had arrived at the airport in plenty of time to meet his two favourite people.
He'd missed them so much. He'd been looking forward to the break he would receive when his wife and daughter jetted off for ten days in the sun with his parents-in-law and he'd thouroughly enjoyed it for the entire journey home, after having waved goodbye at the airport. He'd spent most of the remaining seperation in a state of excitement and longing as he anticipated their return.
And return they now had.
If they don't hurry up I'm going to have to pay for another hour.” Donald glanced at his wristwatch as he complained.
The man from the Automobile Association hadn't taken long to complete the task, once he'd arrived. Alas, his arrival hadn't come in time to save Donald the extra charge.
The first thing the man from the AA did was laugh and gently patronise Donald. Then he grabbed a screwdriver, a rag and a device of his own manufacture from beneath the passenger seat of his little, yellow van before finally unlocking the driver's door and emasculating the man who'd locked the keys inside by making it look so easy.
He'd used the large, flat ended screwdriver to lever open a tiny gap in the top of the driver's door into which he then stuffed the rag. He took hold of both ends of the device he'd manufactured, a length of blue, plastic strapping of the kind used to seal cardboard boxes folded in two, slotted the crease in the middle of the strapping through the gap in the door and guided it into position around the interior door handle. Once hooked around, he manipulated the contraption left and right until...
...click.
Donald had used the same technique to gain access to the newer, shinier Land Rover on the concrete plinth outside the shiny showroom. The same screwdriver that he'd used as a lever then became a key, the torque created by the long, thick, cold, steel shaft being more than enough to eovercome the locking mechanism within the ignition barrel.
There was fuel in the vehicle, though not much. It'd be enough, though, to put a bit more precious distance between himself and the earlier, explosive, events.
Unusually for a Land Rover, this particular example had a music system and the radio sprang into life a moment after the big, powerful engine had begun to roar. The soulful voice of a long dead singer filled the cab with melody as it filled the driver with nostalgia.
He paused as he prepared to drive off the forecourt, considering leaving the old soldier where he was. That would be by far the safest option, a convoy is only as fast as it's slowest ship and Mick's beating had ensured he be a very slow ship indeed, but...
...shit...
...Donald liked Mick.
____________________

The gag was unnecessary.
It had been the removal of her tongue, with a pair of secateurs, that had roused her from her plastic bag induced stupour. But he liked gags, they made for a better shot.
The young lady was tied to the bed, face down and naked with her head hanging over the end. Blood had pooled on the carpet beneath her chin. More blood, thick and snotty, oozed from around the useless gag and dangled like slobber from a mastiff's mouth in the air. Tears had left tracks in the bright blue eye shadow and the orange blusher her killers had plastered onto her unconscious face, though those tears were all used up now.
Her lips held no cosmetic, though they were a red so deep as to appear black.
The man that had forgiven her knelt and took a final photograph, a close up. He tutted and used a thumb to try and open her eyes. He'd liked her eyes, so full of fear and regret, but the limp muscles in the dead lady's face couldn't hold the eyes open. He wriggled closer and drew a craft knife from his pocket.
Even prettier now, he thought, her cheeks coated in fresh blood and shimmering in the light. That would make a good photograph, he was certain. This month's prize was in the bag. He wriggled back into position and took half a dozen more pictures.
All sorted?” The man from the bank asked as he rejoined his partner, the sound of a recently flushed cistern in the background.
All sorted.” His partner smiled.
What are you eating?”
The vicar smiled and held out the other eyelid.
Want one?”
You sick bastard,” The man from the bank snorted, “that's disgusting.”
Not many came to the young lady's funeral. No one collected the ashes, no one placed a flower on her casket, no one paid to have her remains interred or even treated with respect. The cheap, wooden box with her cinders within remained, and remains, on the floor beneath the bottom shelf in the storeroom of a local undertakers.
Her murder was investigated thoroughly, though the inferno that had engulfed the little block of small apartments had left little to sift through. That she had been murdered at all wasn't easily apparent, her cruelly violated body having been placed in a more innocuous position post mortem. Her charred remains, along with the charred remains of the other victims that had been trapped in a building later described by the investigating officer as a “death trap”, were examined. Quickly found to be without tongue, further investigation found injuries of the vilest nature, sickening in the extreme.
The newspapers loved it.
____________________

