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.
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.
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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