by John Marrs
Now, as he read them, he saw no I love yous or promises to leave their respective partners. They had bonded not over a carnal desire for one another but over their children’s disabilities. They discussed how inept they felt about their capacity to parent compared to their partners’ skills. Zoe admitted to feeling shut out of Louie and Bruno’s “boys’ club,” and Mark believed he was a spare part in his own home. This was certainly not a man being coerced into sex; this was proof of a relationship.
He looked at the date stamped on the folder—Watson had evidence of this while she was making her claim for sexual harassment damages. Yet still she proceeded with them, knowing full well it was a lie. It had been accepted and she’d received a payout which led to Bruno’s financial ruin. However, now that he’d got to know Watson, he could see she had done it with the best of intentions, to provide financial stability for her vulnerable daughter. Might he not have done the same for Louie if their roles had been reversed?
The destruction of Bruno’s family had been collateral damage that Watson had unwittingly caused. And now it was as if someone had turned off a smoke machine, enabling him to see clearly again. The contempt he also felt towards Zoe and Mark was dissipating and being replaced by pity. He was still alive, he was still a parent. They were neither.
And just like that, he made a decision. He shut down his and Watson’s bank account pages, cancelling the planned transfer. Then he wiped his eyes, unashamed that the Echoes were witnessing his tears.
He needed to leave. Watson would be back in ten minutes, according to the clock. He wouldn’t be here when she returned. But before he slipped away, he would make use of her Wi-Fi and access Louie through the care facility’s security cameras. He watched his son being guided to his bedroom by a member of staff. And this time around, instead of his chest tightening each time another person interacted with Louie, he was grateful that his sacrifices meant Louie was getting the best help.
As Louie climbed into bed, the carer reached over and took Louie’s favourite toy from his arms, the green Tyrannosaurus rex his mother had bought him. And without warning, the carer hurled it across the room. That’s an odd game, Bruno thought.
A puzzled Bruno straightened and frowned as he watched Louie leave the bed to fetch it. However, the staff member pushed him by his shoulder back onto the mattress.
“Get off him,” Bruno growled as his son was separated from the one object that comforted him the most. Twice more, Louie reached for his toy, and twice more, he was refused it. And when Louie’s face scrunched and his mouth opened to scream, the carer slapped the boy hard across the head three times before leaving the room.
Bruno remained motionless—was his damaged mind now completely augmenting reality? He looked to the Echoes; they were as gobsmacked as him. He tried to rewind the footage but the option wasn’t available.
“No, Bruno,” came the burned sailor’s voice. But Bruno wasn’t listening. “No,” he repeated, more firmly. “Don’t do it, you have to move forward. You can’t go back. You have to protect us.”
“You’re imagining it,” said another voice, the boy with the missing jaw. “He’s perfectly safe.”
But the rage inside Bruno was rising again. He rose to his feet when a figure by the door caught his attention. From a distance, he assumed it to be another Echo, at least until she spoke.
“Why are you looking through Mummy’s files?” Nora asked, her brow furrowed.
CHAPTER 59
EMILIA
Emilia pinched her eyes with her thumb and her forefinger, then squeezed two drops from a bottle she’d purchased at a pharmacy to clear the blurriness. Frequent use of her tablet was taking its toll on her vision.
Her vehicle had pulled into the car park hours earlier than her appointed time. It hadn’t taken her long to reach the Luton roadside eatery, positioned adjacent to a busy dual carriageway. She parked a distance from the other vehicles, positioning herself next to a row of hedges and with a clear view of the building ahead. Through the cafe windows she counted twenty or so families and couples tucking into all-day breakfasts and early dinners.
Adrian’s invitation had come out of the blue. He had sent the location of the cafe to her satnav, advising her that by attending, “You will have a better understanding of who you are and why you must set your conscience to one side in your search for the truth.”
As she awaited their arrival, she continued busying herself by sifting through hundreds and hundreds of digital pages of notes, photographs, and data about each of the Minders exhumed by Bianca and Adrian’s team. She’d naively assumed that once online data had been deleted, it would never be seen again. “Nothing disappears forever,” Bianca had said casually, as if she should already know this. “The word erased is extinct. Everything is ‘filed’ for use at a later date.”
Such harvested data included the shops the three favoured, their holiday destination preferences, their medical histories, and their family backgrounds. Each piece of information assisted Emilia in building up a profile of the elusive three and where they might be hiding in the areas she had identified. She didn’t know who was where, and she had no plans as yet to tell Adrian or Bianca she knew they were in Aldeburgh, Manchester, and Oundle.
She had skimmed their current social media profiles, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have believed each one was somewhere different in the world, luxuriating on vast sandy beaches, hiking across South American backpacking trails, picking fruit on Australian farms, or chasing Pacific waves with a surfboard. Everything was backed up by deepfake video images.
