The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  I sighed, busying myself confirming the order so I didn’t have to meet my wife’s eye. ‘The therapist insisted that being with her isn’t about assessing if I acted lawfully at the time of the arrest. She just wants to support me and make sure I’m fine when I’m allowed back to work.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘But really, of course she is assessing. Accident or not, the inquest will want to know how I was when I went into Grayson James’s house that morning. Whether I was in my right mind, whether I acted lawfully.’

  ‘Of course you acted lawfully.’

  ‘I know that. It’s just a game, one I have to play, unfortunately,’ I said, sounding as if it was OK when it was anything but. ‘Right. Pizza is ordered, give me your car keys, I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘You sure you don’t mind going out?’

  ‘Not at all, you look beat.’

  ‘Thanks, babe.’

  I knew I looked a state in my faded grey jogging bottoms, but really, on a night like this, I didn’t care. I’d only be nipping in to grab the pizza and then next door to the offie to grab a bottle of wine. The likelihood of seeing someone I knew was slim, and after the day I’d had, I wasn’t sure I’d care if I did. Throwing on a coat and pushing my feet into trainers, I kissed Sam and headed out the door.

  The First Game

  This was it.

  Six months of planning, of researching and waiting was over. The Game was about to begin. As he prepared, he listened to his song, over and over on a loop. There was no doubt in his mind what he was doing was right. And, following the two successful experiments he had conducted this week, both concluding in the same manner, he had no doubt that what he was doing would work. He would host The Game in a way that ensured the people he had chosen would play.

  It had started to rain, but he didn’t mind if it kept the majority of people from venturing out tonight. He was confident it would be quiet anyway, because it had been quiet every Sunday evening for the last few months. Soon, he would see Timothy Smart approach, cross the road and walk in. He would order two chow meins, one chicken, one tofu, for him and his wife. He would then walk back to his car, parked close to the church and away from the main road, then drive the ten or so minutes home. His kids would be in bed, that was why he came late. Timothy Smart was a hands-on father. The Host had seen him read a bedtime story to his youngest several times.

  His Player would order his meal tonight from Michelle Reed, the woman who ran the Chinese for the ageing owners, her parents. She would be alone, because soon she would be closing, and she always sent home the young man who worked Sundays half an hour before they closed. He knew all this, because, like most people, Timothy Smart and Michelle Reed were creatures of habit; Timothy went to the same takeaway at the same time every week, Michelle was always there, alone. And they were so wrapped up in their own lives that neither had noticed him watching.

  As The Host waited for his Player to arrive, he took out his notebook and read the page where he had listed the items he would need for The Game. His bag was packed, it had been ready for days. Above his checklist was a statement, one he had read to himself countless times, a truth he wanted everyone to know. Written in capital letters and underlined, the one sentence gave him direction when he was lost.

  THERE ARE NO GOOD PEOPLE, ONLY THOSE WHO HAVE YET TO DO WRONG.

  Timothy’s car drove by, he indicated and parked as usual. A few moments later, a car door slammed shut. His Player was on his way. The Host put the book back in his bag beside the motorbike helmet he would soon wear. Timothy rounded the corner, only metres from where he sat. As he passed, Timothy smiled at him, and he smiled back.

  He had no idea.

  Timothy crossed the road and entered the Chinese. The Host wanted to follow straight away to begin The Game. He wanted to revel in the glory of it, but he knew, despite the growing excitement for what would come, he had to wait. He watched as his Player ordered, exchanged pleasantries with Michelle Reed, saying something that made her throw her head back laughing, and with a satisfied expression on his face, Timothy Smart sat down on the window ledge, and began to look at his phone. Checking his watch, The Host put on his motorbike helmet, crossed the road, and stepped into the Chinese restaurant.

  At first, neither Timothy nor Michelle noticed him, but as he locked the door, the snap caught their attention.

