The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  Despite it being hours until The Game’s appointed time Carlson headed for the crescent bridge where he found a quiet spot and waited. From his position he could see both sides of the road. The footpaths were busy with people walking into and out of the city centre, but as the hours ticked by, he saw fewer and fewer people. Darkness descended, the shops started to close, and the streets became all but deserted. At various points in the city, other officers sat in wait, and periodically, they would check in, stating there was no sign of him yet. But The Host would come, Carlson could feel it.

  The Fourth Game

  The Host tapped on the metal railing of the overpass that connected one side of the A15 with the other, waiting. Behind, the streetlamp that lit the footbridge was out, it had been for a while. It made The Host invisible.

  Within a few minutes the laboured breathing of Jim Weston would come up the steep incline of the footbridge ramp. He always locked up last, always took his time. Always came over the bridge.

  Ten minutes passed, and still no sign of him. The Host began to twitch. Maybe Jim Weston wasn’t at work today? If The Game failed to be delivered as promised, what then?

  Just as panic began to set in that the plan had failed, footsteps approached. Then, a shape crested the footbridge and The Host breathed a sigh of relief. The target had arrived. It was time. Lying on the ground, careful to mask the motorbike helmet from view, The Host waited, heart thumping, for the target to close in. Jim Weston wasn’t a man to ignore someone injured. He was kind. Caring. To him people mattered. And that was why he had to play.

  It was so dark; Jim Weston didn’t see The Host until he was a few feet away, and sure enough, as soon as he did, he dropped to his knees, both cracking as he hit the asphalt, to see if The Host was OK.

  ‘Hello. Are you all right? Do you need help?’ he asked, worried. He shook The Host’s shoulder. ‘What’s your name? Hello?’

  He shook The Host’s shoulder again, and saw the motorbike helmet. At first, he didn’t do anything. When he realised who it was lying underneath him Jim began to heave himself up to try and run, but The Host was quicker, nimbler and before Jim could stand, The Host was above him, something in his right hand that reflected the headlights of the cars speeding underneath.

  ‘Don’t move,’ The Host said, mechanically through the voice filter, twitching from foot to foot. The man was big; if he went for it, if he threw some weight in, maybe The Host would lose. Thankfully, he was too mild-mannered to try.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Jim Weston said, his hands held up in defence, his head lowered like a subordinate dog. ‘Please. Don’t hurt me.’

  ‘I won’t. That will be for someone else.’

  At that moment, The Host heard voices. Someone else was coming onto the bridge, more than one person. As a car drove past, The Host could see his Player’s forehead glisten with sweat, despite it being only two degrees. The Host was sweating too. This wasn’t going to plan.

  The voices grew louder, and two teenagers holding hands came into view.

  ‘Please, they’re just kids,’ Jim said, shocking The Host at how brave he sounded. But Jim Weston need not worry, The Host didn’t want two more Players, just one.

  ‘If you say anything, I’ll kill them,’ The Host said, thankful that the voice-altering device masked the mounting anxiety. Jim nodded, agreeing.

  The Host turned and faced the road below, elbows resting on the barrier, head low to hide the helmet from view. ‘If they see me, they, they have to die,’ The Host stammered.

  Jim nodded, too scared to pick up on the indecision, and rounded the other side of The Host, masking him with his wider frame. As the young people passed, they barely gave Jim a look, and seemed not to notice the smaller, narrower person beside him. To be sure, Jim rounded The Host again, so that they couldn’t look back and see the person in the motorbike helmet. The Host and Jim Weston each let out the breath they were holding as the teens disappeared out of sight. Then, the knife was out, pointing at Jim Weston again.

  ‘You’re braver than you look.’

  ‘They’re just kids.’

  ‘We all have to die at some point.’

  Jim looked at The Host and weighed up his chances. The man before him was shorter, slighter, he wondered if he could disarm him, ring the police. The thought didn’t last long – he wasn’t a hero, far from it. He had actively avoided conflict his entire life. Even seeing violence made him feel sick.

