The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  ‘I don’t honestly know. We can’t find anything that connects the victims. They appear to be random.’

  ‘No, if he is confident enough to state the exact time, there is nothing random about this.’

  ‘I agree. But Karen, we’re totally in the dark here.’

  ‘Have any witnesses come forward at all?’

  ‘None, it’s like this guy is a ghost.’

  I assumed Howard was at the station, as the sound of Rawlinson barking came over the line.

  ‘Shit, I gotta go. I know you’re not in on this, and I get it, I really do. I hate that I’m going to ask this. But I need you.’

  ‘Howard, please—’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything but let that brilliant mind of yours tick over. If you get any ideas, send me a message, and I’ll follow it up. The office today is like the blind leading the blind.’

  I hesitated. It wasn’t good for me to be thinking of anything other than feeling better, but I owed Howard so much. And if I was honest, after seeing this second video, knowing the sick bastard was going to play his Game again, I knew I’d think of little else.

  ‘OK. I’ll message if I get any ideas.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Hey, Howard. Be careful. This feels…’

  ‘Yeah, it does.’

  The line went dead.

  Howard said there were no witnesses, but someone must have seen something. Then it came to me, maybe someone had.

  The girl at the underpass near the Chinese.

  I messaged Howard, giving him that lead. He messaged back instantly saying he would get on it.

  Putting on the radio and turning the volume up so loud the small speaker rattled, I got myself showered and dressed for my appointment with Shauna.

  Chapter Seventeen

  10.04 a.m.

  Eight hours and eleven minutes until the next Game

  ‘Shall we?’ Shauna asked as her door swung open. I smiled – or tried to – as I got up and made my way into her office. Forty-eight hours ago, being in this room triggered the first panic attack of my life. I was anxious about it happening again. I closed her office door behind me, and the air felt thinner, each breath difficult and sticky.

  ‘Morning, Karen. Sorry to have kept you waiting. How are you today?’ Shauna asked as she moved towards her desk.

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘Please, take a seat.’

  I did as Shauna said, and again examined the space for a moment.

  ‘So where should we start?’ I said, jumping straight in.

  ‘You seem eager to talk about this today.’

  ‘I am. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been allowed to work. I’m anxious to get back to it.’

  ‘Anxious?’

  Shit, wrong word.

  ‘Keen, I’m keen to get back to work. I love my job and I’m finding it hard being at home so much; I don’t know how to fill my time.’

  ‘I guess a lot of your identity is being a police officer?’

  ‘It is.’ I nodded, slightly spooked that she had said something I had recently thought.

  ‘But it’s not just that, is it? It’s more than your identity. You need to be back at work for other reasons.’

  I hesitated. ‘What other reasons?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  She was trying to tease out a confession that I was eager to finish our session, because I couldn’t deal with it. That was the irony. I knew deep down that I wasn’t ready to go back to work, but until I was at work, I didn’t think I would feel OK. She also knew I had to prove I was still a good copper. She would have read my file. She would know that twelve months ago, I was a DCI, busted down to a DI after the Daniel Lynch case. That caused enough controversy, some still thinking I was bent for it. Now, since the Grayson James arrest, it looked conclusive that I was. I needed to prove to everyone – to myself – I could still police.

  ‘Nope, I just want to return to duty. I miss my job. I miss my work friends, the camaraderie,’ I said, hoping she bought it.

  ‘Have you thought about a holiday, perhaps time away?’

  ‘You mean go away whilst they investigate me?’ I smiled wryly. ‘My partner works in a school. No chance in term time.’

  ‘I see,’ Shauna said, grabbing a folder from the desk behind her. ‘So if you want to jump back in…? As I recall, two days ago we started to discuss the morning of the incident.’

  A flash of memory jumped into my mind. The sound when I took Grayson James to the floor. Crack. I pushed it down, cleared my voice.

  ‘On the morning of the 23rd of January, Detective Howard Carlson and I arrived at the residence of Grayson James. We knocked, declaring who we were, and the door opened. The suspect—’

  ‘Karen, could we use his name. It will help.’

  ‘Grayson James tried to run, and we entered the property to arrest him. There was an altercation and force was needed to suppress him. The incident was documented on my bodycam, and as far as I can tell, I followed procedures to the letter, as I had done many times in my career. It should have been a routine arrest.’

  Saying the last part felt untrue, if I was honest; I wasn’t sure if I had followed procedure. I wasn’t sure if I handled him wrongly – the whole situation wrongly.

  ‘Thank you for sharing that, Karen. I really mean that, it mustn’t be easy. But as I said, I’m not investigating the incident. I’ve read the police report, I know what happened. I want to know what you were thinking. How you felt after. These sessions are for you to say what will help you to deal with that day.’

  ‘There isn’t anything to deal with. I don’t regret the decision to restrain Grayson James,’ I said, impressed with how credible I sounded. ‘He was attacking my partner; he was trying to get through the property into the kitchen. I had to assume he was going to try to cause further harm.’

  ‘And after?’

