The Game

by Luca Veste

  He looked around for something, anything, that might give him some inspiration for what to do next. All the garages were connected, so there was no side window for access. He walked around, hoping for a way in at the back. The terrain was worse here, overgrown brambles and countryside trying to reclaim the land. When he finally made it to the back, he only found a brick wall.

  There was no way in other than via the door.

  He walked back round, considering his next move. He grabbed the handle and started banging against the door.

  ‘Is there anyone in there?’

  His voice sounded odd in the silence. Filled with eagerness and fear. Now he was there, he realised how woefully out of his depth he was. He listened at the door, wondering if he’d already scared whoever was inside enough to do something stupid. He couldn’t hear anything.

  ‘Look, I just want to talk to you,’ he tried, hoping this time he sounded a little more authoritative. In his pocket, his phone buzzed again, insistent against his leg. ‘I just want to make sure she’s okay.’

  Still no answer.

  Mark stepped back, trying to work out what his next move should be. He was lost, his brain insisting he do something, but not giving him a clue what that something should be. The buildings were old, under his feet the ground dirty and unkempt.

  His phone buzzed again. He took it from his pocket, resigning himself to the fact he couldn’t do this alone. That he’d have to call it in and try to explain what he was doing. The screen illuminated in the darkness, a withheld number calling him.

  Mark swiped a finger across the screen, answering the call. Knowing who it was.

  ‘THANK YOU FOR COMING. PLEASE COME INSIDE. THE KEY IS UNDER THE MAT. WIPE YOUR FEET BEFORE ENTERING. SHE’S WAITING FOR YOU.’

  The call ended, the line going dead before Mark had a chance to say anything. The voice had been robotic – non-human – with no hint of tone about it at all. He took the phone from his ear, as the phone went to black. He checked the call log, but all that showed was PRIVATE NUMBER, which meant he couldn’t call it back.

  He checked over his shoulder, staring into the darkness of the fields in the distance. Looking for something that didn’t fit with the rest of what he could see. He needn’t have bothered. He could barely see further than the road.

  Mark had that feeling of someone watching him again. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on what the voice had said.

  He moved quickly without further thought, dropping to his knees and swiping his hands at the foot of the door. There was no mat, of course, but he was hoping there was something that he could lay his hands on. He couldn’t see what he was doing, considered walking back to the car and finding his torch, before remembering his phone had one of its own.

  Mark switched it on and began sweeping the floor, looking for something that didn’t belong. He found it quickly – a triangular structure, propped up against the brick to the side of the door. Unless you were looking for it, you wouldn’t notice it, blending into the background, grass growing up and running up its side to mask it further. He grabbed it, moving it aside, underneath a key.

  He picked it up, scrambling to his feet and holding his phone in one hand, slid it into the lock on the handle. It took a few seconds before he worked out how to open it up: pushing it in and then twisting the entire handle. Mark heard something click, then the door was rising up, the bottom half extending towards his legs. He stepped back, grasped the bottom of the door and pushed it up.

  The smell hit him first.

  It wasn’t a foreign aroma. He’d experienced it before, several times. Part of his brain snapped into focus and reminded him what it was, while the other part tried to ignore his senses.

  He could smell death.

  Mark lowered his head, the phone in his hand now pointing the light towards the floor. He was too late. His legs turned to jelly, as a million butterflies took flight inside his abdomen.

  He was too damn late.

  A guttural noise rumbled in the back of his throat. The phone in his hand digging into his palms, as sound escaped him. A moan, a scream, a roar.

  How was he too late?

  Mark blinked into the present, his hands on his knees, a small spotlight shining into the floor behind him. His breaths came in short bursts, loud and filled with anger.

  He straightened up, moving the phone in his hand to the wall nearest to him. He didn’t want to see by the light of the torch on his phone; he would have to get too close for that, he thought. He didn’t want to disturb the scene any more than he already had.

  A dirty white light switch was on the brick. Mark moved his sleeve down his hand and carefully pressed it. A noise came from overhead, a few clinks and flashes of dim light, then a small strip of fluorescent illuminated the garage.

  She was at the far wall.

