The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  Three hours and twenty-four minutes until the next Game

  I was shocked to see Sam’s workbag slung over the banister as I walked through the front door. I wasn’t expecting her to be home before me.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘I’m in the kitchen.’

  Taking off my coat I walked through and joined her at the breakfast bar. She was seated, a glass of wine in her hand, staring at Bob, who was idly floating in his tank.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked, giving her a kiss.

  She didn’t respond straight away, instead a sad, resigned smile crossed her face. ‘Yeah, fine. Are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’m assuming you know about the videos?’

  ‘Yeah. Along with hundreds of kids.’

  ‘Is that why you’re home earlier than usual?’

  ‘The head thought it would be a good idea if everyone went home before it was dark.’

  ‘Probably best. Has it been a rough day?’ I asked, placing my arm around her shoulder. Sam took a long sip of her wine and sighed again, leaning her head against me. ‘It’s been quite the battle,’ she said quietly, before taking another sip. ‘All the kids have wanted to do is discuss the videos. We teachers were told explicitly not to talk about it, but when a fourteen-year-old asks you about what they have seen… what am I supposed to do? Ignore their anxiety? Pacify their fear? They’re right to be afraid; they are allowed to be anxious, Christ, I’m anxious.’

  ‘Hence the wine. Mind if I join you?’

  Sam got up and grabbed another glass, pouring me a healthy measure. Sitting down, we clinked glasses, and both took a good mouthful.

  ‘The questions about it have been tough, but that’s not what’s really troubled me.’

  ‘Sam, you don’t have to worry about being safe, I’d not let anything happen to you. You know that, right?’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s after everyone had seen it, I heard kids talking about what they would do. So many of them said they would kill.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it too. I guess everyone has. I don’t know what I would do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to kill; how would you ever be OK with that?’

  My stomach did a somersault as Grayson James came into my mind, and Sam saw. ‘Oh babe, fuck, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘No, it’s not, I didn’t even put it together, I really don’t see what happened with you in the same way.’

  ‘I don’t either,’ I lied. ‘So you couldn’t do it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I could.’

  ‘But then you’d die?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Sam said, another big mouthful of wine following. ‘This world…’ she murmured.

  ‘Kids will say they would without hesitation. It’s a huge question, and difficult to process the ramifications. Don’t judge them for it. They shouldn’t ever have to consider it,’ I said, giving her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.

  ‘It doesn’t feel real. I mean, how could anything like that happen here? It makes me so sad to think that so many children will lose their innocence seeing those videos.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ I reflected, trying to picture how I would have reacted if something like this had happened when I was young.

  ‘Someone from work must have mentioned it a bit last night when you went for a drink. Is he really going to do it again tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know. They are taking it seriously, although we didn’t talk about it much. Just established that the police don’t have anything to go on.’

  ‘And Howard, have you two spoken about it?’

  ‘A little. He asked me to let him know if anything came to mind but I’m trying to not get involved.’ I didn’t tell her I went to see one of the victims. I wasn’t sure if omitting that detail meant I was lying again; it probably did. It was becoming a habit, one that was too easy to indulge.

  ‘I’m glad you’re staying away from this, Karen.’

  ‘I don’t want to jeopardise anything with the investigation.’

  ‘I hope they catch him before tonight.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘It’s so scary, I guess for us it’s a little less so. We can lock our doors, close the curtains. Hide. Those poor people who are working until eight o’clock, can you imagine how terrifying it would be going home?’

  ‘Who would be finishing at eight?’

  ‘Loads of people. Anyway, you said in your text Shauna had signed you off. It sounds like the session went well then today? What happens next, do you know when you’ll be going back to work?’

  Putting down my wine glass, I stood. I could feel a stirring in my chest – not an anxious one, the type I felt at work when I was about to have a breakthrough on a case. Sam had latched onto something without even knowing.

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘Late-night shopping.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. I needed to hear what my thoughts were guiding me to. Tonight is late-night shopping. When the day is done.

  ‘Shit,’ I said, turning and running to dig out my phone from my coat pocket.

  ‘Karen, what’s happening?’ Sam said as she followed, panic on her face at my sudden urgency.

  I didn’t respond but called Howard. He picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Howard. Where are you?’

  ‘In the city. Loads of us are, hopeful we’ll see something, but it’s impossible.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve called,’ I said, struggling to catch my breath. ‘In the second video, what time did he say the next Game would be?’

  ‘Eight fifteen.’

  ‘Precisely, and then he said when the day is done.’

  ‘Yeah, no one can work out what he means…’

  ‘It’s a clue. He’s leaving a clue. Usually, the day is done at midnight, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Unless you’re referring to a workday; now, for most, it’s what, 5.30, 6 p.m. But tonight is late-night shopping in Queensgate Shopping Centre. The shops shut at eight. If you’re cashing up early, able to tidy before the store closes—’

  ‘Your day would finish around quarter past. Shit, that makes sense. It will be quiet, but people will still be around,’ Howard said.