  ‘Excuse me. What are you doing? Unlock my door, please!’ Michelle Reed said, angry for the intrusion. ‘Could you remove your helmet too.’

  The Host didn’t move or comment, but watched through the tinted visor. They looked at him quizzically, then, as the seconds passed, their expression changed to looks of worry.

  ‘Come on, mate. Take it off,’ Timothy echoed, getting to his feet. He didn’t stand to intimidate the stranger, far from it, he stood because he was afraid. And The Host was enjoying every moment.

  The Host didn’t comply, instead he spoke, the voice distorter inside his helmet hiding his true tones as it bounced off the white cracked tiles.

  ‘Timothy Smart, Michelle Reed.’

  Both Timothy and Michelle physically recoiled at hearing their names.

  ‘What is this?’ Michelle said.

  ‘This evening, the three of us are going to play a little Game. I am your Host, and you two are The Players.’

  Chapter Four

  8.11 p.m.

  There was something I loved about driving alone. The freedom of being behind the wheel and by yourself where no one could hear you sing or talk or rant. As I pulled out of our road, I turned the radio up on Sam’s Volvo, and changed the station from Radio 2 to Radio 1. To my delight, ‘Shake it Off’ by Taylor Swift was on. I didn’t tell anyone, except for Sam, that this song was a guilty pleasure of mine. However shit the day had been, I was driving – something I’d not done since I had to step down at work and forfeit the car – one of my favourite songs was on the radio, and shortly, I would be tucking into a pizza and having a glass of wine with Sam.

  Maybe, just maybe, it would all be OK.

  But no sooner had I had that thought, the face of Grayson James came into my mind. I had let my guard down, and my subconscious took advantage. His smile taunted me, the vile words aimed at me and Howard swam around my head, and then, that horrific noise I heard after I took him to the ground.

  Fuck.

  The traffic in front was drawing to a stop. I only just snapped out of my nightmare to brake in time and avoid running into the back of the car in front. The driver shot me an angry glance in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Sorry!’ I mouthed, holding up my hand to show I was accepting my mistake.

  Ahead of me, cars were doing three-point turns and heading back the way they’d come. Beyond them, several police cars blocked the road, and I could see two ambulances with blue lights flashing. It must be a major incident for this response.

  As each car in front edged forward, turned and drove away, I drew closer and closer to the cordon. I didn’t want to be seen – and I couldn’t look. The closed road, police cars, ambulances, it reminded me too much of what had happened with Grayson James. I felt my heart rate increase, my forehead prickle with sweat. I needed to leave. Much to the annoyance of the cars behind, I did my three-point manoeuvre even though it wasn’t my turn and drove away.

  Looking in my rear-view mirror, I saw Howard walk out from a Chinese takeaway. He pinched the bridge of his nose, something he did when he was stressed, although he didn’t stress easily. I watched him put his hands on his hips, look up to the sky, and when he was approached by another officer, he offered a kind hand on the younger copper’s shoulder.

  Whatever had happened, I got the feeling it wasn’t pleasant. If it weren’t for Grayson James, I’d be working the scene alongside him. I almost grabbed my phone to dial his number, but I stopped myself. We weren’t supposed to be in contact right now while the investigation was ongoing, even less so when he was at the scene of an incident. As hard as it was, I drove away an
d didn’t look back.

  Chapter Five

  The Host

  10.39 p.m.

  His hands were shaking. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins like molten lava, hot and dangerous and beautiful. Soon the world would start to learn what he had done, and what he could do. Soon he would become omnipresent, and his message would be delivered to all. The city, perhaps beyond, would live in fear, their actions and words controlled by it. Soon they would start to realise there was no such thing as good – and he couldn’t wait. He would be heard, and he would be understood.

  The Game had gone perfectly. It had begun.

  He searched on Facebook to see if any of the community pages he was a member of had posted anything. As he scrolled, he fiddled with pipe cleaners that were scattered all over his desk. Their bright yellows, pinks, reds, greens, whites and fluorescent oranges were the only real colour in his whole room, which was mainly shades of black, cream and grey.