There was a click, followed by a draught of cooler air, and Mick opened his eyes. He was vaguely aware of being manhandled, painfully, from the back seat of a car. The world around was dark and he felt cool rain gently falling on the back of his neck as he watched his feet on the concrete.
He was wearing new boots, boots that fitted him. Life was good.
Good, but bloody painful. He winced as he allowed himself to be helped into another vehicle, screwing his eyes shut as he whimpered and electing to keep them shut as he lay back on the cold, leather seat.
Mick heard the loud clunk of a door being slammed shut, then the sound of an engine starting up before feeling the soft, springy motion of this new vehicle being driven away.
He opened his eyes again. The street lamps shone squares of orange light through the windows as the car swept by. Darkness. Orange glow. Darkness. Orange glow.
Somewhere, it sounded a long way away, a man sang about leaving his Georgia home and heading for a bay. The singer began whistling as Mick closed his eyes again.
____________________
An easy win.
He was confident that the removal of the eyelids had provided an image of such beguiling savagery that there could surely be no argument, an important factor in deciding the winner of the monthly prize since the reduction in membership from three teams to just two. One day they'd recruit another pair into their private league, but it would have to be the right people. There was no rush to recruit.
And now, out of the blue, there he was. He typed a brief greeting.
The man who'd forgiven the young lady clicked send. He waited for a reply, but none came so he right-clicked on the new participant's name and selected “block” from the drop down menu that, paradoxically, sprang up. He then selected three of the remaining usernames in his friends-list and bulk messaged them all. He and Stationmaster were the only two online, so he'd have to wait for replies.
Then, with a ping, Stationmaster was gone again. But he'd been there. The knot in the vicars tummy tightened.
A glitch, maybe? His other laptop, the one with the more innocent search history, was forever throwing up glitches.
It wasn't a glitch, he knew it wasn't. But that was all he knew.
Heralded by an alert that sounded like the rim of a glass being flicked, another username changed from red to green as the familiar bubble appeared on the screen.
THIEFTAKER is now on-line...”
Messages were quickly exchanged. It was decided that the competition would have to be suspended, at least until the competitors could be sure their exchanges were private. Thieftaker's apprentice would be able to take care of that, he being far more tech-savvy than the others.
Before the apprentice (“Spiderman” to his fellow gamers) had been taken under the wing of Thieftaker the game had been far more risky. They took all the precautions they were able to but electronic communication was fundamentally an evidence trail. As law enforcement agencies worldwide had begun to invest more man hours and resources into e-crime, the gamers had begun to lose confidence in their intricate and convoluted security systems.
The software was all of his Spiderman's doing and had taken him little more than a morning. A secure communications system that had score-cards and league standings, a gallery of images and video footage and a direct messaging system, all routed through a server in his own office. A server that wouldn't show up on any list of assets that his employer held and that, by the magic of VPNs and other such things of which his fellow gamers were ignorant, their images were safely shared, appreciated and voted on.
Spiderman being his apprentice, Thieftaker would be able to speak with him. No players had any knowledge of their opponents other than the username they adopted and the stories and images they shared, but each apprentice had a Guv'nor to nurture their talents.
Thieftaker and Spiderman had worked together for six years, Spiderman being his Guv'nor's second such prodigy. The first had slipped up, almost brought everything crumbling down on the game, and had become that months winning image. Thieftaker's decisive dispatch of the errant deviant know as “Headucator” had secured for him the position of pack Alpha, a position he relished.
Thieftaker closed his laptop and picked up the phone.
Hello.”
Key?” The voice that answered the call asked.
eight, zero, five, one.” Replied the Guv'nor.
What's up, Guv?”
Stationmaster showed up briefly.”
On-line?”
Yes. He went offline when I messaged him.”
I'll take a look, don't message him again.”
Thieftaker hung up as a voice from downstairs called up to him.
You dinner's ready, darling,” His wife's voice, “bring your cup down with you.”
Yes, dear.” Thieftaker slid his laptop back into the safe that stood in the corner of his little office, immediately forgetting about the cup as he headed downstairs to enjoy some lovely lamb chops.
____________________