  ‘Do you want to die, Jim?’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Jim Weston, forty-six, married to Susan Weston. No kids, but a seventeen-year-old stepdaughter, April. Named after her nan. She’ll be at home, just around the corner. Upstairs in her bedroom, the front left window.’

  ‘Leave her alone.’

  ‘Well, that’s entirely up to you now, isn’t it?’

  Jim felt his legs give way and he had to grab the railing to stop himself falling over.

  ‘You think this meeting is a coincidence. There is no such thing. It’s been planned for some time. You have been watched for months.’

  ‘Why me?’ he quietly asked, defeated. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong.’

  ‘Why not you? What makes you so special?’

  He didn’t have an answer, and dropping to his knees he began to beg, but his pleading was cut short when another figure approached. Jim looked; it was the boy who had walked past only moments ago with his girlfriend. He must have been fifteen or sixteen, at most.

  ‘If you say anything, if you do anything, I’ll chase him down and I’ll kill him, and then I’ll go to your stepdaughter,’ The Host said, dragging Jim onto his feet. Fear crippled Jim’s vocal cords and he could only nod.

  The Host pulled out a small wind-up alarm clock and turned it. It was happening, it was going to be all right. The boy approached, oblivious to what was ahead of him. In the low light, Jim could make out him smiling, reflecting no doubt on young love. When the boy was only a few paces away, The Host stepped into his path.

  ‘If you run…’ The Host’s voice snagged. ‘If you run, I will kill you.’

  The boy froze to the spot, a rabbit in headlights.

  ‘Against the rail, stand against the rail.’

  The boy didn’t move.

  ‘I said, stand. Now.’ The Host approached, the knife out, pointing at his chest.

  The boy stumbled backwards into the railing, bumping into Jim beside him. Underneath them, cars sped past, ignorant of what was unfolding; in the distance, there was a siren, and The Host froze. A small glimmer of hope unfurled in Jim’s stomach, but the sirens became quieter, they were moving away, not towards. And The Host laughed, anxiety spilling over, then reached up and pressed record on the GoPro.

  The Host took off the rucksack, placed it on the ground, unzipped it and rummaged through, disregarding the butcher’s knife, saw and rope but instead removing a small metal stake a foot in length, the end a corkscrew for digging holes in soil, and a long, heavy chain. Once they were set in place on the floor in front of the pair, The Host explained the rules to the newest Players.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  8.42 p.m.

  As I sat watching the crap eighties comedy that was on Gold, I was looking at the time on my phone – twelve minutes since The Game should have been played. I’d been distracted all afternoon thinking about it. After leaving the station, I’d intended to go in to Sam’s school but in the car, driving towards the City Academy, I had to pull over as I couldn’t catch my breath, again. Without any cool water to run over my wrists I had to ride it out. The panic attack wasn’t as severe as the first, but it was still enough to tell me I couldn’t face anyone, so I came home instead.

  Sam got back just after five. She told me the video went live when they were all in the hall, the head trying to calm the students. I couldn’t imagine how hard it would have been to calm so many young people. I felt guilty for not being there, as I should have been. I was deflated, Sam was defeated. I cooked us a meal nei
ther of us had the appetite to eat. Dinner was awkward, we didn’t speak, but both rolled our food around the plate, nibbling every now and then, lost in our own thoughts. Sam had two large glasses of wine.

  Now we were sitting here in silence, neither of us wanting to speak, until my phone started ringing.

  ‘It’s Howard.’

  ‘Karen, please. Not tonight,’ Sam pleaded.

  ‘Sam, I—’

  ‘It’s too much. Can we not have it at home? It’s hard enough at school.’

  ‘Sam, I have to,’ I replied, knowing full well I didn’t. If I ignored the call, Howard would understand. Probably tell me I was being responsible. Still, he was ringing. I had to answer.

  ‘No, Karen, you don’t. You are not investigating this. You know that, right?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then turn it off, please.’