  She had been discarded, it seemed. Dragged along the floor, then placed against the wall. Her head lolled forwards, her hair covering her face. Her trousers had been torn apart, barely holding on to her hips, even as she was lying on them.

  She wasn’t long-haired.

  She wasn’t tall.

  She wasn’t Natasha.

  The flash of relief was replaced quickly with shame. It still meant there was someone else dead in the garage and the likelihood was that it was Holly Edwards. He realised he didn’t know anything about her. Who she was, where she came from. All he knew was what John Redwood had told him and he didn’t want to take his word on anything.

  He didn’t know what to do next. Natasha was still missing and whoever had killed Holly Edwards knew he was there.

  Had known he was coming.

  He turned around quickly, expecting a shadow to be standing in the opening, but it was as he’d left it. The phone in his hand started buzzing again.

  Mark lifted it to his ear, not having to look at the caller ID to know who was ringing him.

  The robotic voice came over the speaker, into his ear.

  ‘YOU’RE GOING TO PLAY A GAME.’

  Fifty-One

  ‘Where is she?’

  Mark spat the words down the phone, but the voice remained robotic, emotionless.

  ‘YOU’RE GOING TO PLAY THE GAME. PLAY OUR GAME OR NATASHA DIES. IT’S THAT SIMPLE. I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT.’

  ‘Talk to me properly,’ Mark said, walking towards the doorway and stepping back out into the road. ‘Come out and face me.’

  There was only static on the line, the call still open but no response coming back.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘WE ARE EVERYWHERE, MARK. YOU WANTED TO KNOW WHAT THE GAME WAS AND NOW YOU HAVE YOUR CHANCE. ONLY YOUR GAME WILL BE DIFFERENT.’

  ‘How?’ Mark said, looking all around him, hoping to see a glint of something in his surroundings. A movement, a figure. Anything that would give him a chance.

  ‘YOU ARE GOING TO GIVE YOUR LIFE FOR HERS. IT IS VERY SIMPLE.’

  Mark shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you. Show me her first.’

  ‘THAT WILL NOT HAPPEN, MARK. YOU NEED TO HEAR THE RULES NOW. YOU DO NOT HAVE MUCH TIME. THEY WILL BE HERE VERY SOON. YOUR FIRST LEVEL IS APPROACHING. YOU NEED TO GET READY.’

  ‘You can’t make me kill myself,’ Mark said, wondering if he could actually do that, whether he could sacrifice his own life for someone else’s. He’d always thought he could; whether for a family member or someone he was protecting. Wasn’t that what he was doing with Natasha anyway? Wasn’t that why he was there, alone, trying to save the day?

  ‘THAT IS NOT THE GAME. YOU ARE GOING TO END IT. HER LIFE FOR YOURS.’

  Mark didn’t understand, a wave of tiredness washing over him suddenly. He didn’t want to be there anymore. He wanted to start over. Never hear the name Emily Burns again. Never hear about any damn game.

  He wanted it to be over.

  ‘WILL YOU ACCEPT?’

  ‘What are the rules?’ Mark said, hearing the resignation in his voice and being surprised by it. ‘How do I play?’

>   ‘IT IS VERY SIMPLE. THE GAME NEEDS A WINNER. YOU WILL BE THAT WINNER.’

  Mark wished for transparency. For normalcy. Anything that wasn’t cryptic bullshit. ‘You’re going to have to give me more than that. Or just come out and face me like a man. Oh, sorry, I forgot what you’re all like. Whiny little boys who can’t take rejection. A woman doesn’t like me, so I have to kill her.’

  There was silence over the phone, then a scream. It lingered for a second or two, then was cut off and silence fell again.

  ‘Was that…’

  ‘I WILL KILL HER NOW, MARK. NO GAME. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?’

  Mark gritted his teeth against the words that threatened to spill from his mouth. His jaw tensed, sharp pain in his knuckles, as he dragged a fist along the rough brick of the garages.

  ‘ARE YOU READY TO PLAY?’

  He thought about trying to find her instead. With no leads, no idea where she could be.

  ‘Let me think,’ Mark said quickly, trying to work out a way out of this. He could speak to Cavanagh, tell him the truth – what they were trying to make him do. He might believe him. They would see Natasha was missing and that could be enough, he thought.

