The Game

by Luca Veste

  Then, the voice again. Moving towards her. It set her back on edge, straining with everything she had, a noise escaping her throat. Instantly cut off before it could echo around her.

  ‘Shhh,’ the voice said, and it was somehow worse now. As if it had been merely playing with her until that point. ‘Stay calm and nothing will happen to you.’

  She couldn’t place an accent or even something familiar about it. He sounded young, but she wasn’t sure if that was even right.

  Natasha bucked and moved as she felt his breath again. His presence over her. Rocked back and forward, trying to do something. She needed to speak to him. Tell him he’d made a mistake.

  ‘It’ll all be okay soon,’ the voice said, something inhuman and perverse about the way he spoke. ‘He’s coming for you and it’ll all be over. The white knight, coming to save you. Riding in and saving the day. Only, we both know that won’t be the end of it.’

  Natasha gritted her teeth and tried even harder to move, but it was useless.

  ‘There’s going to be a new game,’ the voice said, moving away now. His footsteps grew softer and quieter, as he crawled backwards. ‘That’s going to be your punishment for trying to stop us. You’ll be nothing but a shell by the time I’ve shown you the way.’

  * * *

  More time passed.

  She exhausted herself trying to escape. The smell and dampness of the air was suffocating. A fog she couldn’t see, could almost feel.

  There was no way out.

  As the minutes ticked by on some unseen clock, the anger rose inside her. The silence became restrictive and mind-numbing.

  Then, the presence came back. Hauled her to her feet and guided her on unsteady legs. When she fell over for the second time, she was lifted with ease. She struggled against it, but it was useless. Firm, painful hands pressed into her flesh, making her scream soundlessly with pain.

  Seconds later, she could feel the atmosphere shift; cold air swirled around her as she realised she was outside. Not for long. Not long enough. The sounds turning again.

  She wanted to cry, but gritted her teeth against her tears. She had to be strong. She had to find a way out of whatever situation she was in.

  Her mind was blank, as the movement beneath her changed.

  This was it.

  The end.

  Whatever that might be.

  Forty-Nine

  Mark was diving on John before he had the chance to react. His hands gripping his jacket below his shoulders and lifting the lad to his feet, with a great effort that Mark wasn’t aware of. He came willingly, dragged into standing, a small whelp of surprise escaping from his mouth.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Mark shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls around them. ‘What have you done to her?’

  ‘I thought you knew,’ John replied, a whimper in reaction to Mark. ‘I thought…’

  ‘Where is she?’ Mark moved the boy across the room with ease, running on autopilot now. He shoved him against the bedroom door, something falling to the floor as he did so. He was barely aware of noise from the stairs beyond, almost all his attention on John and his sweating face. ‘Start talking now.’ He slammed him into the door again, to make his point.

  ‘I don’t know, I really don’t,’ John replied, blubbering over his words now. ‘Please, let me go, you’re hurting me.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll really start hurting you, okay? What did you do?’

  Outside the door, he heard a small voice. John’s mum, coming up to check what was going on. Mark didn’t care. He could only think of what was being said to him. Natasha.

  ‘They saw you with her over the past few days,’ John said, choking on every syllable. The faint aroma of urine drifted up from him. ‘They… they thought you were on to us. What we were doing. He had to be told.’

  ‘Who did?’ Mark replied, stepping back slightly in disgust. ‘Who is he? Tell me what you know. Tell me where he is.’

  ‘I… I…’

  On the door behind them, there was a knock. Quiet at first, then becoming more insistent. Mark grabbed John harder, moving him back across the room, and sitting him down on the bed. ‘Get in contact with him now. Find out where he is. You’d best hope nothing has happened to her.’

  Mark moved back towards the door, ran a hand through his hair, and then opened the door slightly ajar. He slipped out, without allowing John’s mum to see inside. She was standing on the landing, stepping back as Mark came out. Her hands were on her hips now, more front than when he’d arrived.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ she said, indignant, voice shaky. ‘I demand to know what you’re doing to my son.’

  ‘I’m afraid John is in a bit of trouble,’ Mark replied, looking down at the woman and keeping his voice straight, free of the emotion that was coursing through his veins. ‘I need you to understand this is serious, but if he cooperates, we might be able to get him out of this. Can you do me a favour?’

  John’s mum stammered out a reply, clearly reeling from what he’d said. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘He’ll explain everything soon, but first, you need to do something for me. Okay? Don’t worry. Hopefully this can all be sorted out quickly.’

  She didn’t answer at first, opening and closing her mouth, looking back down the stairs towards the front door. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘I want you to call this number,’ Mark said, taking out a pen and his notebook. He wrote down the number and tore off the page. He handed it over to her. ‘This is my direct superior’s number. His name is Detective Sergeant Stuart Cavanagh. In five minutes, ring him, and say Detective Constable Mark Flynn told you to call about your son. Tell him he has information about Emily Burns, Joanna Carter and Holly Edwards.’

