by Jem Tugwell
DataGate had been the tsunami wave of ransom demands emailed to the unsuspecting world. How much was that naked photo of your partner taken on holiday worth? Less than the ones of someone who isn’t your partner? Less than the video? What price for that letter from your doctor, the tax office or social services? The governments had taken over the data centres and put them behind military firewalls. Of course, they still scanned the data. For terrorist or criminal activity. To audit your tax return. For the greater good.
Everything on the HUD was held by iMe. Nice and safe from loss but scanned and searched and sold.
***
When the Best of Karina movie was over, the only light came from the pale glow of my laptop’s screensaver.
My eyes were shut, and I was imagining Mary. I wish I could have stayed and watched her eyes: the hope, the panic, the pleading, the pain.
Karina had gone so peacefully that it was almost poetic. The flow of her blood in the tubes and the gentle sagging of her body as her heart stopped.
With Two, I had set up a camera to focus close in on his face. I watched the hope drain from his eyes when he saw his blood in the tubes, replaced by fear and anger. He was primal as he thrashed against his chains. I told him that he was making his heart beat faster and the blood would be gone quicker, but he didn’t listen.
The real drama was at the end. He stilled and panted. I hadn’t gazed into someone’s eyes before and really understood them. Two was so expressive. He had resigned for a few seconds before his brain’s survival instinct kicked in again. A flash of hope. No, determination. More struggling, but fainter this time. The chains rattled and stilled, and his eyes dimmed and faded.
I watched Two’s last moments again and again, finally acknowledging a part of me that had lurked in the shadows for so long. I wished I had the footage of Mary’s eyes.
I hungered to watch it live, and I knew what I wanted to do with my third guest. My number three.
***
The trees of the street rustled in a gust of wind and disturbed the calm of the evening. As I approached Number Three’s house, I scanned for other signals. Three was alone in the kitchen.
A big dog barked in the distance, but it wasn’t close enough to worry about. Three’s only neighbours were distant and out. I knocked and waited. Three came to the door all in a fluster and saw me.
‘Oh, hi. Wasn’t expecting you,’ Three said. ‘Come in, come in. My sauce will burn if it’s left.’
The burning sauce explained Three’s preoccupation and why my Suppressor and bag had gone unnoticed. Careless? Yes, but my familiar face was trusted. I stepped across the threshold and clicked the door shut behind me.
In the kitchen, Three was stirring a creamy sauce. Vigorous, constant movements accompanied by mutterings about it splitting and burning. ‘Won’t be long. Just need to catch this. Don’t want to have to start again.’
I put my bag down on the floor and picked a large, heavy metal frying pan from a rack on the wall. I held the strong silicon coated handle, made for grip and burn prevention, and I tested the balance of it in my hand.
I stepped closer to Three, who was still preoccupied with the sauce. I thought if I set myself sideways it would give room for my swing and allow more of my body weight to come through with the pan. I could use my back and legs and twist into the blow. I drew the pan back.
‘Never mind the sauce, Three,’ I said.
‘What are you talking about? Three what?’
‘You.’
Three’s head turned to question me, but I timed it to perfection. My arm flew, driven by my shoulders and the extra power as I pivoted my hips. It was like a perfect horizontal golfer’s swing. The flat of the bottom of the pan connected with Three’s turning cheek. The long sonorous bong from the pan sang with the purity of the blow and echoed around the room. The crunch and crack of Three’s cheekbone collapsing didn’t have the same musical quality.
***
I felt happy now that the cage held my new possession. Number Three didn’t look so amused and was giving me the silent resentful treatment. Or maybe it was the smashed cheekbone and wild bruising on Three’s face which must hurt like hell, so I slipped a needle into Three’s vein and pushed in something to take the edge off.
‘Is that better, Three?’
‘Why are you calling me that?’ Three asked, through the broken lips and all the swelling.
‘Karina was first, then Two, who you called Alan. You’re my third guest. My number three.’
Three saw the sequence and knew what I was capable of.
‘Do you prefer Number Three, or just Three?’ I asked. ‘Number Three sounds a bit too formal.’
I was using both but couldn’t decide which I preferred.
As I got no reply, I made the decision myself.
‘Number Three for introductions and when we have company. Three when it’s only the two of us, and we’re cosy together.’
***
I was finding Three’s silent malevolent stare enjoyable, so I decided to work in the cage. I wanted Three to try and guess what was coming.
I was sketching designs. The belt mechanism I had used for Mary was fine in as far as it went. In fact, I was pleased with my ingenuity and creativity on the spur of the moment. A smile played across my face as I wondered whether Lussac appreciated it as much.
But for the games I was planning, something so coarse and rigid wasn’t acceptable. Different competitors would be different heights. I would need something reusable and adjustable so that I could get the extension of the toes just right.
Trying to ensure adjustability was giving me problems. I had sketches of sliding mechanisms and simpler designs with slots in the metal that I could move and tighten in place, but none of them worked. All the designs needed too many hands to get tight and accurate. With annoyance, I screwed them all up and threw them across the cage.
