The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  ‘Wait. Go back.’

  Howard cautiously rewound the footage and allowed it to play. We watched as the shape of The Host’s motorbike helmet came into view. The image was poor quality, and it was impossible to make him out correctly. However, I could see he took out a phone, looked at the screen for a moment and put it back in his pocket.

  ‘A message?’ Howard asked.

  ‘Or maybe he was checking the time?’

  He walked onto the ramp and ascended the bridge. When he reached the top, we could just about make out that he was pacing. Several minutes passed with nothing, and then, Jim Weston wandered into the frame and The Host lay down.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Weston ascended the ramp slowly, the image staccato and disjointed in the low light. He saw the figure of The Host on the ground and ran to his side, stepping out of frame.

  ‘Shit,’ Howard said, still watching, despite not being able to see anything. After a few moments, a young couple walked past the screen. A minute later, the boy returned on his own.

  ‘That must be Lucas,’ I said.

  He stopped at the top of the frame, his hands going up in defence.

  ‘I wish there was a camera on the bridge.’

  ‘It’s like he knew exactly where he could stand, doesn’t it?’ Howard added.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. He was smart, he had planned it well. But it didn’t explain why he came back. It was contradictory, and it didn’t fit the profile of the man I was compiling in my head.

  In the video, Lucas, Jim and The Host came back into shot. Lucas stood against the railings beside Jim Weston. The Host knelt down, took off his rucksack, and removed various items from it.

  ‘Don’t you think he’s leaving himself vulnerable?’ Howard asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed.

  ‘That seems a bit odd to me. Complacent maybe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I echoed, but I wasn’t sure.

  It was impossible to see exactly what The Host was doing. He was crouched down, his back to the camera, the low light making it difficult to focus on him. But the way Lucas and Jim reacted – the big step back, hands going up in defence – it was likely The Host had pulled out the weapons ready for The Game.

  A few moments later, Jim Weston fell. His body bounced off the tarmac. I looked away, Howard didn’t.

  ‘Karen, look,’ Howard urged, so I did, and saw The Host run down the ramp. At the bottom he looked at Jim on the ground, and then bolted.

  ‘No drawing,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ Howard agreed, rewinding the footage to the first point the Host came into shot. We watched again; at no point did he lower himself to stencil the train.

  ‘He drew the train picture before The Game?’ I said.

  ‘He’s really organised.’

  ‘But it doesn’t make sense…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Going back tonight. He has planned this well, probably for months, if not years. Why would he jeopardise it?’

  ‘Maybe he likes a risk?’

  ‘No. I don’t think that’s it. He has planned this in every detail. He has really done his homework, location, person, time, the videos linking it all together, the stencils and clues. He’s worked hard to be smarter than us. He’s not a risk-taker.’

  ‘But tonight he failed.’

  ‘Yeah, and tomorrow, Jim will be a hero.’ I paused. ‘That’s it! He’s worried Jim will detract from what he is trying to make us see. That’s why he went back.’

  ‘But what is it? What does he need us to see?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Do you have the CCTV from the first Game?’

  Howard nodded and loaded up the video from inside the Chinese takeaway. He fast-forwarded to when The Host stepped in. The camera was almost directly above him, making it difficult to get a sense of how tall he was. What was obvious though was he was still, calm, controlled. ‘It’s weird, he looks less nervous the first time than he did tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, he does.’

  ‘Howard, could you send me these?’

  ‘I’ll get into so much shit if—’

  ‘No one will know.’

  ‘It wasn’t gonna stop me, I just wanted to point it out,’ he smiled, before sending them to my phone. ‘I don’t know why you want them; the videos don’t bring us any closer to finding the bastard.’

  ‘Maybe not, but we have learnt one thing. He leaves the train before he commits the crime.’

  ‘We also know the next one will be near water.’

  ‘Exactly. We’re trying to get to him. But if we find that train image, The Host will come to us.’

  Day 5

  7 February 2019

  Jack Anderson > Peterborough Free Discussion

  Have you seen that a guy jumped from the A15 last night? It was around the time The Host said the next Game would be played. You think it’s connected?

  381 Comments

  Emily Curtis

  I know, it’s awful. From what I’ve read on the BBC, he’s very lucky to be alive.

  Johnny Ormo

  I still can’t believe this thing is on the BBC.

  Emily Curtis

  And Jack, I have been thinking the same thing as you. There are no reports of The Host’s latest attack. The jumper has to be connected. Maybe he was pushed? Maybe that was The Game?

  Jack Anderson

  I hate that the police are keeping the information from us. We have a right to know.

  Johnny Ormo

  I suspect they don’t want to cause panic.

  Jack Anderson

  But I am panicking. Aren’t you? If that poor man jumped from the bridge, or like Emily said, was pushed, because of The Game, we should know. This thing affects all of us. He’s a psycho terrorising our city, we’re at risk.

  Amanda Belkin

  Guys, has anyone heard from Claire? I’ve been really worried about her.

  Jack Anderson

  Nope. We’re friends on here, doesn’t look like she’s been online since she found out about Roberta.