  John’s mum thrust her hand to her mouth. ‘The dead girl…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mark said, swallowing his disgust and placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘He’s going to be okay. Don’t let him leave if I have to go before they get here. Just explain everything to DS Cavanagh and he’ll do the rest, okay?’

  Mark could see she wasn’t really taking in what he was saying. ‘John’s going to be fine,’ he lied, knowing that there was nothing further from the truth. If he could get it out of him, he had no doubt that he’d break down completely after being properly arrested. This was coming to an end. ‘He’s just made a few silly mistakes that we need to sort out.’

  ‘Did he…’

  ‘No, he didn’t kill them,’ Mark said, when it became clear she couldn’t finish the sentence. ‘But he knows what happened. He’s got involved in something he shouldn’t have and now it’s all gone too far to ignore.’ The lies fell out of his mouth without him even thinking about them. ‘It’s going to be okay, but he needs to help the detectives who are working on the case… alongside me. He needs to tell them everything, otherwise it won’t end well for him. Now, go downstairs, and John will follow you down shortly.’

  Mark waited to see if she would simply accept his instructions, knowing she would. Anywhere else in the city, he would expect an argument, but he knew this area. The people who were from these parts were too scared to open their mouths or disobey.

  That’s what he hoped. He couldn’t talk to DS Cavanagh himself – he didn’t want to give him the chance to talk him out of what he was going to do next.

  She walked off down the stairs and Mark moved back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. ‘Well?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you contacted him?’

  John was choking on his sobs now, but the laptop was open beside him. ‘I sent him a message, asking where he’s taken Holly. I thought that would be the same place as your girlfriend.’

  ‘Her name’s Natasha and you’d best hope nothing has happened to her.’

  ‘Right, right, okay, please…’

  Mark let go of John’s jaw, wondering at what point he’d grabbed it. He was running on nothing but instinct now, making decisions b
efore he’d had a chance to consider them. ‘What happens, after you send him a message? Will he respond?’

  ‘He should do. He always does. He talked me through everything that would happen, then shared it on the forum. He told us exactly what happened with the others.’

  ‘I don’t understand how he gets them to do the things,’ Mark said, motioning a whole lot of nothing with his hands. ‘We saw one of them on CCTV – she was doing something in a lift…’

  ‘Joanna,’ John cut in, then clamped a hand over his mouth. Mark was beginning to think John would be the worst person to turn to in a crisis. He crumpled under pressure far too easily.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Mark replied, swiping a hand across his own face, the sound of rough stubble bristling into his ear. ‘If you just wanted them out of your life, if it was just about getting rid of them, then I don’t understand the rest of it. Why make them do all the rest? Why not just go after them elsewhere?’

  ‘Because it has to be that way,’ John said, as if he were explaining something which didn’t really need an explanation. As if it were normal. ‘The rest… it’s just for fun. To see if they can be made to do anything they’re asked to do. It’s proper punishment.’

  Mark rolled his eyes, trying to keep his composure. He winced as he bit into his lip too hard. ‘I think it’s more about making them look disturbed. You see that video of Joanna, doing her lift thing, and it looks like bizarre behaviour. It’s designed to make people willing to accept she would commit suicide. It’s a way of whoever this guy is covering his tracks.’

  Which made it stranger that he was willing to snatch Natasha when they had no real idea of his existence anyway. An innocent man was on the verge of being charged with Emily’s murder and Joanna’s death was being treated as suicide.

  Would he know that?

  ‘It’s the ritual,’ John mumbled, but Mark could see his resolve on that idea was beginning to crumble as well. Given enough time, John could probably be convinced of anything.

  Mark didn’t think John believed what he was saying anymore. It had probably sounded right, back when it was just words on a screen, anonymity giving him a barrier between what was real and what wasn’t. Now, a detective was standing in his bedroom, and he was confronted with the fact that what he’d set in motion had had consequences.

  And all Mark could think about was Natasha and whether she would be just another victim.

  What have you done?

  John’s head snapped towards the laptop as a low pinging sound came from the speakers.

  ‘Is that him?’ Mark said, moving closer, as John snatched up the computer.

  ‘Yes, he’s got back to me,’ John said, motioning with his head towards the screen. ‘I think he’s told me where she is. He’ll tell me the truth. He always has.’

  ‘Right, yeah,’ Mark replied, moving him to one side, so he could sit in front of the laptop and read the screen. There was a familiar-looking message box in the middle, but everything surrounding it was alien to him. The numbers in the address bar, the format of the site. It was all seemingly designed to stop people accidentally stumbling across it. He read the reply.

  There was an address and one line of text and that was it. Nothing else to the message.

  HE HAS TO COME ALONE OR SHE DIES.

  Mark didn’t think twice, pulling out his phone and typing into the search bar of his Maps app. It was a fair distance away, but he thought he could be there within a couple of hours.

  ‘Stay here, John,’ Mark said, standing up and closing the laptop over. Considered again, and then picked it up, placing it under his arm. ‘They’ll be on their way here now and you’re best telling them exactly what you’ve told me. Try and escape – I’ll track you down personally and that time I won’t be so nice. Understand?’

