by Greg Krojac
Maurice was a little surprised to see a human figure in the car, as taxis were mostly self-drive and connected to the automatrix, but this was an unlicensed cab. However, Maurice wasn’t concerned about the legalities of his getaway vehicle; beggars couldn’t be choosers. In fact, it actually suited him better as there would be no official record of his whereabouts.
“The town centre, somewhere near the bus station will do.”
“Righto!”
Maurice wondered if the cab driver was at all curious as to why he was walking the streets at that time of night but, in truth, the cabbie was just thankful to pick up a fare and have someone to talk to for a few minutes.
“You a Spurs fan then?”
“Sorry?”
“Your bag. You a fan of Spurs, The Lillywhites, The mighty Tottenham Hotspur F.C.?”
“Um… Yes, I am.”
“Me too. And my old man. And his old man before him. And the rest before them. Runs in the family, it does.”
Maurice wondered if the cabbie would be so chatty if he’d known that he was sharing a vehicle with a murderer. He didn’t want to appear rude, so he made polite conversation.
“My dad didn’t like football. I don’t really know how I got into it, but I’ve always loved Spurs.”
“Nah? My dad loved it. Reckoned Spurs never looked back after they stopped sacking managers every six months or whatever. That Argentinian geezer, Pochettino. He liked him. Liked him a lot. My dad was at the old White Hart Lane – I can’t remember who against – when a young Argentinian kid, Lamela his name was, did summat called a rabona and scored a brilliant goal. My old man never forgot it. Said it was a once in a lifetime thing to see live. That team was magic, Harry Kane, Dele Alli, Toby whatsisname, the lot of ‘em. I was just a kid but when my dad started taking me to matches, I was hooked.”
The car was cruising through the town centre, about half a mile from the bus station. Maurice leaned towards the seat in front of him.
“This’ll do. Thanks.”
“You sure? Don’t you want to get a bit closer?”
“No. This is fine. Thanks.”
The cab stopped and Maurice paid the driver. He certainly had enough cash on him now to splash out on a tip for the driver, giving him a fifty-pound note from his wallet.
“Keep the change.”
The driver was more than pleased. He didn’t know who Maurice was he was obviously rich.
“Brilliant. Thanks, mate.”
Just as Maurice started to walk away from the car, the driver called after him. Maurice froze.
“Oi, mate?”
Maurice turned around to see the cabbie holding a raised fist out of the open window. What was wrong? That fifty-pound note can’t have been a forgery – he’d only recently withdrawn it from a cash machine.
“Yes?”
“Come on you Spurs, eh?”
Maurice, relieved that the driver was only being friendly, fist-pumped the air, rather half-heartedly.
“Yeah, come on you Spurs.”
***
It was now about three forty-five in the morning. In the last two hours or so Maurice had left his wife sleeping in her bed, driven off with three professional criminals and killed a man. Oh, and he mustn’t forget the small matter of stealing one million pounds. A wave of sadness washed over him as it suddenly dawned on him that he may never see his wife again. He may never see his children again. But Caitlin would be saved. He was jolted back to reality by the sudden realization that he’d to get the money to the doctor as soon as possible. He hadn’t thought that far ahead; he had to come up with a plan.
Across the street was a small hotel. It didn’t look particularly luxurious but Maurice wasn’t interested in the quality of the place – what was more important was that it was open 24/7. He crossed the now deserted street and pushed open the door. A buzzer sounded as he entered.
A rather grizzled looking man with a head that seemed too big for his body looked up from a book he was reading.
“Can I help you?”
Maurice tried not to appear nervous.
“Yes, please. I’d like a room please.”
“That’s generally what people want when they come in here, sir, this being a hotel and all.”
“Quite.”
“How many nights, sir?”
“One. I think. Maybe two. No more than that.”
“Cash or credit card, sir?”
Normally Maurice would have paid by credit card but he’d seen enough movies to know that he shouldn’t leave a digital trail behind him.
“Cash please.”
“Wise move, sir. Wise move. 10% discount for cash.”
“Nice.”
“Just place your thumb over this small area of glass please, sir.”
“Um… pardon?”
“Place your right thumb over this small area of glass please, sir. It’s the law now.”
This was new to Maurice. He hadn’t stayed in a hotel for some time now, and he’d never before had to have his fingerprint read before when checking in.
“Really? Since when?”
“Since six months ago, sir. Helps the government keep track of people. Of course, if you’d rather not, you could always pay a 250% surcharge on the room. No questions asked, sir.”
Under the circumstances, Maurice didn’t think that was too bad a deal. He could easily afford it anyway.
“Yes. OK. I’ll pay the surcharge.”
“Very good sir. You’d be surprised to know how many people prefer to pay the surcharge.”
The big-headed man took a sheet of film that was just like the film that Manfred had used to gain entry into Christian Parks’s house a few hours earlier.
“My name is…”
The big-headed man interrupted him.
“I know your name, sir. You’re a twenty-seven-year-old Indian pharmaceutical sales representative named Tuhina Kapoor. Ma’am.”
