The Minders

by John Marrs

  “Yeah, for real!” one of the man’s friends said. “It’s the terrorist.”

  Charlie followed their gaze and saw a giant moving billboard attached to a building and broadcasting rolling news. His face was plastered across it, along with a caption.

  Wanted: Charlie Nicholls—Key member of terrorist cell planning atrocities throughout Britain. Government reward for live capture: £500,000. If located, contact police immediately.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Charlie gasped, just as three men’s hands restrained him. Charlie immediately fought back, twisting and squirming his way from their hold. They were no match for his combat skills. He had been taught to fight quick and dirty and it took just a few carefully placed punches, kicks, and headbutts before he was once again running hell for leather through Manchester’s streets.

  He pushed his way through the public as he continued towards Arndale, sending some sprawling to the ground as others cursed at him. Now it appeared that every moving billboard in the city was filled with larger-than-life images of his face and the bounty attached to his capture. He understood why, back in the pub, everyone’s electronic devices had sounded at once. It was a nationwide alert for him.

  “Stop that fella!” shouted a voice from behind. He turned to see that the three men he’d attacked were now giving chase. “He’s the terrorist!”

  Charlie’s pulse pounded in his ears as he ran from street to street, alternating between busy and quieter roads he knew off by heart. It was too risky to continue to Arndale, so he made his way to a deserted warehouse overlooking Piccadilly Gardens that he knew was only frequented by drug users and alcoholics.

  He pushed his way through a graffiti-stained door until he was inside, and settled in a quiet, darkened corner, fighting to get his breath back. Between his own gasps, he heard the drunken arguments of some and the snores of others sleeping it off. He could make out very little through tiny gaps in the wooden planks of the boarded-up windows. With no phone display, Charlie asked his OS to compose an email but it didn’t answer him.

  However, Charlie’s phone pinged, which meant he’d received an email, and Rosemary was the only one with his address. He punched the planks in frustration until his knuckles grazed.

  His thoughts turned to the billboards. Who was trying to expose him? If it was the government, its methods went against protocol. Karczewski had warned him that if he failed to spot or ignored seven recall messages, he would be treated as an enemy of the state but it would be dealt with privately. It didn’t make sense. The recall was a hoax and these billboards were offering a reward for his capture alive.

  Before he had the opportunity to give it more thought, his phone began ringing. Charlie held it in his palm, unable to read the number. He had no choice but to press the accept button on the side of the device.

  “Charlie,” a male voice began. He didn’t reply. “Remain where you are and we will be with you in two minutes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Dr. Sadie Mann, Director of Psychiatric Evaluations. I worked with Karczewski.”

  “Why have you left me so exposed?” he seethed. “My fucking face is everywhere.”

  “It was the only way to bring you into the open. We are sending someone to pick you up.”

  “Why the hell should I believe you? Two of the other Minders have been murdered, haven’t they?”

  “We are aware of that. We need to bring you back in and this was the only way. You are currently at a disused building in Parker Street, correct?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Look out for a dark grey Mercedes.”

  Charlie’s mind raced. He was adept at escaping but not when the whole country was searching for him. How long could he continue alone?

  “Charlie,” the voice continued. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I am,” he replied.

  “Wait where you are.”

  “Not a chance,” he said, and hurled his phone at the wall. Then he grabbed a dirty discarded coat from the floor, opened the warehouse door, and ran for his life.

  CHAPTER 78

  FLICK, BIRMINGHAM

  Flick scanned Birmingham’s skyline until she located the silver dome of the Bullring Shopping Centre.

  Once she reached it, she would head to the locker where a basic wardrobe of practical clothing she’d secretly ordered online yesterday from Grace’s account should have been delivered. A five-minute walk would take her to New Street station, where she could catch a train south to Gloucester, then a coach to Bristol. Another train would carry her to Trowbridge, where she planned to buy a car and make her way to the coastal county of Cornwall. A popular part of the country for holidaymakers and surfers, it had an abundance of holiday cottages that would enable her to lie low until she decided on her next course of action.

  “Flick, hey, wait up!” Elijah’s voice came from behind, catching her off-guard. She continued walking without turning around. “What’s wrong?”

  She wasn’t ready to hear anything he had to say. She had informed him many times that she valued her privacy, but he had broken her trust in the most public way possible. He had also put her life, and their baby’s, in danger.

  “Please,” he shouted again. “Just stop.” Flick knew he wasn’t going to give up until he’d been heard.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?” she began as she turned. Her lips were pursed, steam almost rising from her head. “Who the hell gave you the right to turn me into a piece of art?”

  “I thought you’d like it. Everyone in the gallery is blown away by it.”

  “I’m not everyone! If you had any idea who I am, you’d know this is the last thing I’d want. Go back to your party and leave me alone.”

  As Flick turned, Elijah’s hand reached out and brushed her arm. Before she had time to process her actions, she had him pinned up against a bus shelter, one arm pressed against his throat and the other drawn back, ready to strike him. She let go just as quickly, ashamed and flustered.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked, his disbelieving eyes glaring into hers.