  ‘WE WILL KNOW,’ the voice said, as if he was reading his mind. ‘IF THEY COME LOOKING FOR US, WE WILL KNOW YOU LIED. THAT YOU ARE NOT PLAYING.’

  Mark couldn’t think straight. The only thought in his mind was of Natasha, alone and scared. That was enough. ‘Fine,’ Mark managed to say, the word being forced out through a barely open mouth.

  ‘THEN I WILL TELL YOU THE RULES.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘FIRST LEVEL. YOU ARE GOING TO CONFESS.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous…’

  ‘YOU WILL TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THEM ALL. EVERY SINGLE ONE. YOU WILL ADMIT TO KILLING THEM ALL YOURSELF. THAT IS THE FIRST LEVEL.’

  ‘You’re crazy if you think this’ll work,’ Mark said, but he was already turning it over in his mind. Seeing how it would stick. Whether he could pull it off.

  How far he was willing to go.

  ‘IT WILL WORK IF YOU WANT NATASHA TO LIVE. THAT IS THE GAME. IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO PLAY, I WILL END IT ALL NOW AND SHE WILL DIE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

  ‘I can’t do this…’

  ‘IS THAT YOUR DECISION?’

  ‘No,’ Mark said, loud enough that his voice echoed into the darkness. The wind seemed to pick up at the sound of it; whipping up around him once more to provide its own noise in response to his. ‘You want me to take the blame? That’s not going to work.’

  ‘YOU ARE A DETECTIVE. YOU WILL FIGURE THAT OUT, I AM SURE. THIS IS ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW.’

  Mark heard the robotic voice list the names, over and over, repeated them back when asked. He knew three of them fine.

  Joanna Carter, Emily Burns, Holly Edwards.

  It took a few more minutes before he could repeat the other five back to the voice without pausing. They would disappear quickly, he imagined, if he didn’t keep turning them over in his mind.

  The methods of death took a little longer.

  Thankfully, most of the deaths had been quite similar. Joanna Carter’s death had not been the first to be framed as a suicide. Similarly, it seemed Emily Burns had been destined to bleed to death in that yard. Mark wondered for a second what had transpired. How she had fought for her life.

  He shook the thought from his head and tried to concentrate on the information being recited to him.

  Mark wanted to run. Tell someone what was going on. The loss of control angered and scared him.

  He was going to take responsibility for it all, probably so the real killer could make his escape. Even if they didn’t believe him, his career would be over. And he would be shouting into the wind, while he was trying to tell them the truth. His life would be over.

  He wasn’t coming back from this.

  Mark couldn’t think of another way out.

  ‘ONE MORE TIME.’

  ‘Steven Hallet, hammer to back of his head.’

  His first kill, but his first mistake. It obviously hadn’t looked like suicide, so Mark imagined the death was still unexplained. ‘M6, near the junction thirty-two services, grass verge.’

  ‘GOOD. NEXT.’

  Mark went through them all in turn, only pausing on one or two before finding the right answer. When he had them all down, he tried to talk again. ‘You have to know this won’t work. They’ll work out who I am and it all ends, do you understand?’

  ‘NOT MY PROBLEM.’

  ‘There has to be something else I can do. Something else you want.’

  ‘NO.’

  Mark looked back and forth yet again. Still, there was nothing out there. He was alone, but he could feel eyes watching him. Out there, in the shadows, hidden from view. Watching to see what he would do. Watching to see if he would go through with his task.

  ‘If they find out who I am – and they will – this will all fail.’

  ‘I DON’T CARE—’

  ‘You have to,’ Mark said quickly, shouting into the darkness. Hoping he could be heard by whoever was watching him. Out there. ‘I can’t do this. It won’t work.’

  ‘THEN THE GAME IS OVER AND SHE IS DEAD.’

  ‘No, listen, I spoke to John Redwood. The one who gave you Holly Edwards’s name. He is going to the police and telling them everything…’

  ‘JOHN KNOWS NOTHING. HE DIDN’T GO TO THE POLICE, HE IS CURRENTLY SITTING AT HOME. NO ONE KNOWS YOU ARE HERE OR WHAT YOU KNOW. THEY WILL HOLD YOU FOR TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AT LEAST. LONGER IF YOU CAN MAKE THEM BELIEVE YOU. TWENTY-FOUR HOURS IS THE MINIMUM TIME. IF YOU FAIL, SHE DIES.’

