‘I think you do. You know exactly what your decision would be.’
‘What I know is that this is a ridiculous game. I don’t even know why I’m going along with it.’
‘Yes, you do. You know the answer to that one too. It’s because you need what I have to offer. So come on, Cody. What’s it to be? Pull the lever and kill Megan Webley? Or allow six human beings to perish?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘You have to. The trolley is on its way, Cody. Faster and faster it goes. Any second now it will be too late, the decision will be out of your hands. Is that what you prefer? To wash your hands of this? To let those poor people die? All six of them? Or ten? Or twenty? To allow them all to be crushed like insects? Or do you kill Megan? One of your few remaining friends in life. Your confidante. Your ex-girlfriend. A simple act, Cody. Just a quick pull of the lever. She’d never know. She’d have no time to hate you for it. Quickly now. Time’s running out. Five, four, three, two—’
‘She lives. Megan lives. All right? Happy now?’
‘Say it again.’
‘You heard. I choose to save Megan.’
‘Are you sure? A minute ago you took the opposite decision. You made the utilitarian choice. Sacrifice the one to save the many, you said. Every single time, you said.’
‘I know what I said.’
‘So you admit you were wrong?’
‘It’s not a question of right or wrong. It’s a question of . . . context.’
‘Context? Interesting. That’s very interesting, Cody.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘I do. And we’ll talk more about this.’
‘When?’
‘When you’ve taken delivery of the third key.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘You have mail.’
The line goes dead. Cody tosses the phone aside, jumps out of bed. He pulls on a T-shirt, jeans and a pair of trainers, then grabs the extensible police baton he always keeps by his side at night. He runs out of the bedroom, down the stairs. Turns off the alarm and goes out onto the landing. Flies down the next set of stairs and across the hallway. He reaches the front door.
There is nothing here. No envelope. No delivery of any kind.
He unlocks and opens the door. A blast of cold air hits him, as though a ghost has just rushed past. But there is nothing on the steps, nothing on the street.
Waldo is toying with him. That’s what he does.
Cody locks up. He trudges back upstairs, turning lights off as he goes. He reaches the first floor, turns onto the landing. Heads towards the door to his apartment.
And then he sees it.
The earlier ghostly chill is inside him now, rushing through his veins.
Waldo has been here. Inside the building. He stood just here, a single door’s width away from Cody’s own living space.
The envelope is taped to the outside of the door, the words ‘To Nathan Cody’ in deathly black on its bone-white surface.
36
She has waited over an hour. Still no sign of Metro, or anyone who might be able to tell her anything about Metro. There have been a couple of attempts to chat her up at the bar, but they gave her no trouble when she told them she was waiting for her Thai boxer boyfriend.
She signals the Irish girl over again. The girl points to Sara’s empty glass and says, ‘Fancy another?’
‘No, thank you. Do me a favour, will you? I know he bit your head off last time, but would you mind getting your manager out here again, please?’
The girl looks with trepidation towards the rear door.
‘Tell you what,’ says Sara. ‘When you’ve done that, you can get me a glass of tap water.’ She passes across a twenty-pound note. ‘And you can keep the change.’
‘Tap water’s free,’ says the girl.
‘I know,’ says Sara.
The girl takes the money, nods, then goes over to the door. She knocks, puts her head through, says a few words, then runs back to her station.
A few seconds later, Iain reappears. ‘You still here?’ he says.
‘I’m still waiting. You promised me a meeting.’
‘Nobody turned up yet?’
‘No, Iain. Nobody has turned up.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I just passed on what was told to me.’
‘No worries, Iain. But here’s what we’re going to do now. You’re going to call whoever you called before, and this time you’re going to tell them I want to speak with them directly. Then you can pass the phone to me.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because if you don’t, you’ll have to explain to your boss why you are the one to blame for the consequences.’
‘What consequences?’
‘All you need to know, Iain, is that it won’t be pretty. Look into my eyes. Can you tell I’m not fucking around with you?’
Iain locks eyes with her for several seconds. She can see his uncertainty.
‘I’ll make the call,’ he says.
He skulks away to his office. Comes back a minute later, phone in hand. He passes it to Sara. She brings it to her ear, puts a finger in her other ear to dampen the pounding music.
‘Hello?’ she says. ‘Who’s this?’
‘More to the point,’ says a male voice, ‘who the fuck are you? And what do you think you’re doing, going around threatening and attacking people?’
‘I take it you’ve heard what happened outside The Tar Barrel, and also at your shitty little pool hall.’
‘I heard. I’ve even seen it. You’re a one-woman army. I’m impressed. What I don’t know is why you’re doing all this.’
‘Then give me a chance to explain. Come here and talk to me, like you promised you would. Prove to me you’re not pissing your pants at the thought of sitting next to me.’
‘Christ, you’ve got some balls, haven’t you, girl?’
‘Bigger than yours, it seems.’
The man laughs. ‘I’m on my way. Keep a seat warm for me.’
The phone goes dead. Sara hands it back to Iain.
‘Get what you wanted?’ he asks.
‘Not yet. But I will.’
*
Another key.
Of course it is.
