The Game

by Luca Veste

  ‘I don’t know,’ Charlie said, scratching his head, dandruff flakes floating in the air and onto his shoulders. ‘Just making comments and that. He was coming round all the time because Mum thinks I needed some “male influence”. Like that drug-dealing idiot could teach me anything about being a man.’

  ‘You don’t get on with him then?’

  ‘Could you? He would come in here, sit there and just run down everything I like. It was stupid. He’s stupid. Just a Neanderthal wanker, who thinks everything can be solved with a fight or a fuck. I don’t need him. Never did. I’ve got my own thing going on.’

  Mark followed Charlie’s glance towards a lifeless computer screen on a small desk. Dreaded to think about what lurked on that hard drive. ‘So when he failed to make an impact on you, are you saying he tried to help Emily?’

  A snort of derision. ‘Help is probably too strong a word. Like I said, he had two ways of solving a problem – he wasn’t going to fight her…’

  Mark waited for him to say something more, but he didn’t finish the thought. ‘You have to be very clear with me here, Charlie. This is important. Do you know anything about possible abuse or otherwise between Rich and Emily?’

  Charlie averted his eyes, picking a stray thread on his black jeans. ‘I can’t give you anything. It’s just the way they were with each other, the last few months. The past year, to be honest. He would go in her room and stay in there for ages. I tried listening, but couldn’t hear anything. When he came out, she’d be quiet for hours. To be fair, it was the only time we didn’t hear her whining about something or other.’

  ‘Do you think he… did something to her?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Charlie said, leaning back in the gaming chair now, hands interlocked over his skinny midriff. ‘He could probably get his pick out there. Big stedhead-looking dealer? There’s a load of sluts out there who love that kind of thing. See them all the time. Especially round here. Skanky bitches, you know what I mean? No idea what they did for all that time in her room, though.’

  Mark stared at him for a few seconds, fighting the urge to slap him. ‘I don’t think that’s the best language to use, Charlie. Especially given what’s happened to your sister.’

  Charlie rolled his eyes at him. ‘Honestly, are you one of those white knight idiots? Social justice warrior and all that? You need to wake up. Women are taking over the world and we’re just sitting back and letting them. They’ve changed the rules and we’re losing. We need to start winning, take back control. Get back to being alphas again. I’ve lived my whole life surrounded by women. I know them inside out. I can’t wait to get out of here and away from them. Find a proper woman. Am I sad Emily is dead? A bit. I suppose she was my sister. Thing is, I bet she wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if it was me. She barely even spoke to me in the last couple of years. Didn’t even know I existed. I can’t wait to get away from them all.’

  ‘You’re a teenager, Charlie,’ Mark said, choosing his words carefully. He’s just lost his sister. ‘Plenty of time to experience life a little more.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I plan on doing,’ Charlie replied, sniffing and standing up in one motion. ‘Is that it then? Are we done?’

  Mark was too shocked to do anything other than watch as the boy walked to the doorway and turned, waiting for him to follow. He hadn’t been expecting Charlie to talk all that much, but it seemed he’d been waiting for someone to engage him in conversation. Although the situation wasn’t any clearer to Mark.

  He walked out of the room, unable to decide on the worst thing he’d heard. The diatribe Charlie had given him, or the suspicions he had about his own uncle and sister.

  It took him a second to realise it was definitely the latter.

  Mark walked down the stairs ahead of Charlie, remembering the uniforms who were in the house. Wondering how they’d dealt with Rich. Whether two of them would have been enough to handle the big man.

  He paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking back down the hallway towards the back garden. He could see a flash of fluorescent, so made a decision to take Charlie down to his mum and sister at the station himself.

  Let them deal with the huge lummox. He was someone else’s problem for the time being.

  Thirty-Six

  Mark wasn’t sure what more could be found, but it had been decided a thorough search of the house was the next port of call. Julie had given permission, which Mark guessed was probably done through a fugue state. He’d left Charlie with his mum and sister, hoping he’d go back to being the quiet teenager he usually was, rather than the one he’d discovered in the comfort of his bedroom.

  Something he’d said was gnawing away at him. A memory which refused to make itself known. One of those things that would annoy him while he was trying to sleep. Whenever that would be.

  * * *

  A makeshift investigation team had been put together to search the house, which now suddenly seemed the best chance they had to find any more evidence towards Rich’s possible involvement. Mark had been tagged on, DS Cavanagh the obvious lead. A couple of other DCs and a uniform or three. It was quite the party. He’d considered leaving them to it, going back to the office and continuing his search for other answers. But he wanted to know what could be hiding in the house. Each previous search had been done with the family over their shoulders. This would be different. No questions, no awkwardness. Just a blank canvas, ready to be filled with anything Emily may have left behind.

  The house wasn’t a crime scene – yet – which meant he didn’t have to don the obligatory white forensic suit he hated so much. Still, if they found anything, that would change in an instant. Mark held back, allowing the others to move ahead of him, waiting to see the rooms they would decide to search first.

