Hard Return

by Rosie Claverton

  Something stirred in the depths of his memory. Amy waving memory sticks at him, pointing at the printed letters on their shiny cases: ‘GB is for gigabyte. I said terabyte – that big, black shiny thing over there. You never learn.’

  But he did learn. He would never operate at the same level as Amy, but he could work out the meaning of this list even if he had no clue what it was about. These were bits of tech, maybe even bits of a computer. She was defying Frieda. She was going to resurrect AEON from scraps, restoring her beloved homemade computer, and fuck the NCA.

  He turned over the paper, to see if she’d left further instructions, but there was only one phrase printed there:

  Don’t give up on me.

  Jason would never make the mistake of underestimating Amy again.

  Chapter 3: A Really Useful Engine

  ‘Enter.’

  Mole swung open the door to the little cupboard that the Governor used as office and bedroom, secluded from his elites and the common prisoners. The man himself was behind his desk, going over a sheaf of papers – the latest register of inmates, the rough map of the complex, the list of questions that needed answering if they were ever to get out of there.

  ‘You finished, guv?’

  ‘Mm.’

  The Governor didn’t look up, just waved at his clean dinner tray and mug, the cutlery neatly arranged. Everything about him was neat and together, despite his thinning hair growing longer with every week they spent cooped up inside the compound.

  ‘Will there be anything else tonight, guv?’

  ‘How is the vote looking for tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be Alby, guv. No one liked him much anyway and then he went and nicked Joe’s watch right off his wrist. Who could trust him after that?’

  ‘Who indeed? Thank you, Mole.’

  Mole piled the dinner things on his tray and turned to leave, tongue poking out between his lips as he manoeuvred around the filing cabinet on his way out.

  ‘Mole? Tell Nikolai that I won’t oversee curfew tonight. He can, if he wants.’

  ‘Right you are, guv.’

  Shutting the office door with his elbow, Mole made his way to the kitchen. Some of the men would be playing cards, gambling away their duties, and one of the newer boys would rummage through the shitty board games and puzzles, half the pieces missing and rotting with the damp. In the summer, the Governor had sometimes let them sit out of an evening, but no one wanted to be out in the frozen countryside in early March.

  The kitchen was a good size, but poorly lit and poorly equipped. At first, they’d survived just on the dull canned rations they’d been handed. Then the Governor had asked for fruit and veg, and from there, they’d planted and reaped the rewards of a decent harvest. Their meat still came out of a can, but at least their potatoes came out of the ground. Mole had never realised how satisfying it could be to grow peppers and tomatoes, under sheets of cracked glass they’d found discarded in a corner of the yard.

  Some liked to talk shit about the Governor, but in Mole’s book, he was all right. Without him, they would be far more miserable, and they would never have made such good progress on the Project. Of course, Mole wasn’t smart enough to work on the Project but he knew there was progress. Everyone said so. And everyone couldn’t be wrong, could they?

  Mole filled the stainless steel sink and sighed over the pile of trays on the surface. He’d been stupid early on in his time here, playing poker for chores when he’d had no idea how good the others were at cards. Or at cheating. They’d landed him with washing up ‘in perpetuity’. Once he’d asked the Governor what that meant, he’d realised how badly he’d been screwed over. But he’d got his revenge, voting out each one of those smug twats in turn. The Governor looked after his own.

  Still, he didn’t mind his time alone in the kitchen, not really. He didn’t fit in with the others, couldn’t keep up with their jokes and mocking remarks. He kept himself to himself, busied himself with the kitchen and his chores, and did whatever the Governor needed him to do.

  It was a role he was used to. He’d been the lackey for his big brother when he was on the outside, helping with little odds and ends. Unloading stolen TVs, watching over some poor kidnapped sod, disposing of the evidence in the Taff.

  Then his brother’s little empire had fallen, and they’d all been running scared from the new boys in town. Mole had been frightened for his life, for his brother. So, he’d turned snitch, laying out everything he knew for the cops, and getting a reduced sentence. His brother would never forgive him, but he was safer in some jail in Scotland than hiding in their nan’s basement.

  Scrubbing at the trays, he carefully set them out to dry one by one. Twelve trays for twelve men, then twelve mugs, then twelve knives and forks – well, only ten knives, because Lewis only used a fork and Alby had a spoon. Mole knew these men, their habits and quirks, from the very first day they arrived.

  A shadow obscured the light from the doorway. Mole glanced up, then returned to washing his mugs. ‘What do you want then?’

  ‘Got anything for me?’

  Mole shifted from foot to foot, his hands stilling in the murky dishwater.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  He could feel him moving closer, a casual swagger that told of power, confidence.

  ‘That isn’t what we agreed.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘You need to get sure, and fast.’

  Mole bit the inside of his cheek. The problem was that he was pretty damn sure but he didn’t have the guts to come out and say it.

  ‘I need more time.’

  ‘Come on now, Mole. Are you my friend or not?’

  He should be brave. Turning snitch had been brave. Offering to help the Governor had been brave. But both of those things had also been driven by fear, and he was still afraid, terribly afraid. Trapped in this place with eleven men who could tear him apart without breaking a sweat. His brother had called him Mole because he’d rather go to ground than stick his head up out of the hole.