This one is bigger and heavier than the others. Designed for a sturdy mortice lock.
But it’s the tag it carries that preys on Cody’s mind: ‘The key to your deepest fear.’
Cody isn’t sure he wants to unlock anything containing his deepest fear. Such a thing can stay in secure confinement, thank you very much.
But still it sets him thinking.
What is his deepest fear? And where might it be kept?
He can think of a lot of things that have frightened him. A good proportion of them have scared the bejesus out of him. Does he have a worst, though? Can he single one out for that honour?
But Waldo didn’t mean it literally. He wasn’t referring to all the horrors that have whirled and swooped in Cody’s brain at night. He was referring to something more concrete. Something that, if Cody encountered it, would be certain to knock all his other terrors to the bottom of the rankings.
The earlier phone conversation worries him. All that stuff about the trolley problem. About when ending a life can be right, and when it can be wrong. It makes him especially anxious that Webley was brought into the discussion. Why her? Obviously, Waldo has done his research, and is aware that Webley is special to him, but was there more to it? Is it her life that could be a lever’s pull away from being extinguished?
It occurs to him to give her a ring, just to check on her. But then he looks at his clock and sees that it’s almost two in the morning. She wouldn’t appreciate a call at that time. Moreover, she’s already suspicious enough about Cody’s actions. A phone call right now would be the cherry on top.
As if sensing it is being thought about, Cody’s phone blares into life. He jumps, then answers the call.
‘Hello, Cody. How are we doing?�
�
‘How did you get into my building?’
‘You found the third key, then?’
‘Did you hear me? I asked how you got inside.’
‘I’ve been there before. Don’t you remember? I come and go as I please. I could come up to your apartment right now if I wanted. Would you like me to do that?’
It’s a good question. When the person you fear and detest most offers to meet you face-to-face, what do you answer? How sure can a man be that he can defeat the devil?
But Waldo isn’t a demon. He has no magic. He is a man. He is flesh and blood.
‘Any time,’ Cody answers. ‘Any time you like. I’m ready for you.’
Waldo laughs. ‘Be careful what you wish for, Cody. But perhaps you’ll get that wish. After all, you’ve got all three keys now.’
‘What am I supposed to do with them?’
‘You use them to find me. Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Not exactly. I don’t know what these keys are for.’
‘Think about it, Cody. Think about it. I’ll be waiting, but you haven’t got forever. This is a time-limited offer. If you want to join me in the fiery depths of hell, you’ll need to get a move on.’
37
Another hour passes, and Sara feels her fury mounting. She can’t ask the Irish bartender to pester her boss again – the poor girl would probably lose her job. And her thoughts of jumping over the bar and crashing into that back room aren’t going to get her very far either. The security staff would be on her in a heartbeat. In a fair fight she can take care of herself, but she wouldn’t stand a chance against half a dozen burly bouncers.
But then the door opens. Iain comes towards her. He has the phone again. This time he looks almost pitying. He holds the phone out to Sara.
‘It’s for you.’
Sara takes the handset and puts it to her ear. ‘Hello.’
‘Go home,’ says the voice. The tone is much more serious than it was earlier.
‘We have an agreement. An appointment.’
‘We have nothing. You have nothing. Go home, little girl, before you get hurt.’
‘You don’t want me to do that. That would be the wrong decision.’
‘Don’t tell me what the fuck I want. Go home now.’
‘You’ve seen what I can do.’
‘I’ve seen fuck all. You got the drop on a pair of drunks and used an offensive weapon on a couple of dickheads. You do a mean ballet spin in the air, but that’s it. Don’t start thinking you’re ready for the big boys, because you’re not.’
‘If I go now, it won’t be the end. I’ll be back.’
‘With that accent, you even sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger. It doesn’t make you a terminator. Anyway, you’re boring me now. Hasta la vista, baby.’
The call ends. Sara looks across at Iain. She offers the handset to him, and he accepts it almost apologetically – as if taking it from a woman he knows has just been dumped by her boyfriend.
‘What now?’ he asks. ‘Are you going to kick off?’
She thinks about it. It hasn’t gone the way she hoped. She thought she had done enough. Inflicted enough damage to make them sit up and listen. She assumed they would agree to the face-to-face because they would want to iron things out. It’s why she chose here – a public place with lots of witnesses. Instead, they have dismissed her, belittled her, flicked her away like a bug, and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She has no plan B.
She shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry. You don’t need to whistle for your dogs. I’m going home.’
He nods. His earlier anger with her has dissipated, to be replaced by sympathy.
‘If it’s any consolation, I think you’re doing the right thing. I don’t know much about the people who run this place, but I’ve heard stories. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of them.’
Sara slips off the barstool, slips the strap of her bag onto her shoulder.
‘Problem is,’ she says, ‘they’ve already got on the wrong side of me.’
*
She’s exhausted and dispirited when she arrives home. Metro has been toying with her. Treating her like a child.
She is starting to wonder that he might be right – that she isn’t his equal. In the army, she was used to being in control of a situation, but she always had the backing of a tightly-knit, armed-to-the-teeth team. She’s on her own now. Nobody to cover her back. Perhaps she needs to start realising she’s not invincible.