  Absentminded, as he continued to search online for traces of his Game, he picked up two white ones, and without being consciously aware, bent them into the shape of a person. Only when he had finished did he notice what he had made. One arm was disproportionately longer than the other. He doctored the shoulder, giving it a hunch. It now looked a little like Timothy Smart, after his shoulder had been destroyed.

  But it wasn’t Timothy at all. The person he held was Michelle, because Timothy was gone. She had survived and would have to live with what had happened. He manipulated the pipe-cleaner person, deforming its hand. Bending its arm to emulate what Timothy had done to hers in The Game. Spinning in his chair, he placed it gently on a shelf, beside another pipe-cleaner figurine that had sat there alone for so long.

  Turning his attention back to the computer screen, he closed his Facebook page and looked on the local news websites. So far, there was no mention of what had happened tonight. In a way, he was glad, because he could still enjoy the anticipation of the moment when they began to talk. Right now, nobody knew what he’d started, and he fed on the power that came with that.

  He looked at the GoPro mounted on the top of his helmet and knew that uploading the footage from this evening would get everyone talking. The conversation would spread like wildfire throughout the country, globally even. But as much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t do it yet. He had to be patient because he knew that timing was everything. And whilst the police were scratching their heads, trying to work out what had happened to Michelle and Timothy, he would strike again.

  Unzipping his bag, he pulled out his notebook, a companion to him on this journey. He took a moment to read it. Page after page of details about his Game and his ever-growing list of potential Players. He had been thorough and the level of detail was impressive, even to him. At first, he tried to keep his information locked on his phone. But his phone didn’t allow him to deviate, be creative, have revelations. The notebook spoke to him, it shared ideas, it allowed evolution, and even though it came with the added risk of being accidentally left somewhere it could be seen, he wouldn’t have it any other way. It was his accomplice, his confidant. In a world that was all but lost to him, his notebook offered companionship.

  Picking up a pen, he ticked off Timothy Smart and Michelle Reed. Turning to the next page, he looked at the words concerning tomorrow: thoughts about his entrance into the building, the time he would strike, and his next two Players, of course.

  And once that was done, once the Second Game had concluded, only then would he share the truth with the world. And everything would change.

  Day 2

  4 February 2019

  Emily Curtis > Peterborough Free Discussion

  Hey all, does anyone have any idea what happened on Fletton High Street last night? The road is closed, and I could see lots of blue flashing lights? They were there for hours. I’ve looked on the news, and there are no reports yet…

  39 Comments

  Amanda Belkin

  Emily I was wondering the same thing? Watching this thread now.

  Jack Anderson

  I saw loads of police wearing those white overalls you see on CSI going in. Weird AF. Think someone died?

  Emily Curtis

  I wondered the same thing, Jack

  Jack Anderson

  There is nothing in the news yet…

  Marky Markson

  Maybe someone killed the owner. One less forenner…

  Emily Curtis

  Really, Marky?

  Marky Markson

  Yeah, fuck ’em.

  Johnny Ormo

  I’ve got a friend who works in the police, he says there was a fight of some kind. And Marky, don’t be that guy…

  Emily Curtis

  A fight?

  Marky Markson

  Well they shood all go back to they’re own country.

  Johnny Ormo

  This is their country, you dickhead. And Emily, yes, that’s what he told me.

  Emily Curtis

  Jesus, some fight.

  Johnny Ormo

  I moved to Peterborough ten years ago because it was quiet. But things like this, fights and racist attacks are becoming commonplace, aren’t they?

  Emily Curtis

  I know what you mean, Johnny. It’s like the streets aren’t safe anymore.

  Chapter Six

  5.17 a.m.