“Oh…. OK. If you say so. I guess that’s who I am.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
The big-headed man enjoyed seeing his guests’ faces when he suddenly gave them a digital sex-change. It brightened up his otherwise boring nights. He handed Maurice his card-key.”
“Room 201, ma’am. Second floor. Enjoy your stay.”
Maurice dragged his tired bones up the stairs and headed towards his room. He slid his card-key into its slot and the door to room 201 opened with an audible click.
The room wasn’t too bad. It had the usual conveniences; ensuite bathroom, satellite TV, a double bed, and a comms desk with free internet access. The place was certainly better than it had looked from the outside and was certainly comfortable enough for the one or two nights that he’d be staying.
The screen above the comms desk suddenly emitted a buzzing noise. Maurice pressed a button on the bedside table and an image of the reception desk flickered into life on the wall behind the table. The big-headed man came into view.
“Miss Kapoor. I have a call for you.”
Maurice had no idea who it could be. Nobody knew he was there. He was worried. Who the hell could be calling him in the early hours of the morning?
“Who is it?”
“It’s the Businessman.”
The Businessman was bound to know that Maurice was there. He was like Big Brother. It was no coincidence that both Manfred and the big-headed man had access to the same technology.
“I can hardly say no to him, can I?”
“Not really, ma’am. No. It’s not advisable. Not if you know what’s good for you”
The image on the screen was replaced by the silhouette of the Businessman.
“Good morning, Mr Boone.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“I hear there was a spot of trouble with the operation tonight. An almighty cock-up in fact.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well. It’s done now. No point in crying over spilt milk. Or dead footballers. Though it would have made things a
lot easier if you hadn’t killed him.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“So, Mr Boone. What are we going to do with you? Eh?”
Maurice knew that he was way out of his depth.
“I don’t know sir.”
“Luckily, I do. You are going to go downstairs to reception. You are going to give the sum of seven hundred and ninety-three thousand pounds to Charles, our mutual friend at the reception desk.”
“Seven hundred and ninety-three thousand pounds?”
“Yes. Seven hundred and ninety-three thousand pounds. Ten thousand pounds is a gratuity to Charles for helping you out of your predicament. Charles will, in turn, make an electronic transfer to Doctor Stefansson as full payment for your daughter’s surgery, which will take place a matter of hours after the funds are received. The replacement organ is being prepared as we speak. Later today your wife will be informed of two things. Firstly, that your daughter’s treatment has been paid for, so she need no longer worry about that. Secondly, that you have been killed in a car crash, been burnt beyond recognition in the ensuing fire and that you loved her very much. We’ll do our best to be tactful”
Maurice didn’t like the sound of that. It didn’t sound very tactful to him.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“You’re going to disappear. Without a trace. Although, of course, I will always know your whereabouts. That goes without saying. I know where everyone is. Well, almost everyone.”
“Thank you, sir. May I ask… why are you doing this for me?”
“Mr Boone. I’m not some kind of monster. I rather like you. And I sympathise with your daughter’s predicament. I too had lifesaving surgery at her age. Goodnight Mr Boone.”
The monitor switched itself off.
Maurice wasn’t comfortable. He knew that if something looked too good to be true, then it usually was. The Businessman must have a reason for helping him.
He went downstairs and did as the Businessman had said, paying Charles the correct sum in cash. He had no choice but to trust the man. He went back to his room and lay on his bed, content in the knowledge that Caitlin would be alright.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
11:27 FRIDAY 3 MARCH 2051
A month later, Karen Boone was struggling to hold her life together. On the one hand, her daughter, Caitlin, was recovering well after her kidney transplant but on the other hand, she was now a widow with two young daughters. A mystery benefactor had paid for Caitlin’s surgery and she wanted to find the man or woman and give them a big hug but nobody would tell her the identity of her daughter’s saviour. She would be financially sound – one thing that Maurice had insisted upon paying, whether they could afford it or not, were the life-insurance premiums – so at least she had enough to keep her head above water. The bills were being paid, she’d no financial pressure at the moment, and Caitlin was back home. The family was reunited except for one important member.
She wanted her husband back, but she knew that that was never going to happen, in this life or any other future life. Neither Maurice nor she had any memory of their previous lives and so she had to accept the fact that she would never see her beloved husband again, ever. Of course, Maurice would have been reborn, but he would have no recollection whatsoever of his previous family, so a knock on the door in twenty or so years’ time would never be the new incarnation of her husband, come to be reunited with the love of his life. They could walk past each other in the street and not recognize each other.
Maurice, meanwhile, was living alone in a seaside town, in the southwest of England, doing his best to not spend every waking moment missing his family. When he did manage to gain a few minutes respite from the aching pain of separation, he was tortured by the reality that he’d cut short the life of a human being who had never done him any wrong, bar play for the wrong football team.