  ‘Smaller shops will only have one or two people cashing up at the end of the day.’

  ‘And just like the Chinese, he could trap them in the space, give them no choice. I’m going to call it in,’ Howard said. ‘I won’t say we’ve spoken and drag you into anything that could get you in trouble. But I can explain the reasoning.’

  ‘Just make sure Rawlinson does this with soft hands. If he brings the whole force in, our guy will only back away. Tell him it’s just a hunch, a potential lead, not a foregone conclusion. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Karen, I’d better go, get this across. Well done, mate; this feels like we might be onto something,’ he said before hanging up.

  Putting the phone down, I slumped onto the bottom step and looked at Sam. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, don’t be. I’m amazed by how your brain works sometimes,’ she chortled.

  ‘I hope I’m right.’

  ‘Eight fifteen p.m., when the day is done. Now you’ve said it, it makes perfect sense.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  I really did hope I was right. Because if at 8.20 p.m. a call went through to the 999 switchboard – the person calling to say they had killed someone – the city would go into absolute panic.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  7.28 p.m.

  Forty-seven minutes until the next Game

  As the evening closed in and darkness descended, I watched my wife draw the curtains, make sure the door was locked and switch off lights in rooms when leaving, something she didn’t usually do. She was clearly worried and trying to make the house look empty, like I remembered my mum used to do on Hallowe’en, so the kids didn’t egg our windows. I understood, I was anxious too,
my attention flicking to my phone every few minutes, hoping for news. I couldn’t decide if Howard’s silence was a good sign or not. I tried not to think about it – it only made me feel helpless. Howard – the whole force, no doubt – was in the city, looking for this guy, and I was at home, hiding behind locked doors. Yet another reminder that my career was on a downward spiral.

  At seven thirty, forty-five minutes until the time stated in the video, I told Sam I was nipping to the loo, and I took my phone. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I needed to know something. When I was sure she couldn’t hear me, I rang Howard.

  ‘Anything?’ I asked when he picked up.

  ‘Nothing so far. We have plainclothes in the centre. We’ve done all we can to stop him.’

  ‘If we’re right about the location,’ I whispered, keeping an ear on the stairs in case Sam came up.

  ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘It fits. Most of the high street shops are shut, the few that are open are being watched closely.’

  ‘God, I hope I’m not wrong.’

  ‘I back you on this a hundred per cent. It has to be here. I’m sure of it. Opportunity, time, impact.’

  ‘Impact is his number one priority,’ I said, feeling deep in my gut that, despite my anxiety, I was right about his clue.

  ‘And the shopping centre is the biggest target for impact, surely. Right in the heart of the city. Under people’s noses. I’d better go. Speak later, yeah?’

  ‘OK. Be safe.’

  Going back into the living room, I sat beside Sam, who was curled up on the sofa, flicking through the channels, unable to focus on anything other than the time, like me. She turned over to the news channel, and I wanted her to stop, just in case there was something about the events that were unfolding. But she skipped on, finding an episode of Friends we’d seen several times on More 4. I tried to let myself be absorbed into what I was watching, but I couldn’t. My mind was fixed on Howard, the time, and The Host. I could feel Sam watching me, but I didn’t look at her, just kept my eyes glued to the screen.

  Guilt, I guess.

  ‘Karen,’ Sam said, taking my hand, ‘I know how difficult it must be to not be there with your colleagues, but you’re doing the right thing staying out of it. I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Part of me wishes I could be there on the frontline with them,’ I said, not telling her that that part of me was becoming more frustrated by the hour. ‘Another part knows I’m not ready.’

  ‘Babe, let’s just go to bed, watch a movie, forget the world.’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘We can’t control anything, other than what we do. I’m going up. I don’t want to think about these horrible things anymore. Join me?’

  ‘You go up, I’ll come soon. I’m gonna put on the news, see if anything is happening.’

  ‘OK,’ Sam sighed, getting to her feet and making her way to the stairs. As she reached the bottom step she looked back into the living room towards me. ‘I get this is really hard on you, Karen, I do, and I’m on your side, always. But it’s hard on me too.’

  She turned and from her slumped posture I could tell she was upset but she’d disappeared upstairs before I could reply.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Host

  7.55 p.m.

  Twenty minutes until the next Game

  Standing outside the future crime scene, he watched people come and go, oblivious to him as usual. They always were – but for that one time, when he was seen, that one time he wasn’t invisible. At the inquest, it had been determined that they would have only been able to save one. They were all told they’d made the right decision by choosing to save him. But he knew they’d got it wrong.

  Behind him, the doors opened and out stepped a middle-aged man in a black jumper and coat. Beside him was a woman, an older lady, with kind eyes, a soft smile and features. Roberta. Widowed, semi-retired, good at reading stories to little ones. She was thanking the man, a local author who had been doing an event. He shook her hand and left for the city centre. To The Host’s delight, Roberta then turned to him.

  ‘Hello, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, if you wanted to return something we’re closed now.’