  I felt like I hadn’t slept at all, but I must have dozed off at some point as it was nearly dawn. Thankfully, Sam was snoring away to my right and blissfully unaware of my struggle. I couldn’t stop thinking about the therapy session, and the panic attack I suffered. I wasn’t used to feeling out of control like that. I kept seeing Grayson James flash into my mind’s eye, in the same way he had when I was driving – an unexpected and unwelcome visitor. And I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen in Fletton.

  Not because it was a crime scene. I seldom lost sleep over that anymore, and it was none of my concern. It was Howard I thought of, the slumped shoulders, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was unlike him to show something was wrong. He was an ex-soldier and even though he and I didn’t talk about his time in the army, I knew he’d served overseas, and I suspected that wherever he’d been posted, he’d seen terrible things. Howard was solid, even when things were really bad. And yet, despite not being able to see his face, I could tell he was shaken.

  Howard and I had worked on many cases together, some of which were truly horrific and difficult to forget. We’d been on the scene at bad traffic accidents and first responders to a flat where an occupant hadn’t been seen in days but a smell had made someone raise the alarm. We’d been to a house fire once where three people didn’t make it out. Even with the horrors we had seen, Howard kept his chin up, remained professional. But now it seemed that something terrible had happened and I couldn’t support him through it.

  Knowing I wouldn’t be able to switch off, I gently got out of bed so as not to disturb Sam and got dressed. I left the bedroom, pausing in the doorway to make sure she hadn’t noticed the disturbance, her gentle snoring remained steady and deep. I pulled the bedroom door too and tiptoed downstairs.

  As I put on my coat, I realised what I was doing. I was going back to Fletton. I felt compelled to have a look, hoping if I did, I would see there was nothing to worry about. Howard could have just have been having an off day. It was probably a routine crime scene and not the tragic, violent, horror story I had painted in my head. I’d just take a peek, that’s all, see it with my own eyes and be reassured it was fine. Besides, an early morning walk as the sun emerged over the horizon would make me feel calmer and hopefully, sleepy.

  Grabbing my phone and keys I wrapped up in my thick dark green scarf, donned a hat and some gloves and quietly stepped into the pre-dawn morning. The wind and rain that dominated yesterday had vanished, and today was calm but chilly. Beyond the row of houses on our street, I could just about make out a sliver of sunlight reflecting off the lazy winter clouds.

  It reminded me of early in my care
er, when I was first a PCSO. I joined in the October, which meant the first six months on the job consisted of dark, cold mornings. It was a joke with my sergeant at the time. She used to tell me I looked like death until around 10 a.m. But then, spring came, and I started to notice birdsong, the myriad of colours dawn presented, the stillness of this time of day, and I grew to love it. Howard was the same. We spoke of the stillness, the silence that didn’t exist at any other point. Night creatures held on to that silence deftly, as the fragile peace would soon be lost to traffic, and the chatter of children walking to school, radios blaring, dogs barking and the sirens in the distance. The orchestra of day.

  What they say about crime is true, it never stops. Never, but more often than not it seemed there was a brief interlude around this time. Howard and I would often sit in our police car with a cup of coffee with the window down, listening to the wind in the trees. We called it our time. No wonder people in the office thought we were having an affair, until, of course, they learned Howard is not my type.

  I wondered if he was still there, at the scene, or would he be at the station by now?

  It would take me about thirty minutes to walk to where I had seen Howard, and then after a quick look, I’d come home. There and back in just over an hour. Sam wouldn’t even know I’d gone. Even if she did, I’d tell her I couldn’t sleep and went for a quick walk. She knew I loved this time of day, and I’d not be lying, I’d just omit where I had walked to.

  After around twenty-five minutes, I was in Fletton, and up ahead, I could see the road was still closed. I tried not to read into it; if it had happened in the middle of the day, they would have rushed to get the road open and resume the illusion of normality. They could take all night if they wanted. There were several forensic police working, their white suits reflecting off the portable floodlights erected around the shop front.