  I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t ignore Howard. So, even knowing it would upset Sam, I picked up the phone.

  ‘Tell me we were right?’ I started before he could speak. ‘Tell me we got him.’

  Sam stood abruptly, snatching her glass of wine. ‘I give up,’ she said, walking out of the kitchen.

  ‘We were right, it was a bridge. But we were monitoring the wrong ones.’

  ‘Fuck,’ I said, watching Sam mount the stairs.

  ‘Yeah, fuck.’

  ‘Do we know much about the victims?’

  ‘A little. Jim Weston, forty-six. Worked at the local M&S, and a kid.’

  ‘A kid? How old?’ I asked, my voice shrill as panic squeezed my vocal cords. This thing was a mess, but involving kids made it different somehow. Sam heard, and stopped midway up the stairs, looking over the banister back at me.

  ‘Fifteen. Lucas Mathews.’

  ‘Dare I ask?’ I said, holding my breath.

  ‘The kid is fine. Well, he’s alive, I wouldn’t say he was fine.’

  I looked at Sam and mouthed that the kid was OK. She sighed and continued upstairs.

  ‘This one, it wasn’t like the others,’ Howard continued.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They didn’t fight.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Jim Weston jumped off the bridge.’

  I didn’t respond. Instead I pictured the scene. The Host with his motorbike helmet. The fearful pair, looking from each other to the weapons that would have been laid before them. I wondered how The Host felt about them not playing by the rules.

  ‘Karen?’ Howard said, breaking my thoughts.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Jim Weston isn’t dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s in a bad way, but he didn’t die from the fall.’

  Both had survived, and I knew I should be elated. Not only had we foreseen it would happen on a bridge, but no one died tonight. It should have felt like a victory, and yet I couldn’t ignore the churning in my stomach. Jim Weston had broken the rules of The Game. There would be repercussions.

  ‘We need to speak to the kid,’ I said, after a pause.

  ‘He’s being treated by paramedics. He’s happy to talk once the all-clear has been given. I’ve just spoken to his parents, who are here. They agree that Lucas might have vital information.’

  ‘Good, that’s good. Have you found the train yet?’

  ‘No, not yet. Forensics are on the bridge.’

  ‘CCTV cameras?’

  ‘One, we are getting the footage now.’

  ‘OK, with the others the train wasn’t at the scene. The first was on the underpass 200 yards away, the second in a loo…’

  ‘The third in a different part of the library,’ Howard added.

  ‘The train won’t be on the bridge, but somewhere nearby.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ Howard said.

  I expected him to hang up, but he didn’t, and I listened to muffled conversations and his footsteps. Rawlinson’s voice came over the line, barking, as usual, but in triumph rather than indignation. I could hear him congratulating people on a job well done. No doubt assuming that because no one died, The Host was cornered, on the ropes, about to throw in the towel. I agreed in part; The Host would feel like he was in a corner. But he wasn’t a boxer ready to quit, he was a cobra. In a corner he would be far more dangerous, far more unpredictable. Rawlinson’s voice faded into the background, as did the other voices, other noises. I listened as Howard mumbled to himself, trying to piece together where the train might be. I didn’t interrupt.

  ‘I wouldn’t go right, it becomes too lit up, too close to the main road, the traffic would have stopped, he would have been seen. Left it is…’ he said to himself before moving again. I smiled. He sounded a lot like me these days. The line went quiet, before muffled sounds and a thud, like the phone had been dropped.

  ‘Shit, sorry,’ Howard said. ‘I’ve got you on loudspeaker. Needed both my hands, I think I’ve found something.’

  ‘What can you see?’

  ‘There’s one of those fire hydrant signs. You know – the concrete posts – there’s definitely something on it. I’m just grabbing my torch.’

  I waited again, I heard a switch click on, then Howard mumbled under his breath.

  ‘Found it.’

  ‘Brilliant. Anything new, any clues?’

  ‘No. Just the train.’

  ‘And the hydrant. I assume it’s one of those yellow ones with numbers on it?’