Emilia left her vehicle when Adrian and Bianca pulled up alongside her. Bianca thrust a dark-blond hairpiece and black-framed glasses into her chest. “Put these on,” she ordered, and Emilia reluctantly did as she was told. Moments later, Emilia barely noticed when the waitress asked her for her order. She was too busy staring at her daughters, Cassie and Harper, accompanied by her husband, Justin, who were approaching the cafe’s entrance. She was about to jump to her feet when she felt the firm grip of Adrian’s hand squeezing her wrist and pulling her back down again.
“Face me and don’t take your eyes off mine until I tell you differently,” he prompted. Emilia hesitated and his grasp became tighter. “Say or do anything that identifies you and I’ll execute all three of them right here.” He moved his jacket to one side so that she could see the gun in his holster.
Now, from the corner of her eye, Emilia could just about see her family entering the cafe and choosing a table directly behind hers. Her pulse raced as she cocked her head and heard her excited girls choosing from the menu.
“Waffles and syrup with a strawberry milkshake,” said one.
“Me too, but I want a raspberry milkshake,” added the other.
Emilia was scared that if she moved even a centimetre, she might lose track of their conversation. Instead, she remained perfectly still as she eavesdropped. Her children and husband chatted about school, homework, and a cinema trip he’d promised them. They only quietened when their food arrived.
Emilia, Adrian, and Bianca ignored the waitress who came to take their order. As she walked away muttering under her breath, Emilia tried to remember how it had felt to have two lives growing inside her. And for the briefest of moments, it was as if she could still feel them wiggling, alongside the rhythmic vibrations of their heartbeats against her chest. Was it the product of her imagination or her memory?
“How did you know they’d be here?” Emilia whispered.
“He brings them here the same night every week after school. They like it because it reminds them of you. When they were younger, you’d bring them here after football practice. Justin told friends he thought it might help if he didn’t break too many routines after they lost you.”
“Do they think I’m dead?”
“You can either keep asking questions or you can keep listening. And m
ake sure your face remains pointed towards me or . . .” He finished his sentence by making the shape of a gun with his fingers and pointing them at his head.
Emilia hung on to her family’s every word. But to hear them thriving without her was heartbreaking. Later, pushing their empty plates to one side, they made their way to their car to carry on with their lives for yet another day without a mother or a wife.
As soon as the doors closed behind them, several red, circular dots of light appeared on their backs as they had done the first time she’d seen them via video link. “No!” Emilia gasped. “I’m begging you, please don’t kill them.”
“One word, Emilia, one word is all it will take. I don’t want to, but I will if you keep withholding information from us. You can have them back; you can be the one taking them out for milkshakes and waffles again very soon. You only have three more people to find before you’ll get everything you want. Now where are they located?”
How they knew that she was privy to such information was beyond her. Emilia had no choice but to reveal what the fridge magnets at Ted’s house had helped her to recall, and give away her only bargaining chip. The red dots vanished as quickly as they’d appeared.
Adrian and Bianca were the next to exit, leaving her trembling and alone. Being in such close proximity to her family had provided her with a snapshot of how it might be for her one day. But Emilia wanted it now.
And in that moment, all her frustration, resentment, and longing superseded every other emotion. She balled her fists and curled her feet, squeezing them so tightly she feared her fingers and toes might snap. Every muscle in her body was rigid and pulsed as she tried to hold herself back from hurling anything moveable across the restaurant. She didn’t care who the objects might hit, as long as they connected with someone who then felt the same pain she was suffering.
But instead of lashing out, Emilia internalised each negative feeling. If she was to get through this, she would need to be as strong and ruthless as Bianca. She would have to push her conscience to one side, like members of the Hacking Collective did in the pursuit of their goals. And if she didn’t get what she wanted from the remaining Minders, they must suffer the consequences. Because her family was her priority, not their well-being.
CHAPTER 60
BRUNO, OUNDLE, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE
Bruno glared at Nora, expecting her mother to follow her into the lounge at any moment. The child was older than her years and regarded him with the suspicious eyes of an adult.
“Where’s your mum?” he asked. “I thought she was picking you up from school?”
“The minibus brought me home. Why are you looking through her things?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Why do you say that?”
“My phone is broken so this morning I borrowed Mummy’s for emergencies.” She pointed at the screen. “It says on here someone on another device is looking at her bank accounts. And you are holding her tablet.”
“My phone’s broken too so I was checking my email.”
Her face screwed up. “You’re telling fibs. You were looking at her money and photographs of Daddy.”
Bruno struggled to muster up a believable excuse. “She asked me to sort something out for her,” he said vaguely. Nora’s wheelchair moved backwards ever so slightly as she continued staring at him, as if she was waiting for a better explanation. He tried a different tack. “How was school? What do you do there on a Saturday?”
Nora refused to answer. The Echo of Nazi Zimmerman parted the crowd of his counterparts still gathered inside the house. “Tell her to mind her own fucking business,” he ordered. “Explain what happens to little girls who don’t.”