The Businessman had set him up with another new identity which, although he was obviously grateful, also worried Maurice; the Businessman was too helpful. To the outside world, Maurice was now Richard Saunders but underneath he was still the same Maurice Boone. A new name didn’t change who he was or what he’d done. He’d grown a beard and was letting his hair grow longer but anybody who had known him previously would still have been able to recognise him. He had a gardening job and somewhere to stay, renting a small flat on the outskirts of town. It was comfortably furnished and had what were considered all mod cons with Internet TV, washing machine, fridge etc. It even had central heating and double-glazing, but it wasn’t home. The appliances were antiquated and everything had to be done manually. At home, he’d been used to the refrigerator rotating stock as the food came close to its expiration date and then automatically ordering more food and drink as it became necessary. Maurice and Karen didn’t have to lift a finger. But, this flat had no such luxury; if you wanted food you had to go out and buy it from a supermarket, you had to physically leave your home, travel to the supermarket, and dictate your order to one of the many workers whose job it was to enter your requirements into a computer and then within ten minutes or so you were normally loading your food purchases into your car, before driving home. Like many of the middle class of the mid-twenty-first century, Maurice had taken the automated ordering and delivery system that he enjoyed at his real house, his real home, for granted. Only now did he realise just how much he’d been relying on technology for the last few years.
He sat in the reception of the supermarket, waiting for his food order to be brought to him, evaluating his life. The police didn’t seem to be actively seeking him, quite possibly because there wasn’t anything to physically connect him to the murder of the footballer, but he couldn’t hide what he’d done from himself and life was a constant battle with his conscience. He’d killed another human being. His wife and children were in a better financial situation than they’d been before he had ‘died in a car crash’, and there was nothing to be gained – other than the selfish desire to be with his family – if he returned. If he gave himself up to the police, he would be terminated by the judicial system. He felt he deserved State termination, but he couldn’t inflict upon Karen and the girls the stigma that would be hurled at them if the truth were to come out.
He stood up from the padded bench that he’d been sitting on and walked determinedly out of the store, turning right onto the main road. He didn’t even bother to take his car; it wasn’t really worth it, he’d only be walking about a mile, and he’d no intention of making a return journey. A supermarket employee called out to him, holding a shopping basket of groceries up in the air, but Maurice ignored him. He’d made up his mind.
“Mr Saunders! Mr Saunders! You’ve forgotten your shopping!”
***
Ten minutes later he could see his destination in the distance and his pace quickened. He continued to stride purposely until he reached the door of Paignton’s Self-Termination Centre, a large brick and glass building set in beautifully landscaped gardens. The doors slid open with a discreet whoosh as he approached them. Doors were almost superfluous as the centre never actually closed; it was open 24/7, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Christmas day was usually particularly busy.
Maurice crossed the large communal reception area and approached one of the registration computers. Its screen flickered into life as he came within a metre of it. A soothing voice spoke.
“Good afternoon. Please speak slowly and clearly and give me your full name and identification number.”
“My name is Richard Saunders, ID number 612/21646/5.”
“Thank you Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. Have you entered this building of your own free will?”
“Yes. I have.”
“Thank you Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. Are you aware of the purpose of this facility?”
“Yes, I am. Thank you.”
Maurice had no idea why he was thanking a computer program. He put it down to force of habit. He’d always been polite.
“Thank you Richard Saunders 612/2
1646/5. Please place your thumb over the optical reader for identification purposes.”
Maurice did as he was told.
“I’m sorry Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. There seems to be a problem with your identification process. Please try again.”
Maurice suddenly realised that the machine was expecting to extract details from the thumbprint of Richard Saunders and not Maurice Boone. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small pad of thumbprints that he’d been given as part of the relocation kit supplied by the Businessman. He placed the transparency containing Richard Saunders’s thumb ID onto the optical reader.
“Thank you Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. Please proceed through the blue door to your left.”
This time Maurice managed to resist the urge to thank the computer, as he walked through the blue door and found himself in a preparation suite.
He looked around and was surprised to see several naked people sitting on sofas dotted around the room. An elderly couple were seated side by side, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. Maurice assumed that they were coming to the end of their lives and didn’t want to be left alone in the world without the partner that they’d loved for decades.
A very attractive woman of about 40 years of age was standing facing a full-length mirror. Her eyes scanned the reflection of her body from head to toe. She really was beautiful, naturally beautiful, even without make-up. Maurice had never seen a more beautiful, more perfect body in his life although he had to concede that the number of naked women he’d seen in his life was pretty low, so low that he could count the number on the fingers of one hand. But the woman, beautiful and perfect as she was, could only see fat thighs and rolls of unwanted fat around her belly. Maurice wanted to ask her why she was there but at the same time, he didn’t want to interact with anyone else other than the termination centre staff. He didn’t want anyone to try to talk him out of the decision that he’d arrived at after a month of sleepless and tormented nights.
A slightly overweight and pleasantly jovial woman, dressed in a white overall and with the STC logo on her breast pocket, came into the room and beamed at Maurice.
“Hello, Mr Saunders. Welcome to Paignton’s premier Temple of Departure.”