He'd slept for the majority of the journey, his body already beginning the process of repairing itself.
Mick had awoken several times during their trek. First, soon after leaving the forecourt, when Donald had stopped to put the plates he'd liberated from the older Land Rover onto this one. He then slept for an hour or two longer before being jolted awake by Donald hurriedly jumping behind the steering wheel and screeching away. He was finally disturbed for a third time when Donald had put sufficient distance between them and the little shop he'd just stolen from.
You hungry?” Frank asked. Mick nodded and tried to sit up as his saviour shook a can of protein-shake, opened it and popped a straw in. “Here.”
Mick drank the shake, then drank another, his body screaming for the energy the drinks could provide in a desperate bid to fuel the task of rebuilding. Frank re-used the straw and popped it into a medicine bottle.
It's all I could get, I didn't think you'd manage a tablet.” He smiled and passed the old soldier the bottle.
Calpol.
You could've given me this first.” Mick tried to smile as he sipped the paracetamol. Donald turned back to the wheel and started the engine.
Frank,” Mick croaked.
Yes?”
Are we nearly there yet?”
____________________

Two weeks only seems a long time when you're at the beginning.
It hadn't been a problem at first. He had money, he had a roof, he had weed and he had a fortnight to find another job before his rent was due. In the meantime, there were always benefits.
Except there weren't. Not anymore. Not in these times of austerity.
He was too young. Apparently, being young meant you didn't need to eat or find shelter. He'd found out just yesterday that he'd be getting some help, but not anything like enough to keep him in the manner to which he'd become accustomed.
Now it was rent day.
He reckoned he had a day or two before his landlord came knocking and that he'd probably get away with blaming the benefit's agency's tardiness for a little while but, before long, the landlord would turf him out. Owen needed money.
He took a last drag on the spliff he held then squeezed the remnants of it into the cola can, alongside countless others.
He stood up, stretched and moaned, plucked a cap from his bed and donned it before pulling up the hood on his black sweater and grabbing the holdall he'd once used to transport his sandwiches and a waterproof jacket to work. He slung the bag around his shoulders and wrestled his bicycle free of he bathroom, wheeling it backwards along the narrow hallway and out of the door over the pile of unopened bills, demands and threats.
Owen cycled across town, to where the nicer houses were situated. If he was going to have to do this then he'd take from someone who had too much. Fair's fair, he thought.
Of course, the home owners wouldn't think it fair. They'd think it very unfair indeed, but the fact is that life is unfair whoever you are and that one salient fact, paradoxically, makes everything fair.
____________________

Donald carried two small shopping bags and smelled of sawdust when he returned, though Mick couldn't smell him, what with his newly flattened nose now serving very little function other than whistling whenever he got out of breath. Donald dumped the bags on the counter and closed the caravan door as Mick filled the kettle, still moving gingerly.
The caravan stood at the bottom of the little static caravan site, close to a gate that led to the beach. Only one other caravan on the site held a resident, Alistair, and Alistair was the owner. 