  ‘Okay, here’s what the plan is,’ Cavanagh said, speaking to the team in the living room. ‘Ash and Jill, you take the downstairs rooms. Go through everything you can, remove all furniture away from walls, check the back of cupboards, you know the score. Me and Hale will take the upstairs rooms.’

  ‘And what’ll Mark be doing?’ Ash said, a DC Mark had never really got a handle on. Ash was a hard-eyed, hard-headed bloke. ‘Sticking him on post duty?’

  Mark looked at DS Cavanagh, ignoring the sniggering that floated his way from one of the others in the room.

  ‘He’s been in and out of here for days,’ DS Cavanagh said, not rising to the bait, it seemed. ‘He knows the layout. I want him checking places he couldn’t easily do with the family here.’

  Mark gave the DS a short nod, watching as they scuttled off, wondering how long it would take before they realised the likelihood of them finding anything of any use was zilch. Not without tearing up the carpets and hoping for secret plans. Maybe evidence that Emily had been killed there and then moved twenty minutes down the road. That would be for the CSIs to sort out, of course, but it would be much better if they could find something at least.

  He followed DS Cavanagh out of the living room and up the stairs. He glanced in the other two bedrooms before finding what he was looking for in the bathroom.

  ‘Who still has carpet in their bathrooms these days,’ Mark said to himself, barely audible in the small room. A faded white-coloured bath took up most of the space. There were various bath products perched on a small shelf which ran across the width of the bathtub. A couple of bottles of cheap shampoo and conditioner took up the space at the end. The windowsill held a beaker and a toothbrush holder. Toilet roll sat on top of the cistern, a broken roll holder lying on the floor. He could smell wet, that damp aroma he hated so much.

  Above him was what he had been looking for.

  A square insert into the ceiling, just low enough for him to reach with his fingertips, if he stood on tiptoes. The attic door was scuffed on one side, a latch which looked rusty on the other. Mark looked around, considered standing on the bathtub and reaching across for entry, but thought better of it.

  He left the bathroom, peeking into rooms for
something to stand on for easier access, headed downstairs and returned with a chair from the kitchen. He stood on top of it, testing to see if he was going to be tall enough now. Just about. Mark unlatched the hook on the attic door and lifted up the panel. Snapped on a pair of white gloves and retrieved the torch he’d left on the side of the bathroom sink. Stuck it in his trouser pocket, and lifted himself back up onto the chair.

  He should have looked for a stepladder.

  Mark gripped each side of the opening, lifting himself up with difficulty, his arms barely supporting his weight. It took a few seconds longer than his body wished, before he finally got some upward momentum and was inside the roof space.

  He removed the torch from his pocket and switched it on, illuminating the darkness only slightly. Mark waited a few seconds for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. He could see outlines of shapes, but the space wasn’t exactly vast. He imagined walking into something and wondered how soon he could get out of there.

  He had wanted to do this earlier, but felt it wouldn’t have been right. To ask to go up into an attic – it would have been odd. But every house search he’d been involved in, he’d always ended up there eventually. Not once had he ever found anything, but it had become something he had to do now. He’d wanted to search it the first day he’d arrived, but had managed to ignore the gnawing voice in his head.

  Mark wasn’t exactly afraid of the dark, but he didn’t welcome it. The torch in his hand was helping a little, but he could picture himself crashing down into a bedroom. Standing between the wooden beams under his feet would do it. Only soft insulation and the thickness of a ceiling keeping him from falling.

  He probably should have let them know what he was doing, but he imagined they’d hear him soon enough. He was the second-largest member of the team who’d been assembled, after DS Cavanagh, which meant it was arguably a mistake that he’d chosen this job for himself. He was almost bent over double, the roof above him much lower than he’d anticipated. He was up there now though, so he may as well keep going, he thought.

  Mark pointed the torch downwards so he could see the beams properly in the darkness, carefully placing one foot down on the wood to make sure it supported his weight. He got himself into a rhythm. Pointing the torch at his feet, moving a couple of steps, then moving the light around him.

  The air was cooler up there. Bitter, biting into his face, as he moved further forward. A draught blew from an unseen source. The smell of damp and abandonment. Mark didn’t think they used the space for anything. In other houses, he’d found all kinds of discarded things. Old boxes, Christmas trees… Once he’d found a bag full of broken marionette dolls and nearly screamed when he saw their eyes glinting in the darkness.

  The attic space opened up a little more, so he could see how empty it was up there. Yellowed insulation was between each of the wooden beams he was standing on, some of it carefully laid in place, some rising over the beams. He stopped for a second, moving the torchlight around, to see if he could spot anything of interest.

  Mark moved again, steadying himself as he almost lost his balance. He looked to his left where he’d placed his hand, lifted the light and shone it at the brick which stood there. It was in good condition for the most part, not crumbling around him as he’d imagined.

  As he moved the light away, his attention was grabbed by something. A gap in the floor below him. Mark crouched down towards it, shifting his feet slowly along the wooden beam as he did so. It took him a minute to make his way there, crossing slowly and painfully, as his legs began to protest at the movement.

