Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Host
8.26 a.m.
It had been a disastrous night for his message and the moment he nearly got caught played heavily on his mind all night. He had attempted to sleep it off, but after three hours of restlessness, he knew he needed to carry on with his work, and so, as the sun began to break over the horizon, he left to prepare his next location.
When he arrived it was quiet, and confident no one would be around, he took a can of black spray-paint and the stencil from his bag. Then he pulled out the rock he would spray it on. A rock from somewhere else. It was discreet, maybe it wouldn’t be found. Unless someone was like him and enjoyed the details too. Someone like the police officer from last night. He didn’t know who she was, but he’d seen her face. If he saw it again, he would recognise her instantly.
As he finished and zipped up his bag, a man ran past with his dog attached on a lead to his waist. The man nodded, and he smiled back, watching him until he had run out of sight.
Walking away from the location of his Fifth Game, he headed in the direction of the city, and home. Despite the muddied message from the night before, he had another statement to record, and another video to prepare for the world to see, after which the clock would begin again. This time he would directly ask those who watched to think about how much they valued life. He would challenge them to consider what they would do. He had always planned to ask them directly once they had started to question themselves. Despite the failed fourth game, he was still on track, but he hadn’t accounted for the woman who so nearly caught him. The only thing he could do was draw her in closer to find out who she was and make sure she didn’t interfere with his plans.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
10.20 a.m.
Sam went to work at her normal time, bracing herself for a tough day to come. Although the school was still open, we both suspected that lots of kids would stay at home. Before she left, she kissed me goodbye. I could see she was still worried for me.
‘You gonna be OK today?’ she had asked, looking at my battered eye.
‘Yeah, I’m gonna sleep, binge-watch something on Netflix. I’ll be fine.’
‘OK, I’ll keep you posted on what time I’ll be home.’
Sam then kissed me again, before walking to the car. I wasn’t sure if she bought it. I’m not sure if I did either. She was angry with me for my recklessness, and now that the adrenaline had passed, I was too. What had I been thinking? I wondered was I doing this because I wanted to stop The Host, or was Sam right and was I doing this to make up for what I did to Grayson James? It was likely a bit of both. I kept thinking about the voicemail I’d left for Shauna, regretting it. If I could have spoken with her there and then, I might have said it all. But now, in the cold light of day, I could feel the wall of self-preservation going up. In a bid to distract myself I went on my phone, watching and re-watching the two CCTV videos Howard had sent me. The first few times, I looked at the surrounding area, trying to see if a clue had been left by mistake. Then I started to watch The Host himself, hoping I would spot something. In the first video CCTV from the Chinese takeaway, The Host was calm. He locked the door slowly, centred himself, and by the time The Game began – as Michelle and Timothy started to attack one another in the most horrific way – he was completely at ease with the violence. But in the second CCTV video, at the foot of the overpass, and the failed Fourth Game, he looked less ready, less able somehow. Although the image quality was poor, I could see him shaking his hands, as if they were tingling, similar to when I have a panic attack. He didn’t come across as someone who was in charge. If I had to call it, he looked afraid.
It didn’t make sense.
I wanted to switch off, so I put an eighties playlist on Alexa. I was young in the 1980s, just a kid, and people like Phil Collins, Michael Jackson and Bananarama reminded me of car journeys with my mum and dad, on the way to France on our annual holiday to the same place in Lyon. I almost succeeded in allowing myself to be entirely wrapped up in a different time – a better time – until I was snapped out of it when Alexa finished playing a Rick Astley hit that my dad used to croon along to, and another song began. One that made me think of The Host. I hadn’t thought about it before, but it was one that played in the background to one of his videos. ‘Wonderful Life’ by Black. Was he being ironic, or was there something more?
Then a fresh wave of guilt came. The Host was out there, planning, preparing himself to make another innocent person kill. And here I was, taking a trip down memory lane. Whether I liked it or not, I’d got myself involved in this case now, and until it was over, until he was caught, I’d not be able to walk away. I was in The Host’s head, partly at least, I had seen him in the flesh, and if I stopped trying, I would be responsible for anyone who died, like I was culpable for Grayson. I knew being involved was my way of trying to absolve my guilt, but so be it. So I stopped Alexa, picked up my phone and got myself as up to date as I could without Howard linking me in.
I checked BBC News and saw that Jim Weston had been mentioned in their latest bulletin. The time of the incident on the bridge had matched the time The Host had stated in the third video. The article also speculated that he had jumped because he wouldn’t fight – and I couldn’t help but take solace from the fact that when he recovered from his injuries, if he recovered from his injuries, Jim Weston would be seen as a hero. Of course, The Host wouldn’t like the article, just as he wouldn’t like the fact I had nearly caught him. I hated that I had to wait to see the outcome.