Alistair's own mobile home looked anything but mobile. There were wheels tucked away somewhere beneath the floors but, at a glance, you'd be forgiven for thinking it were a bungalow.
He'd been more than happy to allow Donald and his 'brother' to rent a caravan (even though his licence said he couldn't at this time of year) so long as they took the van furthest from the road and kept the noise down. And paid up front.
Fifty a week” He'd said. Then, when Donald had immediately reached for the fat wallet he'd stolen from a man in the service station, he'd added “...each, of course”.
Of course.” Donald had smiled.
And twenty for the electricity, that should cover it.”
Donald's smile remained. “Each?”
Of course.”
Mick could hardly move and many of the wounds he'd suffered risked infection if he wasn't careful, so he spent much of his time indoors and out of sight wishing they where somewhere that could pick up a decent television signal.
Donald had taken a walk the morning after their arrival. They were on the banks of Loch Long and there was a forest to explore, maybe food to be foraged. The scant supplies he'd collected from the Spar shop attached to the last fuel station he'd visited would last a day or two and he had money, but lying low was more important than grocery shopping for the time being.
The Forestry Commission were putting right a wrong, clearing great swathes of Scandinavian trees that had been planted to provide lumber more quickly and replacing them with indigenous varieties more suitable for sustaining the local ecosystem. Donald had come across a group of men wielding chain saws and slicing branches from the felled trees that a tractor dragged down the hill for them. The trunks were then sliced into the correct lengths and loaded onto wagons destined for saw mills throughout the country. The man in charge, Michael, had a very laid back interview technique.
Can you use a chainsaw?”
Yep.”
What's your name?”
Frank.”
And that was that. Forty quid a day in his hand, a disgracefully low wage for such an arduous job, and no questions asked. Perfect.
Mick had been getting around a lot better over the last two or three days and today, once Donald had left for work, he'd decided to hobble to the car and listen to the radio rather than be subject to another morning of one-channel television, watching tatty houses being sold at auction and thick people being exploited. He'd found the laptop and briefly got excited but, alas, the battery was dead, so he sat in the car and listened to the radio for an hour or two before bringing the laptop indoors, plugging it into the wall outlet and waiting for it to charge whilst he watched a little, old lady solve a murder in New England.
I'd forgotten about that thing,” Donald nodded at the laptop perched by the kette as he put bottles of milk and packs of bacon into the fridge, “It wasn't working when I tried it.” He opened the screen up and pressed the power key whilst he went to use the toilet.
The hard drive chattered and the screen flickered into life, a spinning circle marking the cursor's position whilst the marvellous machine went through it's checks and balances.
Ping.
The little chat bubble that opened up presented it's message, unseen for the moment.
WB”.
Then a further legend, this one in a less friendly looking, yellow box at the bottom of the screen that disappeared as Donald pulled the chain.
Newly Added... (312) Unseen... (1822)”
Almost five hundred miles south of the little caravan by the Loch, at the same time as Donald was exiting the tiny loo and buckling his belt, a man working late in the office picked up his phone having been alerted to a message by the briefest of beeps.
STATIONMASTER is now online...”
It wasn't a glitch. Two weeks they'd waited, both sitting on their entries for this month's competition, unable to upload for fear of discovery. Eventually they'd become convinced it hadn't happened and they'd uploaded their images, just hours ago.
It couldn't be a coincidence. Someone was on to them. Spiderman drew the laptop from the locked drawer in his desk and turned it on, cracking his knuckles as he waited.
The images had been uploaded today, just hours ago, and now...
...someone must be on to them.
Spiderman tapped away at his keyboard and cursed the stringent security systems he'd put in place to ensure anonimity and to conceal the locations of the gamers. He was able to circumnavigate it, but it woud take time.
It was dark in the office. Spiderman's face was starkly lit by the electric blue light cast by the screen of the laptop as he concentrated on the matter in hand whilst, tucked away in the corner behind him, the hard drive of a server not on any list of assets held by his employer chattered briefly, an LED blinking rapidly, as it spewed vile images and video footage down a high speed cable and around the globe for a second or two before the sickening visions were delivered, automatically, to their ultimate destination...
____________________

...a little caravan just outside Dunoon where, as one man placed bacon in a grill tray and another dropped tea bags into cups, drowned out by the whistling of a kettle a laptop's ping went unheard.



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