  Johnny Ormo

  Who?

  Jack Anderson

  She was the librarian.

  Amanda Belkin

  Maybe she needed to have a break from being online. I feel like I’m becoming obsessed. It’s not healthy.

  Johnny Ormo

  I’ve not slept properly since I saw the ambulances and police opposite my work. And I agree. I can’t find anything about The Game. I think that poor man was a Player.

  Jack Anderson

  I’m not sleeping great either. I don’t blame Claire for backing away. This thing is fucking terrifying, and I don’t know anyone directly involved.

  Michaela Balfour

  I normally don’t jump in on these threads. But that man, Jim Weston, I work with him.

  Emily Curtis

  Oh God, Michaela. I’m so sorry.

  Michaela Balfour

  Jim is a lovely guy, kind, sweet. Happy. There is no way he would have jumped of his own volition.

  Johnny Ormo

  Are you saying you think he was playing?

  Michaela Balfour

  I don’t know how else to explain it. Jim was looking forward to going home. There is no way he wanted to take his own life. Either he was pushed, or he jumped to save someone else. Jim doesn’t like violence, not one bit.

  Jack Anderson

  If he had to jump to save someone, he is a hero. I hope he makes a full recovery.

  Michaela Balfour

  He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve this one bit. If he can be forced to be a player, anyone can.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  7.47 a.m.

  I woke with a start when I heard Sam getting into the shower upstairs. It had been just before 2 a.m. when I got in and not wanting to wake Sam, who had another tough day at school ahead of her, I’d grabbed a throw and slept downstairs on the sofa. I should have got up, made a coffee, said good morning to my wife, but instead I reached
for my phone and scrolled through social media. Both my Twitter and Facebook feeds were dominated by the crimes happening in the city. Both #theHost and #thePlayers sat at the top of the trend list, and in the online papers, there were several articles discussing each person involved, and what was known about the incident. There was no update on Jim Weston on the local Peterborough Post website. So far, the only thing I could see that was connected was a short article suggesting someone may have fallen or tried to end their life over the A15. I was confident The Host would not like that.

  Another two hashtags were being fiercely contested. One side argued The Players were innocent, and should be #protectednotarrested, the other suggested the opposite – #murderismurder being both crude and direct. I read a few of the comments under each; people were opinionated, and the arguments quickly became ugly and personal. Strangers attacking strangers over the safety of the internet, trying to hurt one another. It frightened me because it was so similar to what The Host was doing, and yet no one seemed to mind the online character assassinations.

  I wanted people to be discussing how they could find him, stop him. I wanted the world to mirror my thoughts. Really, people were just afraid, and more worryingly, as I looked at the Facebook timelines of the 134 people I was ‘friends’ with, most were openly admitting what they would do if they had to play The Game – and most said they would kill. It felt hopeless.

  Sitting up made my eye throb, but I knew it wasn’t anything to worry about, and the swelling had receded a little. Gingerly, I got to my feet, went into the kitchen, and flicked on the kettle to make Sam a cup of coffee, hoping it would be a peace offering against the argument that no doubt was brewing.

  Upstairs, I heard Sam get out of the shower and walk back into the bedroom. I tried to work out what I would say to her, how would I explain the state of my face without upsetting her. I racked my brain as to what I could say to justify the bruising around my eye. But I couldn’t. I hadn’t intended to see The Host, but I was at the scene, and I did give chase. So really, there wasn’t anything I could say, was there?

  As I heard Sam coming downstairs, I turned my back so I was facing away from her, and scooped coffee into two cups.

  ‘What time did you come home last night?’ Sam asked.

  ‘About midnight?’ Again, another lie to add to the ever-growing list I had told my wife. What sort of person had I become?

  ‘I stayed awake until after one.’

  ‘It was after one then, I lost track of time. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Is Howard OK?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s fine. It’s just a tough time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to bed?’ Sam asked, her voice low and sleepy.

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ I replied, pouring a splash of milk in both our cups.

  ‘Babe?’ Sam asked, knowing something was wrong. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Don’t fly off, OK? It’s not as bad as it looks,’ I said, turning to face her.

  ‘Shit, Karen!’ Sam snapped, stepping towards me. ‘How did you get that?’

  I took a breath, ready to spill a lie, but I knew she wouldn’t let me get away with it, not this time, so I told Sam what happened and could see her look slowly morph from tender and caring to one full of rage. I only got as far as chasing The Host before Sam cut me off, slamming her cup down, spilling coffee all over the side.

  ‘Never mind that you went out in the middle of the night to do something you have been specifically told you are not allowed to do. Something that if your bosses found out would probably get you sacked.’

  ‘Please, let’s not argue, I didn’t know he was going to be there.’

  ‘Never mind that you lied to me, again.’

  ‘Sam—’

  ‘Let’s talk about how you tried to grab a psychopath on your own. What the bloody hell were you thinking?’

  ‘I had to try; he was there. He was right there.’