I also searched for an update on the fate of Michelle Reed, Richard Mullis and Milly Hallam. The last update had been two days ago when they had been arrested and charged with murder, but all three remained under police guard in hospital. There was still no indication that poor Milly would even pull through as she remained in a critical condition. In a statement, the police had warned that anyone caught sharing The Host’s videos would face criminal prosecution. The threat wouldn’t work, of course, but only fuel the fire. I had read everything there was in the news but I needed to know more. I dialled Howard’s number.
‘Morning. How’s the eye?’ he said quietly.
‘Fine.’
‘That’s good.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
Howard sighed before he spoke. ‘Rawlinson is being a total prick,’ he whispered, ensuring no one in the office could hear him, despite them all probably agreeing with the sentiment.
‘Shocker.’
‘More so than usual; he’s got the top brass breathing down his neck for results. He’s way out of his depth, and they are starting to see it.’
‘Did you talk to him about the water idea?’
‘I’ve tried, he’s not having it. There are hundreds of lakes, ponds, dykes, streams – Christ, it could even be a bathtub for all we know, without more. He isn’t listening.’
‘So go above him.’
‘I’m seeing the gaffer soon. He looks like he’s got people breathing down his neck too.’
‘Howard, I’ve been watching the CCTV videos again. Something about The Host doesn’t make sense. If I didn’t know, I’d say the sequence of the killings is wrong. In the Chinese he is so calm, but on the bridge he’s a mess.’
‘Yeah. I’ve watched them again too. I had a chat with Jenny in profiling. I asked her about what she thought when she saw the CCTV footage,’ Howard continued. ‘She said something interesting.’
‘Go on.’
‘She said that the discrepancy could be one of two things. The panic on the footbridge could be because there –’ Howard paused, and when he continued, he did so like he was reading from his notebook – ‘has been a shift in his ideology, perhaps he doesn’t trust his agenda.’
‘Why though?’
‘I asked the same question. Jenny suggested it could be public perception influencing him.’
It made sense as when the first Game was played no one knew, no one cared who he was, a
nd by the fourth, the whole country was starting to talk about him. He must have read what was being said; he must have listened to the news. It could impact on his belief system.
‘She said “There could be two sides to this man”,’ Howard continued. ‘“One who knows what he is doing is right, and another that is unsure. Perhaps it’s due to the environment no longer being controlled. Before it was just him, his thoughts, his opinions.”’
‘And now the world has a say in all this?’
‘Exactly, maybe the massive reaction to his crimes has made him unsure.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s it,’ I said. ‘He has planned this, possibly for a very long time. If he had doubts, he would have felt them before people started to talk. Our boy likes the attention, the spectacle; he loves the fear that’s spreading, or else why would he film it? Why would he call himself the Host, and the victims his Players?’
‘Good point.’
‘What’s the second idea Jenny had?’
‘That he might well actually have two sides to him.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘He could have some kind of detached personality disorder.’
‘Detached personality disorder?’ I said.
‘A Jekyll and Hyde sort of thing, Jenny said. It’s worth considering.’
‘Yeah.’ I agreed, it made more sense. But if that was the case, I couldn’t see how it would help us. ‘Is there any update on Jim Weston?’
‘They say he is responding well. Sounds like he was very lucky to not have been more seriously injured from the fall.’
‘That’s really good news that he’s going to fully recover. Does that mean he might be well enough to talk soon?’
‘That’s the impression I got.’
‘Great, that’s really great – and the kid?’
‘He’s home again, but we didn’t get much from him. He said that The Host had a robotic voice, and he didn’t see his face. He was lucky too.’
‘What about the other survivors?’
‘It’s a total mess, everyone agrees they are victims, but until the investigation is concluded, they are still under arrest.’
‘And Milly Hallam?’
‘Too soon to say, she’s still critical.’
‘It’s not fair,’ I said.
He sighed, ‘No, it isn’t.’
‘You sound stressed.’
‘It’s chaos here. So much of our time is being wasted with prank calls. People can be arseholes.’
‘Prank calls?’
‘Yep, we’re getting fake leads with people claiming they are The Host, or know The Host, each lead a dead end.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘It seems like it’s a joke to some.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Not just that, the force is stretched beyond belief, and we can’t be everywhere. Some poor man was attacked in the early hours of this morning in a petrol station, because he was wearing a motorbike helmet.’
‘We have to find this guy.’
In the background I heard Rawlinson shout something. I couldn’t make out what, but he sounded alarmed.
‘Howard?’ I asked, but he didn’t immediately respond. I tried again. ‘Howard, what’s going on?’
‘Hang on.’
I listened, trying to pick out some of the words people were shouting to one another in the background. It sounded chaotic but then I could make out Bradshaw’s booming voice. He didn’t raise his voice often, but when he did, people listened. The chatter had been silenced.
‘I gotta go,’ Howard said in a hushed tone.
‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s posted,’ he whispered. Then the line went dead. I quickly opened my Twitter account and it didn’t take long to find the video which was already being shared.
It looked identical to the first three, the same helmet – but with a small crack in the bottom corner of the visor from where it had connected with my face – and behind, the same white walls. I turned up the volume on my phone. I needed to hear his words as clearly as I could.