  ‘No, I’m just waiting for a friend, thank you.’ He smiled as she went back inside.

  He counted to ten as he watched her disappear upstairs, and once she was gone, he slipped into the building. It was time for kind-hearted Roberta to play.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Carlson

  8.08 p.m.

  Seven minutes until the next Game

  Carlson struggled to keep his cool: with each minute that went by, doubts crept in that they may have got it wrong. But the clue was there teasing them. 8.15 p.m., when the day is done – it didn’t make sense in any other context. And so, Carlson remained diligent, his eyes working over the few people who were still out, although it seemed the public were taking the threat seriously, since the shopping centre was now nearly deserted. Carlson saw a group of kids hanging around by the cut-through to Westgate arcade, a clutch of independent shops branching from the main centre. As he approached they saw him, panicked, and ran away, shouting, ‘It’s The Host! Leg it!’

  ‘Bloody kids,’ Carlson said as he doubled back on himself, making his way towards the bus station and car parks. He radioed the other plainclothes officers in the centre.

  ‘Anything?’

  A chorus of ‘nothings’ and ‘no signs’ came back. It had to be here. He was sure of it. The only other explanation was that The Host had seen one of the undercover officers and had retreated. Carlson wanted to catch him, but if they had spooked him there would be no Game, no one would die tonight, and it would be a win for the police. It would show they had control of this thing, and people need not be afraid if they listened to advice. And it would be thanks to Karen’s brainwave. But if they were wrong and The Host was elsewhere, preparing to play, the loss would be catastrophic.

  As Carlson walked by a clothes store in the far corner of the shopping centre, closest to the bus station and multi-storey car park, he saw a man who began to run when he knew he’d been spotted.

  ‘Hey!’ Carlson shouted but the person didn’t stop. ‘Hey, police!’

  The man didn’t respond, and Carlson gave chase. His training in the army meant he still kept a good cardio routine, and before the man could reach the escalators, Carlson was able to grab him.

  ‘I said, stop. Why are you running?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Howard, you all right?’ a voice called through his earpiece.

  ‘Standby,’ Carlson replied.

  ‘So why are you running?’

  ‘You scared me.’

  ‘Did you not hear me call out I was the police?’

  ‘Yeah, but that man, he’d say something like that, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Howard?’ the voice in the ear spoke again.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home, I just want to go home.’

  Carlson saw he was scared, scared almost out of his wits, and he let go of his arm. The man didn’t wait to be excused and ran towards the car park.

  ‘Howard?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he replied.

  Turning around, Carlson paced, looking into each shop as he passed. He started off discreetly, but as the time drew nearer, the more frantic he became until his watch alarm beeped, telling him it was 8.15 p.m. Stopping, he listened for the sound of a struggle, or a cry, but there was nothing. Was The Host not playing after all? Another minute elapsed, and another, and Carlson started to meet the eyes of the other officers milling around. Satisfied as they all concluded they had averted a serious crime with their presence.

  But Carlson wasn’t convinced, and through his closed-circuit earpiece, he told everyone to stay vigilant. The Host might still be close by; he might still be playing his Game.

  The Third Game

  He watched as the young man,
barely out of his teens, tried to unlock his phone, but his hands shook too much, hands that were covered in blood that ran from slash wounds on both of his forearms. After three failed attempts to dial 999, The Host stepped in and helped.

  ‘Nine-nine-nine, what’s your emergency?’ a woman said.

  The boy tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t form, they were caught somewhere between the place where thought originated and his vocal cords.

  ‘Hello?’ the operator called out. The boy didn’t respond, just looked at his arms, cuts thrown like ribbon across both, the wounds so deep he could see the white of fat tissue exposed and glistening under the fluorescent lighting. It should have hurt, his nervous system should have been screaming at him, but he couldn’t feel any pain.

  ‘Hello?’ the operator said again, this time with more urgency. The Host tapped his shoulder. ‘You’re supposed to speak now,’ he said, his voice mechanical. Cold.

  ‘I…’ the boy managed to say before the words got trapped again. The Host gave a thumbs-up prompting him to keep going before turning and walking away, stepping over the corpse and descending the stairs.

  ‘Hello?’

  The boy didn’t know how to articulate what had just happened. It was a typical evening, a local author doing a talk in the main library for a few dozen fans. He had heard on the news about some sort of video that had been posted, but as he had been busy prepping the event he hadn’t read or seen much about it.

  ‘Hello? Do you need assistance?’ the operator said.

  ‘Yes,’ he managed to say before falling silent again. He thought about how he should be on his way home right now, ready to eat a microwaveable lasagne and share with his mother the author event, telling her how wonderful and inspired he felt, as he did after every event he was a part of.

  ‘Can you tell me where you are?’

  ‘I’m…’

  He looked at the woman opposite him on the floor; his boss, his friend, his mentor, her unblinking eyes staring back at him.

  ‘Can you tell me where you are?’ the operator said again.

  ‘The library.’

  ‘Good, that’s good. Which library? Can you tell me the city?’