  And for the briefest of moments, Flick desperately wanted to answer. But for the safety of all three of them, she held back.

  “You’ve ruined everything,” she snapped. “Why couldn’t you have used someone else’s face? Grace, or one of the countless other women who’d be desperate to sit for you?”

  “Because they don’t possess your depth. This installation represents all the versions of you, the ones I witness every day and the ones you hide.”

  “Elijah, you shouldn’t have left me so vulnerable.”

  “Then tell me who you are and stop keeping secrets from me.”

  Flick let out a sharp laugh. “Secrets? Let’s talk about secrets, shall we? Tell me how much money you earned off the back of the London murder victims?” Elijah’s mouth opened but no words followed. “I know that you’re the artist responsible. I saw the early paintings hidden in your storeroom. You must have known what you did was wrong because you didn’t put your name to them. You didn’t even exhibit in Aldeburgh—isn’t that where all your work debuts? You exploited those poor women for financial gain. Haven’t their families been through enough without you piling on the misery?”

  Elijah’s face reddened as he shook his head. “The point was to separate the victims from the crime. And I didn’t put my name to it because this was about those women, not some celebrity artist who decided to paint them.”

  “Why not paint them as they were before they were killed? Not afterwards, all tortured and bloody.”

  “I’m aware it was a polarising subject matter but art is supposed to be provocative. And for the record, I didn’t earn a penny from it. The profits raised more than half a million pounds for a women’s refuge charity in Sussex. My mum and I spent a year living in a shelter when I was a kid,
trying to escape my violent dad. It made me feel like I was giving something back.”

  Now it was Flick’s turn to lose her footing. She hesitated but was unwilling to back down. “I just think there are better ways to make your point without glorifying what he did. We’re over, Elijah.”

  “So, what, that’s it? You’re going to use this as an excuse to walk away from us, just like that? It feels like you’re looking for a reason and this is a convenient one.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s yet another thing you’re keeping from me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that when it comes down to it, I don’t know the first thing about you, do I? Your family, your background, who you were before you arrived in Aldeburgh? Who are you, Flick? What don’t you want me to know?”

  It was as Flick turned away that she caught sight of it. A digital screen covering the length of a bus displayed her photograph with the words Wanted and Terrorist. She froze, desperately trying to make sense of it. Whoever had killed the others had found a way to expose her.

  She turned quickly to Elijah in the hope that he hadn’t spotted it. But as the bus pulled away, there were two more behind it with exactly the same display, and they grabbed his attention. As a puzzled expression took over his face, Flick became consumed by the need to tell him everything, have him hold her in his arms and hear that she was safe with him. Just as quickly, she reminded herself she was not that person anymore. She was a self-contained unit trained to look after herself.

  “Jesus,” he gasped, but before he could say anything else, Flick took a deep breath, dropped to her knees, and turned to face a group of men crossing the road. Her sudden scream was piercing.

  “Help me, please, help me!” she yelled, and pretended to be crawling away. She shouted for help again, partially obscuring her face with her hand in case they too might recognise her. Instead, the concerned strangers sprang into action and rushed in her direction, one helping her to her feet as she counted five others rounding up and circling a perplexed Elijah. “He was trying to abduct me,” she sobbed. “Get him away from me.”

  Willing to take her word over his without question, they hurled abuse and punches at Elijah while the woman he loved ran away from him and towards another new beginning.

  CHAPTER 79

  CHARLIE, MANCHESTER

  Charlie had some fast decisions to make.

  The giant digital billboards containing his image that were illuminating so many city-centre buildings had forced him to abandon his plans to hide in plain sight. Instead, he would concentrate on making his way to a locker inside the People’s History Museum. There, he could pick up a backpack he’d left on a previous trip that contained basic weapons, body armour, a camouflage tent, another burner mobile phone, and maps. Repurchasing such essential items would involve visits to different shops and leave him remaining exposed for longer.

  From the museum, he would sprint to Alexandra Park. The former Victorian landscaped greenery was now hidden under a patchwork quilt of canvas tents housing immigrants who’d flocked to the UK before it had shut its borders a year earlier. Even slum dwellers in sections of India’s poverty-stricken Kolkata had a better quality of life than those consigned to this quarter. But Charlie reckoned that once under the cover of his own tent, he might remain safe until nightfall at least.

  He pulled up the collar of the discarded coat he’d grabbed from the warehouse so it covered his chin and mouth, but gagged at the odour of stale sweat and urine which had seeped into its threads. As he half walked, half jogged, it wasn’t just his own safety that preoccupied him. He agonised over poor Rosemary. The one saving grace of this whole sorry mess was that he hadn’t emailed her his photograph so she wouldn’t know who her Match really was. She would think she’d been stood up but not by Britain’s most wanted man. It might have been the lesser of two evils but it didn’t stop him from feeling as if someone had reached into his chest and was squeezing his heart.