“I’m going to call Mummy,” Nora said, and ordered her phone’s OS to dial Karen’s number. Bruno hurried towards her and snatched it from her hand. When he saw a frightened Nora’s bottom lip quiver, he tried to kneel and talk to her at her level. But before he could say anything, the chair spun around and sped towards the front door. Bruno had no choice but to run after her and, using all his weight, he shoved the chair hard so it careered into the wall. But he hadn’t appreciated how lightweight its frame was and it toppled over, sending Nora sprawling to the ground. He heard the unmistakable sound of a bone snapping.
“Oh, Jesus,” he gasped, and went to pick her up. She was as light as a feather, and as she looked at him, he felt something warm spread across his arm. The terrified child was wetting herself. A second later, she passed out.
Bruno remained in the hallway, the sound of Zimmerman’s laughter ringing in his ears. Panicked, he moved towards the front door but had second thoughts and hurried back to the kitchen. Then he grabbed her mobile, ready to dial emergency services.
“Do that and you’re fucked,” Zimmerman continued. “The police will be on your trail the second she wakes up. Buy yourself time. Lock her in the summerhouse in the garden. By the time Watson finds her, you’ll be out of the village and you could be heading anywhere.”
“I heard something break, I’ve injured her.”
“And what about your own kid? What state will he be in if you’re behind bars?”
For once, Zimmerman was correct. With no other choice, Bruno laid the unconscious child on a sofa inside the summerhouse with a blanket covering her body.
“Your mum will be home soon,” Bruno said gently. “I promise you’ll be okay. I’m so, so sorry.” And after dumping her wheelchair next to her, he found the key in the lock, secured it, and ran.
The last time he had experienced such guilt, he had been leaving Louie at the residential unit, but at least he’d had his son’s best interests at heart. Today it felt much, much worse.
CHAPTER 61
CHARLIE, MANCHESTER
The days following Milo’s death were a performance. Charlie mustered up his finest acting skills to impersonate a friend consumed by grief.
He dutifully attended Milo’s funeral service at the Manchester Reform Synagogue, then his burial, and planned to participate in a tribute football match the following week. Their mutual friends spent more time together than usual, supporting one another, sharing memories, or blaming themselves for not spotting the signs that Milo was struggling.
None were aware that Charlie had a room in the hotel from which Milo had fallen or that he had been questioned by police as to whether he had heard or seen anything that night. The hotel prided itself on the privacy of its guests, many of whom were celebrities staying on Charlie’s floor and the two above it, so there were no security cameras.
The disinterested detective hadn’t asked if Charlie had known the deceased and he hadn’t volunteered the information. Charlie’s impression was that the investigation was routine as there was no reason to suspect foul play.
“He was the most level-headed of all of us,” a tearful Andrew had told Charlie. “It just doesn’t make sense why he’d do that. He had everything to live for.”
“You can never really know a person,” Charlie responded. “No matter how much you think you do. We all hold something back.”
Less than thirty minutes after killing Milo, Charlie had climbed inside a hot bath to warm up his cold body. He replayed Milo’s split second of confusion as he was pushed to his death. It was a spontaneous act that had even taken his killer by surprise. If Charlie was capable of the emotion, he might even have been envious of his pal’s weightless descent through the sky like a swooping bird.
The murder was cruel and undeserved and a waste of a life. But for Charlie, it had served an important purpose. Its failure to bring him grief or regret, or to even prick his conscience, meant that he knew for certain he was never going to be the same man as he had been. It was something he had to accept.
He had heard on the grapevine that Milo’s father was in the process of setting up a mental health charity in his son’s name to enco
urage young men to freely discuss their emotional well-being. Charlie vowed to make a generous but anonymous donation because it seemed like something the old Charlie might have done. More and more frequently, he was relying on that version of himself to be the moral compass for his replacement.
When he wasn’t with the others, Charlie spent his time either at work coaching clients or with Alix. She’d lavished attention on him since Milo’s death, and he wondered if she was trying to be supportive or if she was concerned that he too might be harbouring dark thoughts he didn’t want to share. He was, but not ones he could share with anyone.
Milo’s death didn’t monopolise Charlie’s thoughts, though. It was the deaths of Karczewski and the Minder Sinéad that preoccupied him. He had taken to purchasing more secondhand tablets to use once only in public areas, and piggyback other people’s hotspots and Wi-Fi. Then he’d dispose of the devices, leaving the faintest possible online footprint.
He visited alternate locations multiple times daily to log back in to his conspiracy-theory message board and check for theories about Karczewski. There were scores of suggestions as to why his handler’s death had vanished from news feeds but none he gave credence to.
Today, he was rereading them in Alix’s flat, using her neighbour’s unsecured connection. Before he logged out for the evening, he glanced at other subject headings.
#Manmade Pandemics
I have evidence they’ve all been bio-engineered to monitor us—why won’t the authorities listen?
#The truth behind Stonehenge
An extinct race of giants called the Nephilim created it
#The Illuminati are real—here’s proof
It was created to bring chaos to an orderly world
#Hacking Collective is Government Sanctioned
A state-developed scheme for ethnic cleansing
#Match Your DNA is bullshit
It’s a modern-day cult to keep us under control