  ‘He could have killed you.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘You can’t explain this one away. It was a stupid and reckless thing to do. Look at the state of you!’

  Sam trailed off, it was too much, and she started to cry. I’d been carrying guilt with me since the Grayson James incident and it had been getting worse with each white lie I’d told Sam. But none of that guilt compared to the guilt of making my own wife cry.

  ‘Sam, I’m so sorry. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to see him. When I did, I had no choice.’

  ‘Because you’re a police officer?’

  ‘Yes. Imagine if you saw one of your students out of school and they needed help – would you just ignore them?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Sam replied between sniffles.

  ‘It’s the same thing,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Karen, don’t you see what you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m trying to catch a killer.’

  ‘You’re sneaking around, doing work that isn’t yours to do. I understand this is huge, maybe the biggest thing to happen to this city. But you catching The Host doesn’t change what happened.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. The public are at risk and it’s my job to protect them.’

  ‘You’re hell-bent on getting this guy.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ I said, my voice on the turn from defeated to defiant.

  ‘But look at the risks. Look at your face. Look what he did to you.’ Sam took my face in her hands, gently touching my still tender eye. She looked at me and I could see her hurting for me. ‘You need to stop. I can’t help you get through what happened if you’re not gonna help yourself,’ Sam murmured. ‘And I want to help. Please don’t push me away, we can deal with this together.’ She wrapped her arms around me. I hugged as tight as I could.

  ‘You’re taking risks, both for your career and your life,’ she whispered.

  ‘People are dying…’

  ‘You don’t have to prove you are good at your job.’

  ‘What?’

  Sam stepped back, her hands moving from my back to rest on the tops of my arms, like she was going to try and shake some sense into me. ‘Karen, I know you. I know how you think. Last year you were dropped a rank.’

  ‘I prefer being a DI.’

  ‘And now, with Grayson James, you feel like you’re spiralling.’

  I opened my mouth to tell her that wasn’t true, that I was fine, in control, not worried. But the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘You aren’t dealing with what happened before,’ Sam continued, taking my hand. ‘Instead you’re pushing all of those feelings into this case, but you’re not thinking properly. I know you trust your instincts about work things, but I think your instincts are jaded at the moment.’

  ‘Sam, I’m in this guy’s head, I’m starting to see how he thinks…’

  ‘Look at your face, Karen. He could have killed you.’

  ‘Sam, I…’

  ‘You didn’t kill Grayson James. Do you understand? You didn’t kill that man.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing. It was an accident. Everyone knows it, everyone. And the IOPC will say so soon.’

  ‘They might.’ I looked away, to Bob, floating happily in his tank.

  ‘They will. And you need to understand how it’s affecting you; you’ve not been OK since that day. You need to talk about it, open up about how you are feeling. That day was awful for you, I understand that, I do. Talk to me. Let me help you get through this.’

  ‘Sam, I—’

  ‘And I hate asking, I’ve wanted you to come to me when you’re ready, but sometimes you have to force yourself to be ready. You can’t keep hiding from it, you need to confront it.’

  ‘I need more time,’ I said, stepping away to pick up my coffee.

  ‘Karen, love. I know it’s scary to open up, but look at you, all you’re doing is hurting yourself. Be brave, darling, I’m here, I want to help.’

  ‘Fine! Fine!’ I said, my voice rising. ‘Sam, a man died in my arms. A man died i
n my arms because of something I had done,’ I said, my words snagging.

  ‘Yes, he did die in your arms,’ Sam agreed quietly. ‘But his death was his doing, not yours.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because, you wouldn’t—’

  ‘How can you possibly know, when I don’t?’ I confessed.

  ‘Karen—’

  ‘Stop, just stop.’ I said, walking out of the kitchen and back into the living room.

  Sitting down, I took a breath and realised that Sam was right, I relied on my instincts for everything, and they seemed to be failing. Although I was right about a bridge, I’d chosen the one wrong, and before, I was wrong about the shopping centre. I thought about when The Host swung for me: did he swing with the force to try and kill, even though I said that he wasn’t a killer? I didn’t know anymore.

  ‘Karen,’ Sam said quietly from the doorway. ‘I really want you to be able to talk to me about this, but I think you need to talk to Shauna too. Have you tried speaking to her?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘People want to help you process this, so let them help.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good. I don’t understand what you must be feeling, but I empathise. I really do. I suspect everyone does. What happened, it’s shit, but it’s not your shit to carry. Not anymore.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ I admitted after a deep breath.

  ‘Let the people who can help take control. Then you can get back to being great at what you do. When the time is right and you’re ready.’

  ‘If I ever get back to where I was. I’m such a mess.’

  ‘You are right now, but it will pass.’

  ‘I don’t like it. The doubt, the worrying.’

  ‘I understand.’ Sam said, sitting next to me. ‘But it’s OK to be a mess. You need to know and accept that you didn’t do anything wrong, and you will come through this.’

  I nodded, grateful that I had Sam. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Sam kissed me, and I took out my phone to ring Shauna, leaving a message saying that I’d like to book another appointment. It was time to confront my demons.