  Charlie kept his head down until he reached Shudehill, a road behind Arndale. From here and at his current pace, he estimated he could be at the museum within five minutes. Without thinking, he made the mistake of looking directly at a passing mum with a child in a pushchair. Only a few footsteps later, he heard her shriek: “That’s the terrorist! That’s him!”

  Without turning, Charlie began to sprint, weaving his way in and out of people and streets, crossing roads and forcing cars into emergency stops. But the more he ran, the more attention he was drawing to himself and he heard footsteps and loud voices chasing him. If he could maintain his pace through another handful of streets, he could hide in a less redeveloped area somewhere by the river Irwell until the pack lost his scent.

  But without warning, a side tackle lifted him off his feet and into the air. As he landed, Charlie heard and felt the crack that shattered his collarbone and wrist. The side of his head made a dull thud as he hit the concrete. He felt no physical pain, but it disorientated him. He looked up as the first of many punches began to rain down upon his face and body. And soon the grey sky above him blackened as the growing crowd blocked out the clouds.

  “Don’t kill him, there’s a reward of half a million,” someone argued.

  “Don’t fucking care,” yelled another voice. “Terrorist scum don’t deserve to live.”

  The breaking of his nose was swiftly followed by short, sharp kicks to his head before his dental implants dislodged and hit the back of his throat. And once fists collided with his eyes, it became almost impossible to see. He struggled to breathe with each kick to the stomach and ribs, yet despite all this, Charlie was able to think with clarity. He was sure that he was about to die.

  This is karma for what I did to my friends and to Milo, he thought. It’s everything I deserve for wanting something more. I’m sorry, Rosemary. I’m going to die like I’ve lived: hurting everyone I care for.

  Charlie’s left arm felt as if it was about to be wrenched from its socket and his ankle dislocated as those who wanted a share of the reward battled against those who wanted him dead. Some grabbed at him, pulling him back and forth until he felt he might split in two.

  The sudden loud blast of a car horn was followed by the screeching of tyres and the yelling of panicked voices. Charlie just about caught the darkness lifting until only one shadow remained.

  “Get away from him,” a voice ordered, then Charlie flinched at the unmistakable sound of gunfire and panicked footsteps running away. “Get up!” it continued, but he didn’t register that the demand was directed at him until he felt his arm being yanked. “We don’t have much time.” Before he knew it, another bullet was fired, followed by more yelling. Suddenly he was being dragged along the street, then propped up and pushed face first upon the seat of a vehicle. He used the little strength he had left in his legs until he was completely inside and heard the doors shut.

  “I told you I didn’t want your help,” he gasped, but his protests were ignored.

  “Drive us to the M62,” his rescuer continued. “Override speed limits.”

  As the autonomous vehicle pulled away from the murderous mob, Charlie heard the banging and clattering of hurled objects bouncing off the bodywork.

  “I said I didn’t need your help!” Charlie repeated. His missing front teeth gave him a lisp. He tried to sit upright. “What happened? Why was I exposed? You could have got me killed.”

  “Open your eyes.”

  “Do they look as if they’re going to open?” Charlie snapped. “They’re fucked like the rest of me.”

  A rustling sound and the opening of a packet was followed by two cool compresses settling on his lids. Charlie blinked slowly until the face of the person who had saved his life came into focus. Their expression was impassive, as if waiting for his reaction before they said anything else.

  “It’s you!”
he said. “I thought you were dead?”

  CHAPTER 80

  EMILIA

  Emilia processed Charlie’s reaction to her and tried to keep her response unemotional.

  “You recognise me?” she challenged. A bloodied Charlie squinted at her through slits for eyelids. “Who told you I was dead?”

  “It’s in the data up here.” He tapped the crown of his head. “So how and why are you bringing me back to them?”

  Her body itched with anticipation. She desperately wanted to keep him believing that she knew what he was referring to. It might have been shock or adrenaline but Charlie’s thought processes were moving quickly, flip-flopping from one conversation to the next.

  “It was the burner phone that gave me away, wasn’t it?” he continued. “You picked up on that crowd’s concentration of a mobile tower usage, used an IMSI-catcher to get everyone’s numbers and messages, and through a process of elimination, you isolated mine.”

  She nodded.

  “I bloody knew it. Then you sent a drone to see exactly where I was.”

  Again, Emilia agreed. “Before we go any further, Charlie, I need you to tell me who you think I am and why you believed me to be dead,” she said.

  Charlie appeared aggrieved by the request. “Are you kidding? If it wasn’t for you people exposing me, I wouldn’t be in this clusterfuck.”

  “It’s just a precaution. I can get you to safety once you tell me what I need to know.”

  Beneath both fresh and drying blood, Emilia thought she saw Charlie’s face pale, as if something were slowly awakening. “What make of car is this?”

  “Um, an Audi, I think.”

  He looked out of the window to the bonnet. “A grey Audi,” he said. “Because the people who called my phone said they were sending a Mercedes for me.”