  John nodded his head, collapsing in on himself now. Disgusting, sobbing sounds fought their way from between the hands covering his face. ‘I’m… I’m sorry. I… I don’t want to go to prison. I… I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Tell them everything, John,’ Mark repeated, making his way towards the bedroom door. ‘That’s your only hope. I’ll tell you this, though – those girls are dead because of you and your friends. You’re going to have to accept that. Those girls were murdered and it’s your fault.’

  Mark didn’t wait to hear anymore, making his way out of the bedroom and down the stairs. John’s mum was standing in the doorway to the living room, staring at him, shock plastered across her features.

  ‘Call them,’ Mark said, reaching for the front door. ‘Now. You understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, nodding her head for extra effect. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Ask your son. He needs to speak to the detectives and tell them everything.’ Mark went to leave, then turned back. ‘Tell them I’ll be in touch soon, but I have to do something first.’

  He left then, opening the front door and jogging to his car. He threw the laptop into the backseat, then jumped in. He plugged his phone into the charger, then set up the navigation on the map, and started driving.

  The message had been clear. Go alone, or she dies. It made the decision an easy one. He knew he should have ignored it – got in touch with Cavanagh and told him what was happening.

  The only way to make sure nothing happened to her was to do it this way. It had to be just him.

  He just hoped he was right and it wasn’t already too late.

  Fifty

  Mark’s phone buzzed in its cradle, but he ignored it. He was on his own again now, had to be. The voice on the sat nav guided him out of the city and further north. That was all he was interested in now. The destination. The rest of it could wait. He could worry about everything else later.

  First, he had to get to Natasha.

  Along the journey, his brain worked overtime. Doubt creeping in the entire time.

  He continued to ignore it.

  The day had passed in a blur. The sun had started disappearing an hour or so earlier, winter nights drawing in closer. He was barely more than sixty miles out of Liverpool, but travelling up the M6 had brought home the differences quickly. The countryside on both sides of the motorway – the Yorkshire Dales and Lake District only a little further up the road on either side. The city of Liverpool a distant memory.

  * * *

  ‘Your destination is two hundred yards away.’

  He pulled his phone out of the cradle, switching off the map after a glance to make sure he knew where he was going, then locked it and placed it in his pocket. Then thought again and pulled it out to check it.

  A whole heap of missed calls, a series of text messages.

  They were all from the station, the texts from DS Cavanagh, all becoming increasingly fraught.

  Get in touch, now.

  You need to tell us what you’re doing.

  We want to help you! Get back to us!

  What have you done?

  Where are you????

  You’re not in trouble Mark. We need to hear your side of the story. You need to contact us.

  He imagined by now that John had started talking. Probably making wild claims and accusations. Put together with Natasha disappearing overnight, they would become suspicious and wonder what he was doing. If someone had noticed Natasha had gone at all.

  It was why John’s laptop was currently sitting in his car. He didn’t want to leave it there and give him a chance to erase every bit of evidence linking him to what had happened.

  Mark considered ringing in and telling them everything, but there was another part of him louder and more insistent. Everything told him he needed to do this alone. That it was the only way to make sure she was safe.

  If they came mob-handed, it would mean whoever was doing all of this would feel cornered. Trapped. Like an ensnared animal, they would panic and be liable to do anything.

  He needed to do this alone.

  Mark pocketed the phone and shook off his seat belt. Outside, the sky had turned bl
ack, clear and cold. He looked at the time, then got out of the car.

  Up ahead, there were only bushes lining the narrow road. He stuck to the side, walking carefully and quickly. By now, he’d memorised the address. Only it wasn’t really an address, he understood now. It was a road name, which thankfully the sat nav had recognised, but he imagined most people wouldn’t even know this place existed. He was in an area that didn’t see many visitors at all, he guessed. A narrow dirt track of a road, which led to the countryside beyond, away from civilisation.

  A lock-up garage, number 2A.

  The bushes came to an abrupt end, low-level garages appearing out of the ether almost. They were run-down, some of the doors rusted and overgrown with plants and other vegetation. Overhanging trees bordered the land, their branches drooping and touching the roofs of the small structures. They didn’t look in use, abandoned and waiting to be levelled, so a new thing could take their place. Mark guessed this hadn’t been a spur of the moment choice.

  In the ten minutes since he’d got out of the car – longer since he’d driven down the back road – he hadn’t heard a single engine. A single signifier of other life, that someone else knew this place existed. It was deserted, as if he had stepped into another world.

  The thought made his heart beat a little faster.

  He strained to hear any sort of noise – a cry or plea for release. He imagined Natasha wouldn’t have come quietly, but there was nothing but the whisper of the wind, rippling through the branches and greenery that surrounded him.

  The numbers on the garage doors were faded and peeling. They started at 14, going down sequentially. Soon, he was standing outside 2A, wishing he had a plan. He’d concentrated so hard on getting there that he hadn’t thought about what he would actually do when he arrived.

  In the middle of the door was a handle, flat and cold to the touch. The wind picked up, whipping across him and sending a shiver down his spine. He reached out and tried it, pushing in the centre lock and pulling it.

  It was locked.