She still needs to know why Matthew was killed, but she no longer feels assured of achieving that aim.
Sara unlocks her front door, steps inside.
She feels the wrongness even before she sees it.
When she snaps the light on, the carnage couldn’t be any more obvious.
In the hallway, every picture has been pulled from the wall and smashed onto the floor. The telephone table is on its side. The lightshade has been smashed, leaving only a naked bulb on its cord. Right across the wall, the word ‘SLAG’ has been spray-painted in black.
She steps through the broken glass on the floor. Sees more spray-paint in the stairwell. It says, ‘BITCH.’
She goes into her living room, puts the light on there.
More devastation.
The curtains ripped from the pole. Her chairs and cushions slashed to ribbons, leaving foam and feathers strewn across the floor. Vases broken, television overturned, books and candles thrown around the room. Streaks of paint on the walls, the furniture, the floor and even the ceiling. Wall-paper pulled away in long strips.
And there’s a smell, too.
She realises it’s that which alerted her when she first entered the house.
Not an unpleasant odour. Aftershave, perhaps. Or deodorant.
It’s stronger here, though. Almost as if—
She turns too late. The fist smashes into the side of her face with immense force. She staggers backwards and trips over something and falls. Her head is filled with a pandemonium of light and colour and sound, but she has the presence of mind to keep rolling on the floor, away from her attacker. She jumps to her feet, blinks to clear her eyes . . .
And sees the gun.
38
She’s not about to argue with a SIG Sauer P220. She has seen first-hand what 9 mm bullets can do to a human.
The man behind the gun is well-built and smartly dressed. Leather jacket, dark trousers, shiny shoes. He looks capable of handling himself even without a gun. The line of chunky rings on his fingers glimmers at her, and she brings her hand to her cheek to assess the damage they caused. She winces at the pain, and when she brings her hand away, it is slick with her blood. Her head is still buzzing, and she feels the need to vomit.
‘Sit down, Sara,’ he says.
She feels sick enough to acquiesce, but finding a seat left amid the devastation is another matter. She knocks some books off the sofa to reveal a ripped cushion, its interior stuffing bursting out of it. She plonks herself down on it nonetheless.
‘Are you the one they call Metro?’ she asks.
The man laughs. ‘No, darling. He wouldn’t waste his time on this shit. I’m just the messenger.’
‘So what’s your name?’
‘You can call me Ozone. Everyone else does. I don’t mind. It’s because I like to smell nice, see. People say I’m doing my best to destroy the ozone layer. Me, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. We’re all going to die anyway, right? Some quicker than others.’
‘I recognise your voice. We spoke on the phone earlier.’
Ozone nods, smiles. Waves the gun playfully in her direction.
‘Spot on, darling.’
‘You kept me waiting deliberately, didn’t you?’ She indicates the room with a sweep of her arm. ‘So that you’d have time to do all this.’
‘Again, spot on. I think I’ve done a pretty good job here, don’t you?’
‘And then you told me to come home, so that you could attack me.’
‘Guilty as charged.
You should join the police, love. You’re a right little Sherlock.’
‘Your own detective skills aren’t bad either. You know my name, where I live. Or did you get all that from Metro?’
Ozone shrugs. ‘Metro didn’t get to where he is by being in the dark. Anything he doesn’t know, he makes it his business to find out. Especially when he knows someone is out to get him.’
‘He’s scared of me, then?’
‘Not scared, no. Let’s just say he likes to err on the side of caution. And who can blame him, eh? People aren’t always what they seem. You, for instance. Who would think you could stand up to a roomful of men in a pool hall? Shitting hell, girl, that was some show you put on there. I was seriously impressed.’
‘Thank you. Put down the gun and I’ll give you another demonstration.’
‘No, that’s okay. Seriously, I don’t think you could take me, but it’s late and I’m tired after trashing your house. You have some nice stuff here by the way. Used to, anyway.’
‘Did you need to break it all?’
‘Did you need to break teeth and bones? You see what I’m saying, right? If you knock down a wasps’ nest, you shouldn’t be surprised when you get stung.’
Sara feels a tickle on her neck as a line of blood oozes down it. A wave of nausea washes over her again.
She says, ‘I’m not doing this for fun. Do you know why I’m doing it?’
‘I know you’re the one whose husband was murdered, and so I’m guessing you think Metro had something to do with it.’
‘Did he?’
‘No. But I’d say that even if he had.’
‘What about you? Were you involved in my husband’s death?’
‘Same answer, darling.’
‘You seem to know how to use a gun. You could have been the one who shot him in the head.’
A broad grin from Ozone. ‘Nice try, babe.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You pretend he was shot to death, I go along with it, and then you know I had nothing to do with it. Only he wasn’t shot in the head, was he? He had a lot of holes in him, but not one of them was caused by a bullet. To be honest, I’d have paid good money to see that. What was it like?’
Sara holds back her surge of anger. ‘You could have rescued yourself there. You could have gone along with the gunshot story and pretended you knew nothing about the circumstances of my husband’s murder.’
Your Deepest Fear Page 16