‘It’s more difficult than I thought, Three,’ I said.
Three spat at me. The spittle had a pink tinge to it as it sailed high, arching and falling well short of me.
‘That’s not nice.’
‘Fuck off.’
I stood and strode over to Three, my clenched fist millimetres away from the smashed cheek. ‘What have I told you?’
Three cringed away, not wanting any more pain. ‘Sorry.’
***
My design, in the end, was simple, if disappointingly basic. A hook on the cage wall and, above it, a hook on the ceiling. In between the hooks, I ran a ratchet luggage strap I had found in the garage. One end I could loop around Three’s neck, over the hook on the ceiling and down, through the ratchet to the hook in the wall. Each click of the ratchet gave me the fine control over the height of the loop that I needed.
Three looked at my work, mistrustful and suspicious, and seemed even more confused by the mirrored arrangement on the other side of the cage.
Three was lying chest down and I applied tape around ankles, wrists and elbows. I had a strong image of Mary as I did it, and that added to my excitement as I helped Three stand up.
‘Over there,’ I said, pointing at the swaying strap.
I prodded Three a few times to encourage movement, enjoying the awkward hopping to the wall.
I left the strap long enough to loop it around and over the hook that was behind Three’s neck.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Three demanded as I pulled the strap up to check it would tighten. I was pleased with the result.
I reached the ratchet, eased the handle up and clicked the slack out of the strap. I paused when it started to tighten around Three’s neck. I looked into Three’s eyes and drank in the fear. God that’s good.
I clicked some more, and Three’s heels came up off the floor to relieve the growing tension on the windpipe.
I left Three for a moment to double check the camera. I didn’t want to miss any of the sublime detail.
A few more clicks and Three was balancing high on tiptoes just as Mary
had been. Now I would get to watch the eyes, the muscles shaking and the final desperate collapse.
Three didn’t disappoint. It was a performance almost beyond my hopes.
I rushed and released the ratchet as Three started to sway and croak. I lowered Three to the floor and listened to the choking and the wheezing as Three’s lungs sucked air back into them.
I didn’t want Three to die. Not with the games ahead.
***
‘Why didn’t you kill me,’ Three asked.
The raw bruises on Three’s neck were climbing to meet the frying pan’s older purples and yellows spreading south.
‘Think of it as training.’
Three didn’t say anything but frowned with incomprehension.
‘You’ll thank me later.’
More silence.
‘When Number Four arrives, the cage will be crowded. I only have room for one.’ I shrugged, What else could I do? ‘Then we’ll play a game. You’ll be in your noose and Four will be in theirs.’
I waited for some appreciation but was disappointed when I didn’t get any.
‘Winner stays on,’ I said.
‘You’re fucking mad!’ Three screamed, but a hard jab to the damaged face stopped the noise.
‘Don’t interrupt. It’s a game for you and Four to play.’ I put some tape over Three’s mouth to stop any further disruptions to my train of thought.
I wanted to see different emotions in both sets of eyes during the game. At some point, the players would work out that it didn’t really matter how long they could stay on their tiptoes, as long as they outlasted the other player. I wanted to see hatred for the other player; the collapse of morals and them wishing their opponent would die first. I craved a gladiatorial contest.
I could see that Three had worked the game out.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘You only have to outlast Number Four. Our little test today will give you an edge. You know what to expect, you know the pain in your calves and toes. You can win.’
‘You appreciate the importance of testing, don’t you?’ I laughed at the irony.
Three nodded but couldn’t meet my eyes.
I had things to do so I left and closed the cage door, shaking it to check that it was locked and secure. The clang of metal on metal mingled with my steps as I walked towards the door.
I turned to look at Three.
‘Don’t worry. There’s no need to be shy when you meet Number Four.’
Three’s eyebrows rose.
‘You’ve met DC Zoe Jordan lots of times.’
53
DI Clive Lussac
I spent the night in the cell on the narrow bed, but every time I fell asleep the memory of those photos crept up on me, jolting me awake. Sweat glistened on my face as I relived the taste of vomit in my mouth. Every creak of the springs in the thin mattress made me think of Mary hanging on the belt.
I was tired and grumpy when the unsmiling Uniform took me to Interview Room One at 10am. Her certainty of my guilt fuelled her rough shove in my back, and I went stumbling into the table.
I cursed and crumpled into a chair. I dropped my head into my right hand. My thumb found one temple and my little finger the other. They made little circles to ease my head while my other fingers eased my scalp. I felt like shit. I was scared. Would Zoe have found anything? Had she even tried?
After a while, Zoe and Bhatt came in behind me and took the seats across the table from me. My nerves drove the frantic pace of my foot tapping up and down under the table. It was like sitting in the court waiting for the jury.
I scanned their faces, looking for a nod and a smile, but Bhatt’s eyes told me before she spoke.
‘So, according to the iMe data you’re guilty. There’s also the forensic evidence of Mary’s blood in your bathroom.’
Shit, that’s it.
Zoe smiled.