‘… You are standing next to a switch that controls the line. If you pull the switch, you save five people. However, there is a single person lying on the side-track. A single life… Most of you would do nothing. That way you are not responsible for taking a life. Inaction being your defence, allowing you to sleep at night.
‘What if you had no choice?
‘What you are about to see is unedited footage of the Fourth Game I played on the night of the 6th of February. The Players didn’t abide by the rules, and so, in my next Game I will ensure that cannot happen again.
‘The Fifth Game is in motion, and my new Players will play at 9 p.m. tonight. I may have been tricked into life being spared but tonight life will end where life began.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Host
4.51 p.m.
Four hours and nine minutes until the next Game
He knew he needed to be planning, preparing for the evening’s entertainment, knowing the Fifth Game would correct the error of the previous night. In the aftermath of Jim Weston, the Twitter poll asking if you would kill, be killed or didn’t know, had added a fourth option: kill yourself. Kill was still the most popular, but the overall percentage had dropped from 68 per cent down to 57 per cent, with the newest option taking most of those votes. He needed it to go back the other way. Only when it was 100 per cent would he stop. Only when everyone knew they would kill would The Games end. And he would play until that happened.
Tonight, there would be no heroes who challenged The Game. Tonight, they would play and someone would die. The outcome would be the most interesting of all The Games he had played so far, because of who he had picked to be The Players. But as much as he tried to concentrate and walk through his plan in his mind’s eye, he kept thinking about the woman, the police officer, who had got too close. He needed to know who she was. He needed to know how much she knew about him. He wouldn’t be able to focus until he at least knew her name, so he started to search. Beginning with DI Paul Rawlinson, the officer who had given a quote for the BBC. Through his foolishly unguarded Facebook page he found a picture that featured the man he had seen near the library, DS Howard Carlson. And then, without much work, he found her, the woman who nearly caught him.
Bingo. Now he had a name, he could dig and find out more. The fact she was a copper meant finding things would be harder, but not impossible. Going onto his secure VPN provider, he began his search, knowing, within the next hour or two, he would know more about her than she did about him.
And he would weave her into his Game.
One day soon, DI Karen Holt would be one of his Players.
Chapter Forty
6.58 p.m.
Two hours and two minutes until the next Game
With Sam being out of the house all day, I couldn’t rest, and so had spent the afternoon walking, lost in my own thoughts – thoughts about The Host and his latest video, about Grayson James. I visited the Chinese again, read cards left by well-meaning people, and as the afternoon drew on, I noticed there was more activity in the media. The wife of Jim Weston had been interviewed. She asked for people’s prayers for her husband’s recovery, she asked for people’s kindness to one another, and she begged The Host to stop. The interview was not only hard to watch but also a big mistake. It would only fuel The Host further. He was rocked because of Jim Weston and the Fourth Game not going to plan. But this interview would give him power again. I doubted anyone in the police knew about the interview until it was on the TV. I suspected Rawlinson would be oblivious to the potential damage it would do.
After wandering for several hours, I made my way to a pub one mile from the city centre, right on the bank of the River Nene. I should have gone home, but going home would mean I was admitting defeat, and I wasn’t ready for that. I messaged Howard, telling him where I was going for a drink if he happened to be nearby; we shouldn’t be meeting, but stil
l.
When I entered, I noticed that besides a few older people drinking, the pub was deserted, deathly quiet for a Saturday night. I smiled at a nervous-looking young lady behind the bar and ordered a pint. I paid, feeling sorry for her that she had to be out at work, probably fearful The Host might walk through the door.
I sat down at a table, and as I sipped my pint my phone pinged.
Hey, just got home, you’re not here. Is everything OK?
Shit. I didn’t message Sam. I couldn’t tell her I was out in the city, walking around. Nor could I tell her I was drinking alone. Both would make her worry, so, I had to lie, again.
Work called me in to help with back-office stuff.
Why didn’t you message? I was worried.
Sorry, love, I forgot, it happened quickly.
OK. Are you going to be home at a decent time this evening? Want some dinner?
I paused, my thumb resting over the keypad for a moment. I typed a reply, the words not coming easy.
Probably not, it’s so busy here, they need all the help they can get.
Sam replied a few seconds later.
I understand, I’m glad they want you back at work. Even if it’s doing the boring bits. X.
I locked my screen and as I looked up, Howard came up the stairs into the pub. He looked tired as he sat down opposite, I searched his face for a sign of anything.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
‘Want a pint?’
‘Please.’
I got up, ordered another pint from the bar girl and put it in front of him.
‘Are you still on shift?’ I asked after we’d both taken a mouthful of lager.
‘No, the boss sent me home. Not slept in a few days.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘I managed to explain to the gaffer we needed to be looking at water, but Rawlinson is convinced it would be close to the city centre, so he argued we need to focus on the facts at hand, with the four previous incidents all happening within a one-mile radius of the city centre – not wild speculation, as he called it.’
The Players Page 16