  It was as if a part of the insulation had been removed purposely, a perfect gap in the floor. He shone the torch around the space, seeing it was next to where the chimney stack was, jutting out of the wall to the right. The air seemed colder the further he got into the attic. He shivered and almost lost his balance again, steadying himself once more. He breathed a few times, then pointed the torch at the gap.

  There was something snagged in the wood there.

  An envelope. He picked it up carefully, shining his torch across the front of it.

  Written across it, in block capital letters, were the words THE GAME.

  Mark shifted his position and swept his torch across the envelope. As he did so, something caused him to look down and see what had been at his feet the entire time. He could suddenly hear the voices that had been muffled until then, clearly echoing up at him.

  A hole, which he’d uncovered accidentally. The piece of wood that had covered it, now lying a few inches away.

  He was above Emily’s bedroom.

  Thirty-Seven

  Mark was sitting down on the chair in the bathroom, wishing he’d left it for someone else to check. That he had ignored the part of his mind that had screamed to look and instead searched under beds like a normal detective.

  His hands were shaking slightly, the white forensic gloves still adorning his hands, as he read the words printed on paper inside the envelope. He swallowed back saliva and fear.

  And excitement. Tried to keep it all inside him.

  He stopped reading, looking up at the attic opening and wondering how or why Emily would have gone up there to leave behind something like this. How long it had been up there for, how long she had planned to leave this, waiting for someone to discover it.

  Mark blinked down at the page again and read it through.

  This is for anyone who happens to find it.

  They’re making me play.

  I don’t want to do it.

  They’re calling it a game, but I don’t think it’s anything like that. I have to do what they say and not question it at all. If I don’t, they’ll tell everyone what I’ve done.

  It doesn’t matter what I think anymore. I’ve lost all control.

  I don’t think this will ever be found. I hid it well enough. Could be that it’ll stay here forever – never being read by another person. That might be apt. It’s not like anyone listened to me before. Why should it change now? Anyway, I wanted to leave something behind, just in case. I have no idea if this will ever be needed, but it’s my security blanket now.

  Things have been weird between us for ages. It’s like she never accepted my apology. Like it meant nothing to her.

  I didn’t mean for her to take it that seriously. I was doing it to everyone and she deserved the same treatment. All of them treated me like shit and she was no different. Not once did she help me. Not once did she make sure I was okay. She was happy doing her own thing, living her amazing life, while I was drowning. She knew how sad I was and just ignored it. She’s my sister and she didn’t help me at all.

  She could have put me first for once. She could have helped me. We could have been friends.

  She wasn’t interested in that. It’s all about her. That’s how she’s always been.

  I shouldn’t have done it, though.

  I shouldn’t have done any of it.

  I’m not sorry. Not really. They did worse to me.

  And she was the same as them.

  But I know what I did to her was the worst.

  This isn’t a suicide letter. I would never do that. I just can’t let them win.

  That’s why I have to play the game.

  Level One was easy enough.

  Then it became harder.

  Then they wanted blood.

  I’m not writing down what I did. Not the thing that is making me play.

  I have to prove I’ve learned my lesson. Then, no one will know what I’ve done.

  I think she was the one who brought this on me. I can’t be sure, but I heard her say it. The words.

  The Game.

  She could be the one making me play.

  I know after this, I’ll never do anything like it again. This is a fresh start.

  A way out without it being the end of everything.

  That’s what I’ve always wanted. Another chance at being someone else. A new start.

  I can’t trust her
. She was never my sister. Not really. We share the same blood, we come from the same place. But she’s never really cared about me.

  I used to think she hated me, but it was always worse than that.

  She just didn’t care about me in the slightest. Never ever. She didn’t think about me, didn’t even know I was in pain. She felt nothing for me at all. I was just someone who shared a house with her. She never spoke to me about real stuff. About feelings, about our lives. She simply didn’t care one bit about me.

  That’s worse than hate. At least with hate, there’s an emotion. People have hated me and I hated them right back.

  She’s supposed to be more than that. More than them.

  The Voice tries to tell me that I just have to play through The Game, and that’s it. I play the game and it’s all over. We all move on. But the doubt is still there, despite the voice.

  Am I The Game?

  If she has done this to me, then I will never forgive her. I will spend the rest of my life making sure she never forgets what she did.

  She will pay.

  She can’t be trusted. It’s all about her.

  Uncle Rich thinks I could be “someone”. Reckons I have something about me. Maybe I have.

  Maybe that would be enough.

  Maybe that would be the end.

  I know I did wrong. I know that’s why I have to play The Game. I’ve nearly completed it now. I think I’m close to the final level.

  If something goes wrong, I’ll know it was her.

  And this will be waiting for me. This proof. That I always knew she would get payback.

  I read to escape. It taught me to take chances. Every story has a beginning, a middle and an end. I thought my end would be soon. I thought that I could never survive what has happened to me the last few years.

  If she takes hope away from me, I’ll show her what pain is.

  This is the beginning of my real story.

  The end of The Game. The last time I have to play by their rules. They’ll get rid of all the evidence of what I did, no one will ever find out. People will forget everything I’ve done in the past few weeks and I can go back to normal.