Hope flared in me, but it was extinguished as quickly as a match in the wind as Bhatt continued. ‘The CPS will rely on iMe, and a jury will believe it.’
She was right; even to me my story about Suppressors, duplicate signals, and drugs sounded like the sort of thing a desperate fool would come up with.
I sunk back in my chair. It was all over. This is how my life ends: my last days spent in a prison hiding from the people I had sent there.
‘But,’ Bhatt said.
My head shot up. She had a malicious twinkle in her eye. She was playing with me. ‘You’re lucky to have Zoe. Tell him.’
As Zoe walked me through her work on the locks and the duplicate entries my hope reignited.
‘Told you,’ I said.
Zoe pinched her mouth into a tight-lipped smile. She looked grey and drawn. ‘You’ve cost me two nights sleep,’ she said. ‘Dealing with your arrest and guilt and then last night trying to save you.’
‘Thanks, Zoe. I owe you. Did you find anything else?’
‘You bet you owe me. And yes, I did.’ She paused to suppress a yawn. ‘I sent your blood to the lab and begged a favour from a friend to fast track it. I hoped it would take a couple of hours, but it got bumped for a terrorist enquiry. Didn’t get it until 3am.’
‘And?’
‘And it shows traces of some substances that iMe doesn’t measure, but that could have put you out for a few hours.’
I had a chance.
‘Zoe being with you when the data says you were at home carries a lot of weight. As does her finding two press drones with missing batteries and no data of anyone near them. I talked to the chief constable and the people at the Justice Department.’ Bhatt allowed herself a rare smile. ‘They agreed that these are special circumstances and there’s sufficient doubt. We cut a deal to release you under my guarantee while the investigations continue.’
I hadn’t really believed I would be released, but Zoe had saved me. I couldn’t find the words to thank her, so I put my hands together like I was praying.
‘Our last plan was to go and talk to Art and Esteban again,’ I said.
‘It still is,’ Bhatt said. ‘Zoe has been tracking them both.’
Zoe nodded. ‘Art is in his country home in Henley, not his Mayfair flat, and Esteban is off-grid again.’ She said it with a sigh and a look that implied his guilt.
I had been thinking about Esteban. As much as I liked his lifestyle, he had a Suppressor and all the skills to get around the system he had designed.
‘OK. Go to Henley and talk to Art. It will take a while to get there as the traffic’s always bad. You can talk to Esteban when he resurfaces,’ Bhatt ordered.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all we had.
Hope grew in me, but hope can really screw with you.
***
We all stood and lingered for a few moments.
I looked at Zoe. She was tired, nervous, and inexperienced. The last few days must have been tough on her, but here she was, decisive and determined. I heard the door open behind me and spun around. Hope kicked me in the teeth.
Special Investigator Winter burst into the room, full of the smug and righteous arrogance that only a true authoritarian zealot can wear. ‘Inspector, you missed your appointment.’
I took a step back to avoid some of his energy, but was stopped by the table.
He seemed pleased that missing the appointment made my situation worse. ‘Appointments aren’t optional.’
‘Not now, Winter,’ I groaned and stepped sideways, instinctively trying to find protection behind Bhatt.
Winter raised his hand, his palm facing me. The universal stop command. ‘Not so fast. You’re mine.’
Winter threw something at Bhatt’s HUD – her eye went white as she read it. ‘Sorry, Clive. He has the authority.’
Shit, shit, shit.
Winter grabbed me by the wrist and yanked my hand down and then around and up my back. He held the arm lock higher than he needed. He leaned in close to my ear.
‘You’ve impressed me, Clive,’ he whispered. ‘Killing your wife as a way
of avoiding your audit shows real dedication.’
Winter shoved me forward and out of the room.
As I reached the doorway, I called back over my shoulder, ‘Help me, Zoe!’ I tried for brave, full of stiff upper lip, but it sounded weak and pathetic.
Winter laughed. ‘You’ll need more than her help.’
***
After an hour travelling to the Ministry of Well-being and Health’s offices in Knightsbridge, I had been in Winter’s interview room for over three hours. He luxuriated in his shirtsleeves and comfortable executive chair enjoying every minute of my discomfort.
I grimaced in my hard chair. I couldn’t say much in my defence. It was all true.
‘Oscar sold you so many nice things,’ Winter said.
‘Look, I’ll sign anything,’ I pleaded, thinking of Zoe. ‘I need to get out of here.’
Winter’s tut-tut belonged in a pantomime. ‘Oh, Inspector. Just because you’re a police officer doesn’t mean you can stroll out of here whenever you fancy. Freedom Unit abuse is a serious issue. Especially for a man with your record of excess consumption.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘I’ll go easy on you though.’
He had done this the whole time. Say something nice, then pause and twist the knife, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, ‘I was thinking of a nice six-month trip to a Health Reorientation Camp.’
54
DC Zoe Jordan
What an idiot. I wondered how Clive got himself into these situations?
I couldn’t believe it: an FU audit on top of everything else. Why couldn’t he live within the rules?