  I paused. ‘After, when we realised what had happened, DS Carlson began to administer CPR while I called for medical help.’

  Shauna didn’t reply but waited for me to continue. ‘The first responder was on the scene within four minutes and they took over from DS Carlson in trying to resuscitate Grayson James. He was taken to Peterborough District Hospital and pronounced dead shortly after.’

  ‘Yes,’ Shauna said sympathetically. ‘How did that make you feel?’

  I almost blurted out that it made me feel guilty. But wouldn’t that be an admission? ‘Shit,’ I eventually said.

  As Shauna began to talk about the grieving process, my phone buzzed in my pocket, distracting me from what she was saying. It might be Howard; it might be important. They might have had a break. I knew I couldn’t check. If I made excuses, again, I would only be back here every day and this thing would never end. And I needed it to end. I needed to close this chapter and try and move on: two weeks living like this was two weeks too long.

  ‘I miss work, I miss helping people.’

  ‘I understand that. I’d miss it too if it were me.’

  ‘Have you always worked in this field?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely, it’s all I ever wanted to do.’

  ‘I’m the same, I’ve only ever wanted to be a copper. Is your job hard?’

  ‘At times, yes.’

  ‘Do you ever have to deal with things you don’t want to?’

  ‘Again, at times.’

  ‘As a copper, we get a lot of that. The worst bit, the bit that I lose sleep over, is when a kid is involved. I once attended a car accident where a newborn died.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘It’s the worst thing anyone could ever see. I didn’t sleep for weeks after that. Like all things, skin gets thicker, the mind gets more robust. A kid’s death would haunt me forever, when not much else will.’

  ‘You’re referring to Grayson James?’

  ‘What happened was terrible, and obviously, I wish it hadn’t ended that way.’

  ‘So you’re telling me you’re OK?
’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said honestly. ‘But when they determine I didn’t do anything wrong, when I can return to work and the shadow of doubt has been lifted, then, then I will be OK.’

  ‘You don’t feel regret? Guilt?’

  ‘Should I?’

  Yes, you should.

  ‘No,’ Shauna said, smiling.

  ‘I am sorry that Grayson James died. But I couldn’t have handled the situation in any other way,’ I said, almost believing myself. It didn’t matter what I believed. It mattered what the woman in front of me believed. I needed everyone to believe I did no wrong, because if they did, I might. She held my eye, and just as I almost caved and avoided her stare, she nodded.

  ‘It seems that being at work will help you deal with this.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it will. I need to keep my mind busy.’

  ‘Or bury your head in the sand perhaps?’

  I must have looked shocked, as Shauna followed it up with an apology.

  ‘It sounds blunt, I know, but you strike me as a woman who doesn’t appreciate nonsense.’

  ‘I’m not burying my head,’ I protested.

  ‘Karen, you’ve worked on some of the most difficult and complex cases this city has ever had. Over the years, you’ve been involved in some pretty intense stuff. It’s going to leave a mark. How do you deal with these cases? Emotionally?’

  ‘It’s my job, I just do it.’

  ‘Don’t you think it could be seen as unhealthy, to not have a release from it? I know I wouldn’t cope. You say your skin has thickened, but that doesn’t mean it’s impenetrable.’

  ‘You learn to adapt.’

  Shauna didn’t respond but nodded. ‘Karen, in your file I read about the case where you were stripped of your rank.’

  ‘What about it?’ I said, feeling defensive.

  ‘It says your judgement was called into question.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘With evidence of you and the suspect meeting and conversing, when he was wanted for questioning.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t investigating me?’ I said.

  ‘I’m not, I’ve read the whole report. I’m trying to make you see that you are not as thick-skinned as you say you are. That man, that case, got to you on a personal level.’

  ‘He was innocent.’

  ‘And yet you still didn’t bring him in.’

  ‘Which is why I was stripped of my rank.’

  ‘But I feel that because of that, and now Grayson James, you have developed an unhealthy relationship with work.’

  ‘The only thing that’s unhealthy is that I’m not allowed to do my job.’

  ‘I see. In part, I agree, sometimes to work through trauma, you have to be physically moving.’

  ‘I am living under a cloud right now. I need to be back at work, it will help me feel better.’

  ‘OK. Karen, I’m not saying our sessions have finished, there are other things I’d like us to have time to talk about. I will however file my report to the IOPC, stating that, in my opinion, if possible you should be allowed to return back to restricted duty. In the meantime we can regularly meet, and we can re-assess. How does that sound?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘But it’s not up to me. I will voice my opinion that you are physically and psychologically fit to return to work. However…’

  ‘I know, it’s in the hands of the IOPC. Do you know how long these things take?’ I asked.

  ‘It varies. It can be quite slow. But hopefully it will be over very soon. I understand what a difficult time this must be.’

  Thanking Shauna, I got up to leave, and she told me to make an appointment for a week from today, but also reminded me that I could call her whenever, and she would get back to me as soon as she could. I thanked her again and left, messaging Sam, as promised, to tell her what was said. She responded saying she was happy, and I should do a spot of shopping to celebrate. It wasn’t the worst idea, so I walked around Cambridge again, taking in its architecture, had some lunch and window-shopped. And for a couple of blissful hours, I was just another shopper, another person going about their day. I wasn’t thinking of Grayson James or my failing career – and when I did wobble, and tried to watch those awful videos, thankfully they had been removed.