  ‘I’m your friend,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yet you’re not acting very friendly-like, are you?’

  He squeezed Mole’s shoulder tight. He felt his arm shift in its socket with the force of the squeeze but he gritted his teeth against the pain.

  ‘I don’t want no trouble.’

  ‘I think trouble’s already found you, don’t you?’

  His hand shifted, and suddenly it was on the back of Mole’s neck. He tried to cry out, but his face was already flying forward into the scummy water of the sink.

  He tried to scream, to free himself, but the water rushed into his mouth and nose. Something sharp caught his cheek and the water filled with red, iron in his lungs, choking on his own blood.

  He couldn’t see.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  He couldn’t get out.

  Chapter 4: Girls and Boys, Come Out to Play

  Dressed in her best jeans and a faux leather jacket, her bleached streak newly-dyed bubblegum pink, Amy waited for Frieda to grace them with her presence.

  A car had showed up that morning and demanded her attendance at the National Crime Agency regional headquarters in Bristol. Jason had decanted her morning coffee into a travel mug, gleefully told Owain he’d lost his, and waved them off with ill-concealed jealousy. Amy could’ve done without the latest round of their pissing contest this morning.

  Does she know? That was the only question twisting through her mind. She couldn’t think of any way Frieda would’ve found out. She’d written the note alone in her room, from memory, and Jason had taken it away. He wouldn’t have brought it back into the house – Jason knew the value of secrets, and Amy trusted he wouldn’t betray her. He would die first.

  She felt Owain’s uneasiness as he sat across from her in the small waiting area. They’d been escorted t
hrough the ostentatious lobby without a word spoken, before being dumped in this anonymous corridor to wait. Frieda liked to play games. Amy remembered that well enough.

  If she could see past how much Frieda controlled her life, she could almost admire her. A smart, powerful woman at the top of her profession, an expert manipulator of both people and information, and a nose for the right talent to get the job done. Amy had to admit that, without Frieda, she might still be stuck in her heavily-fortified flat, barely able to visit the outside world. She would’ve been free of Frieda’s influence, but it was a poor sort of freedom.

  Then again, congratulating Frieda for Amy’s improved mental health felt like praising The Joker for transforming Barbara Gordon from Batgirl into Oracle, after he broke her in two. The strength came from within Barbara, as the strength came from within Amy. She remembered patiently explaining this analogy to her bewildered therapist, who had nonetheless seemed pleased with her progress. There were worse idols for a tormented hacker than a superhero computer whiz, defiant in her wheelchair and surrounded by those who danced to her tune.

  The door to Frieda’s office suddenly opened and the woman herself beckoned them inside. Amy always forgot how tall she was, her pinstriped tailored suit and high-heeled boots only emphasising her stature. Her ice-blond hair was swept back in a bun, not a strand out of place, but Amy refused to feel self-conscious in her presence. She had already changed so much, affecting to please her, biding her time while Frieda was lured into a false sense of security.

  The office was barely furnished, devoid of personal touches, and her desk held only a closed laptop. The room was as unreadable as its owner’s face.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Amy wasn’t going to risk being drugged on NCA territory.

  Frieda crossed to a small stand in the corner, where she poured herself and Owain mugs of filter coffee, black. He mumbled his thanks, and they sat in the bare metal chairs opposite Frieda’s plain black office chair.

  ‘What do you have for me?’

  Owain handed over a small pen drive, all in black with a subtle white crown on the end. Frieda opened her laptop, the small window behind her not reflecting anything within the room, including its screen, and inserted the drive. They waited in silence while Frieda perused its contents.

  ‘This is sufficient.’

  Amy suppressed a smile. That was her standard line when she couldn’t find anything to fault with the work. As close as Amy could get to job satisfaction was hearing Frieda say those words, even if the task she'd been given only commanded a fraction of her talents.

  ‘I have a new assignment for Agent Jenkins.’

  Amy said nothing, glancing over at Owain. He was also trying to master his expression, but it was clear he was equally surprised by the news. Was Frieda finally going to trust them to live their own lives? Just her and Jason, alone together in the flat.

  Would she be able to find out if that kiss, over a year ago, still meant something to him?

  Amy felt her hand drifting up to her lips and clasped her hands together in her lap. She couldn’t afford a moment’s lapse in Frieda’s presence. She turned her attention to the agent, who was watching Owain’s reaction. She had called him by his title – her favoured manner of address when issuing orders. She only turned to first names when she was trying to exploit them, make them feel vulnerable, persuade them. Amy thought she must expect Owain to just roll over like a good dog if she was dealing in orders instead of persuasion.

  ‘Agent Jenkins will leave his post on Friday. His replacement will arrive on Monday and will require the same...hospitality.’

  Frieda’s focus switched to Amy. She didn’t bother to hide her scowl of displeasure. A stranger in their flat was an imposition even worse than Owain. At least he didn’t ask questions or try to make conversation. They tolerated each other, only interacting when necessary for the job. Her brief fantasy of actually being able to talk to Jason vanished in a puff of smoke.