  ‘Yep, capital H, top number is a hundred. Bottom is twenty-two.’

  ‘Mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I admitted. ‘OK. So let’s focus on what he’s telling us. The new location is linked to water. A fire station perhaps?’

  ‘A fire station would be tricky. He wouldn’t have access to one. And as far as I know, it’s not often there are just two firefighters in a station. Some kind of waterway, then. A lake perhaps?’

  ‘Possibly,’ I said.

  ‘We were right about the bridge,’ Howard said, sensing my unease.

  ‘Yeah,’ I responded, desperately thinking about possible places he would go. Ferry Meadows, Hampton Lakes? If the clue was even water at all.

  ‘I’ll send you a picture of this.’

  ‘Thank you, Howard.’

  ‘I’ll head back to the station; I want to be there when Lucas comes in.’

  ‘Good idea. Rawlinson will no doubt freak him out more.’

  I heard the grimace in his voice. ‘No doubt.’

  ‘How badly injured is Jim Weston?’

  ‘He’s pretty banged up. He was slipping in and out of consciousness when they got to him.’

  ‘Do you think The Host saw he was still alive?’

  ‘He must have, but I doubt we’ll have a chance of finding out anything from him.’

  ‘None. It’s all on the kid,’ I agreed. ‘We have learnt something else, though, haven’t we?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Howard asked.

  ‘Well, he would have seen Jim Weston wasn’t dead, and he would have still had the kid next to him. Both alive. But in his Game, someone must die.’

  ‘But no one did.’

  ‘He’s a sick bastard, but he himself isn’t able to kill.’

  Howard let out a long breath. ‘It’s so fucked up.’

  I pressed on. ‘Hypothetically, do you reckon you can get hold of the CCTV footage from any of the other scenes, including this one?’

  ‘Hypothetically, yes, of course.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind taking a look at it.’

  ‘Karen, I know I keep ringing you, it’s my failing. And I’m sorry. But you should walk away, you shouldn’t be looking at any CCTV.’

  ‘Howard, between me and you, I’m not ready to come back to work. I want to be – part of me needs it – but I’ve got stuff I need to sort out. You know?’

  ‘Yeah, I get you.’

  ‘But this Host isn’t leaving us any choice, is he? And I feel like I’m getting in his head.’

 
; ‘You are. No one else would have connected the train symbols and the clues.’

  I tried once more. ‘If you can, send over the CCTV, and keep me posted on what the kid says, OK?’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Host

  9.57 p.m.

  Sitting at his desk, The Host looked at the Facebook group. The panic was real, tangible, he could almost taste it in every word written. They spoke of locking windows, going to bed with kitchen implements under their pillows, sleeping in the same room as their children. He loved that. Their fear was the voice that spoke loudest now. And interestingly, that fear said indirectly that they would kill. Hiding the truth by declaring they had to protect their kids, or they were too young to die, or their survival instinct would kick in, and they wouldn’t be able to stop it.

  It was perfect. People were beginning to understand.

  Twitter was the same. #theHost was trending, as was #theGame and #thePlayers. All three about him. It made him feel a sense of pride.

  But the pride he felt in his ideology coming to life, imprinting on people far and wide, was short-lived as he looked at the news on his phone. He expected to see a headline about another death, but both Jim Weston and the kid had survived. The Game had been compromised. The person he had entrusted to act on his behalf, the one who begged to be The Host to show their loyalty had failed him. His message would be diluted for it. He wanted to kill them for their mistake.

  Grabbing a pillow, he screamed into it. Tonight, his message would be muddied. There was no evil on the bridge, no irrefutable proof that people were selfish, and he needed the night to show the darkness in humanity.

  He needed to rest, he desperately needed to sleep. But it was more important to restore his message. How would he be able to stop Jim Weston dominating the news? The answer was clear. To stop Jim Weston being a hero in the media, to stop hope worming its way into his ideology, tonight’s Game needed to be finished with someone else.