  Feeling better for my leisurely afternoon, I headed for the train station, and for home. As I walked, I saw a message from Howard sent half an hour earlier, and the good feeling had gone.

  Karen, we can’t find the girl.

  Chapter Eighteen

  2.14 p.m.

  Six hours one minute until the next Game

  Back in Peterborough, I began my three-mile walk home. I opted to not put my headphones in, instead I focused on birds calling to each other and traffic that floated on the breeze, and to think, like Howard had asked. Halfway home, I stopped at the local supermarket and picked up some things to make a nice dinner, as I promised. Making dinner and helping around the house were small gestures but they gave me a sense of accomplishment.

  If I turned left from the shops, I would get home in the next ten minutes or so. Right would take me longer, but it would also take me past the Chinese restaurant in Fletton. I knew I had no business turning right, but I felt, maybe – just maybe – the girl would be there. Several of the homeless people in the community mingled with the public in the mornings, but in the afternoons they retreated to wherever they would be as warm and safe as possible. It was still relatively early in the day, but the sun would be setting in the next couple of hours. She might be back now. So I turned right and took the long way home.

  Ten minutes later, and I’d reached the Chinese restaurant where the first Game happened. It had been just under two days since the incident, and already life was back to normal. The police officer posted outside was gone, but the Chinese still wasn’t open for business. A crude, hand-drawn sign said it was closed for the foreseeable future. I assumed it might never open again. Blocking the front door at floor level were a few flowers, acting as a makeshift shrine.

  Approaching the premises, I cupped my hands and pressed them to the glass to see inside. If you didn’t know someone had brutally killed another here you’d just think it was too early in the day for it to be open.

  I counted the steps to the spot where I had seen the girl the other night, hoping to see her again. If she was there, I wouldn’t confront her but message Howard to let him know she was back so he could come and question her.

  Seventy-seven steps later, I was staring at the concrete of the underpass and it occurred to me that probably somewhere around here The Host had disappeared after his crime. It was dark, secluded. It would be easy to slip into the night without being seen. Because if you didn’t know that people slept on the ledge, you’d never notice them. Looking up the steep bank to the ledge, I saw the same cardboard boxes I had noticed two nights ago. I scrambled up. The boxes where there, but the girl was gone, as was the sleeping bag. It felt clear to me she had moved on.

  ‘Fuck sake,’ I whispered, rubbing my eyes. I tried to picture her again, see if her face was one I would know if I happened to spot it from afar. I could hear her voice telling me to fuck off, but the image was of Charlie, the poor man I’d known at the start of my career. I found it unnerving; I usually didn’t forget a face.

  I slid down the concrete bank, looking back seventy-seven steps, towards the scene of the crime. Surely, someone had seen something. There appeared to be no clear motive, no explanations, no eyewitness accounts. As far as I knew, anyway. The police would have been out, canvassing door-to-door to try to find common threads to pull together. But from the way Howard had spoken this morning, it looked like no one had seen a thing. It seemed random, two innocent people pitted against one another in a gladiatorial battle to the death, and then a second battle in a different part of the city. The crime wasn’t random, not to him, it meant something, it had to.

  I’d turned to leave when something caught my eye. It was small, but it stood o
ut amongst the graffiti on the concrete bank of the bridge. Someone had spray-painted an old steam train. Stepping closer, I touched it – it was dry, but definitely more recent than its surrounding designs. Leaning in, I could smell the paint, faint, but there. The train could only be a few days old, at most. It was probably nothing; still, I took my phone out of my coat pocket, and snapped a photograph of it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Host

  2.35 p.m.

  Five hours and forty minutes until the next Game

  Being invisible suited him. Sitting on a long bench, surrounded by people who were deep in conversation, he listened as they discussed the latest attack and barely registered his existence. It was interesting to hear most naïvely state they couldn’t take a life as they discussed what they would do if they had to play. They spoke of defiance, but there was the unmistakable sound of fear in their words.

  Of course you can kill, we are all capable of killing, if we had to make a choice.

  To his surprise and delight, a teenager sitting opposite asked him directly what he would do. He was tempted to say he wouldn’t talk to someone with a mouth full of of food, but didn’t.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, and the conversation swept on to the next person and the next and the next. Despite the videos being removed from most online platforms, he could see his Games played out on no fewer than five phones from where he was sitting. Some screens were filled with him speaking mechanically, some were of the first Game, some of the Second. And all who watched did so without blinking. The terror was palpable.

  Before he started to play, he did wonder how his videos would be received. Now, it was clear: they were feared. People didn’t draw together in good times, they were all too selfish to share – only when the chips were down, when the fear was tangible did people communicate properly and close ranks.

  And with what was yet to come, fear would bind them all.

  Chapter Twenty

  3.51 p.m.