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘Agent Appleby is very discreet. I picked her for this post myself.’

  A woman. Amy curled her lip in disgust. As if her relationship with Jason could get more complicated. Perhaps Frieda had planned it that way. After all, she knew first-hand how susceptible Jason was to feminine wiles. But her face was a mask of professionalism, giving away nothing at all. Amy envied her inscrutable expression.

  ‘I trust you will make Agent Appleby welcome.’

  ‘I trust you will ensure she’s housetrained.’

  They exchanged calculated looks, before Frieda returned her icy gaze to Owain.

  ‘I will brief you on the particulars. Agent Lane, wait outside.’

  Amy left without question, smiling slightly at the correct use of her name. One of the advantages of living in the light once again was the ability to officially change her name and identity, rid herself of her father’s influence once and for all. Her sister Lizzie still had some hope for reconciliation, but Amy knew he would never change into a person she wanted in her family. She had Lizzie and she had Jason – they would always be enough.

  Jason would not take the news well. As much as he disliked Owain, she knew he would be more annoyed that a total stranger was living with them – even if she was beautiful. Even after all they’d been through together, Amy still dreaded that he would leave her behind. Wasn’t this just another thing to drive him away? He’d already started working with Dylan again, spending more and more time at the garage in Canton.

  That was what had spurred her to rebuild AEON. For herself, she could live like this. Confined, constrained, but still able to work with a computer, find some purpose. Yet Jason could not be so restricted, not without suffering for it. Amy wanted a piece of their former partnership back, even if it was only a fraction of what they’d had.

  She wanted to set him free, so that he wouldn’t fly away.

  Chapter 5: Reappearing Act

  Jason had never thought he’d regret seeing Owain leave the flat. Yet he felt strangely sorry for him as he packed up his little case, movements heavy and slow, literally dragging his feet about leaving.

  He made an effort to shake Owain’s hand even though he couldn’t bring himself to wish him well. Amy only vaguely grunted as Jason reminded her that he was off to Swansea Prison, his regular visit to check up on Lewis and find out the gossip on the inside.

  It would be good to see Lewis again. He tried to get down every week, but his bike had been playing up recently. It had been a good month since he’d last made it down to Swansea, and he felt guilty for being away from his friend for so long. He was sure Lewis would needle him for it.

  He gave the duty guard his visiting order and ID, and waited patiently for the old computer system to check his details.

  ‘Sorry, we got no one of that name here.’

  Jason frowned at him. ‘What? Has he been transferred?’

  Surely Lewis would’ve let him know if he was being moved, or his mam Elin would’ve sent word to him, despite their past differences.

  ‘Record doesn’t say. He was here up until the 29th February – and then nothing. Someone’s forgot to file the paperwork, that’s all.’

  Jason set aside his irritation and wondered what to do next. If it had been sudden, Lewis would’ve struggled to get the word out – but why hadn’t he contacted them from the new prison? Something was up here and Jason didn’t like it at all.

  ‘That’s all it says.’

  Jason could see the guard wanted rid of him now.

  ‘Thanks.’ Thanks for nothing.

  He returned to his bike, mind turning and twisting faster than he could keep up. Maybe Lewis had decided that Jason reminded him of an old life he no longer wanted any part of. Maybe he’d been nursing a grudge over what happened to his little brother Damage. Maybe his best friend had abandoned him.


  Jason shook his head. Even if all that were true, Lewis wasn’t the type to slink off into the darkness. He would’ve told Jason straight what was wrong between them and then told him to fuck off. Nothing about this situation made any sense, least of all the missing prison records. Jason wished Amy was at her full hacking power, so she could find out what had gone wrong with it. No way someone forgets to file the whereabouts of an armed robber, even one as rehabilitated as Lewis.

  His mobile buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Jason, it’s Bryn here. I’ve got a mate of yours at Cardiff Central Police Station, says he won’t talk to me unless you come over. Says it’s something about your mate Lewis.’

  Jason’s mouth went dry and he swallowed past the bile rising in his throat.

  ‘Who—Who is it?’

  ‘Says his name’s Alby Collins.’

  ‘I’ll be half an hour.’

  Jason stashed his phone and brought the bike to life, tearing out of the prison as if the devil was on his heels. Alby Collins was meant to be in prison for another six years, serving the same sentence as Lewis. What the fuck was he doing with Bryn?

  The desk sergeant showed him through with minimal fuss, and he spotted Detective Chief Inspector Bryn Hesketh easily enough. He was standing in front of a monitor, running a hand through his greying hair while drinking from a polystyrene cup. His suit was slightly better than when Jason had last seen him at work, but that had been before the promotion. A year and a lifetime ago.

  ‘He looks like shit.’

  Bryn jumped, and Jason was quietly pleased. For a big man, he could move like a shadow.

  ‘You took your time.’

  ‘I was in Swansea. Trying to figure out why Lewis wasn’t in prison anymore.’

  Bryn stared at him. ‘Your mate Lewis? The armed robber?’