  ‘His mum called them. They were coming.’

  ‘ENOUGH. PLAY THE GAME OR SHE DIES. HAND YOURSELF OVER TO THEM. TELL THEM WHAT YOU DID. SHE CAN DIE NOW.’

  ‘No, wait… I’ll play. I just need time. I need the rules to change a little. They can hold me for twenty-four hours without charge. If I make it a full day, will that be enough? They won’t charge me.’

  ‘YOU DO NOT HAVE MUCH TIME NOW. THEY HAVE BEEN TOLD YOU ARE HERE. THEY WILL BE COMING SOON. GOODBYE AND GOOD LUCK.’

  The call ended then, Mark still talking into nothingness. Wanting a little more time, more information. He placed the phone back in his pocket and began reciting the names. The methods of their deaths. He needed to keep them searching for that twenty-four hours.

  Mark took off down the road, covering the two hundred yards to his car quickly. He didn’t pause, jumping inside and turning on the engine. He drove past the open garage, not looking at the dead girl inside, a pang of guilt hitting him as he did so. Kept driving, until he was further past it. Eventually, a minute or so further down the road, he came to a clearing in the field. More outhouses.

  It would have to do.

  If they found his car near the scene, it would be over before it had begun. They would run the number plate, discover his real name, and he would be carted off to a mental institution before the next day’s sunrise, he guessed.

  He left the keys under one of the wheel arches and jogged back to the garage. The air was still and silent. The wind had died down around him, in the time it had taken him to hear all the names of the people who had been killed.

  He just needed to make it to a full day. He could do that.

  ‘Steven Hallet…’

  Mark heard sirens in the distance, coming closer to him. He walked back into the garage, pacing up and down. Trying to remember every single name, chanting them over and over to himself. ‘Steven Hallet… Stacey Green… Melissa Carmichael…’

  Over and over, until he had the names and how they had died lodged in his head. He couldn’t mess this up, not now. It would take only a momentary lapse and it would be all over. He needed to save Natasha.

  That was all he could think of, in that moment. That his actions would keep her alive.

  He ignored the rational part of his brain, even if it was currently making more sense than the rest of it. He had to concentrate
on the names. The methods of death. His story.

  The Game.

  The sirens sounded closer, drifting on the wind towards him. He had seconds left before they arrived and he would have to start telling his story.

  They would arrest him. Place him in handcuffs and put him in a cell. Within a matter of hours, they would start interviewing him.

  He wondered how long it would take for them to identify him. He wouldn’t be able to give his own name, not at the beginning. He would be anonymous for as long as he possibly could. Long enough for them to believe his story.

  The sirens were close now.

  ‘Steven Hallet… motorway… Stacey Green…’

  He could hear engines outside on the road. Mark lifted his head and opened his eyes. Red and blue lights streaked across the darkness out on the road. He heard doors slamming closed.

  Mark dropped to his knees. Holly Edwards lay motionless behind him. He placed his hands behind his head.

  ‘I’m in here,’ he said, his voice bouncing off the walls. ‘I did it.’

  NOW

  Fifty-Two

  The Third Interview

  Tuesday 30th October

  Interview Room One

  Lancaster Police Station – sixty miles from Liverpool City Centre

  ‘We know who you really are.’

  The words hung in the air between them. He kept his face as straight as possible, trying to work out how much time he had left.

  ‘Does it matter who I am? I did this. You have me. Charge me.’

  ‘Under what name, exactly?’ DI Hicks said, and now there was a look of pity on his face. ‘We could charge you as a John Doe, I suppose, but we both know that wouldn’t last long. CPS would have a fit.’

  ‘You have enough,’ Mark said, feeling the sweat running down the back of his neck. He imagined what he looked like to them now. Too eager, too willing.

  Too scared.

  ‘We had enough just finding you there, probably,’ DI Hicks replied, leaning back in his chair, his hands folded over his stomach. ‘Even if you’d given us some story about just turning up and finding her there, I doubt it would have been enough. Not for a civilian. But, then, we’re not dealing with that here, are we?’