Michaela Balfour
I’m with you all the way. If Jim can be a hero, I can too.
Jack Anderson
Guys, there’s been a news update, shall I post it?
Amanda Belkin
Jack Anderson
‘The Host’s’ Reign of Terror Continues
A pensioner who was found dead at Peterborough’s rowing club is the latest victim of The Host.
The wife of victim John Stroud, 68, who has been named by neighbours as Maggie Stroud, 66, was arrested at the scene and is being questioned.
The latest video from the person calling himself The Host has been posted online, showing the scene where a fatality was reported. It appears Mr Stroud was killed on The Host’s instructions.
A police spokesperson said: ‘We are appealing for witnesses in and around the area of the rowing lake or Ferry Meadows between the times of 8 p.m–10 p.m. to contact us.’
The identity of the woman in the video The Host spoke to directly in his final message has been locally named as Detective Inspector Karen Holt.
Sources have told us DI Holt is believed to be currently suspended from active duty following the incident involving Grayson James. A spokesman for the Police Federation has refused to comment on her involvement in the case.
As of yet, there has been no news of the survivors, Michelle Reed, Richard Mullis, Milly Hallam or the minor, who cannot be named for legal reasons.
Jim Weston, the hero who jumped from the bridge, in order not to be a Player, still remains in hospital, under police protection.
If you have been affected by recent events, have your say here.
Emily Curtis
I think I remember reading about the Grayson James thing.
Amanda Belkin
I do too, God, could you imagine being her? What an awful few weeks at work.
Johnny Ormo
She’s not even at work, she’s suspended.
Amanda Belkin
So she’s doing this off her own back? Trying to stop him.
Johnny Ormo
That’s how I’ve read it.
Jack Anderson
Jesus. She’s either brave, or stupid.
Emily Curtis
Guys, I’ve had an idea. Instead of hiding away tonight, what if we were out? What if we were more like this Karen Holt?
Johnny Ormo
Emily, I said I was angry, not suicidal.
Emily Curtis.
I mean, what if we created an event. Using #thePlayers. What if we got loads of us, hundreds of us out in the city centre? At all of the sights maybe. A show of force, a vigil for those who have had to play.
Jack Anderson
It’s also a big ‘fuck you’ to The Host. That’s actually not a bad idea.
Claire Turner
It’s great. Enough of us, we will be safe.
Emily Curtis
And we can show him we are not going to take what he is doing anymore. Last night he targeted a retired couple, the night before, a kid. I say enough is enough.
Johnny Ormo
Fuck it, I’m in!
Claire Turner
Me too.
Jack Anderson
And me!
Amanda Belkin
Create the event, tag it in here. Let’s see if we can fill the streets tonight as a big fat ‘up yours’ to The Host.
Emily Curtis
Even though we’re all really scared right now let’s show him we’re not going to live in fear. It’s time to take a stand.
Chapter Forty-Eight
7.02 p.m.
Fifty-eight minutes until the next Game
Knowing I’d been only a matter of metres away from The Host at the rowing lake made my head spin. I didn’t want to be caught up in this, I didn’t want to be the centre of anything, I wasn’t ready. But somehow, I was at the heart of it all now, and when The Host called me out in the video, I knew there would be massive consequences. I’d had a phone call earlier in the afternoon and stern words from Bradshaw with the instructions to go home immediately, lock the doors, stay inside. The IOPC would definitely know, and I was likely going to lose my job. The personal damage I was still working through. Sam was currently upstairs and I was sure I could hear her crying. I needed her, I felt myself drowning, but my actions had pushed her to the limits. I had lied countless times. It was right I was being held accountable. I needed her, but she needed to have some space from me, and I had to honour that. All I could do was watch the news helplessly, while waiting for a message or call from Howard that I knew wouldn’t come. Not now. We hadn’t – I hadn’t – worked out The Host’s latest clue. I had failed to understand what that rock was telling me.
The city was in chaos. Thousands of people were in the streets, protesting, their actions in defiance of the terror that they all felt. The Host’s latest attempt to strike fear into the hearts of the public – his compulsion to make the world see there was no good – had backfired on him. The hope Jim Weston sparked when he decided to throw himself off a bridge rather than hurt another human had become an inferno when the heartbreaking video of the Stroud couple went viral.
Peterborough was angry. Everyone covered it: ITV and Channel 4 featured it on the 6 p.m. slots. Sky News and the BBC were live throughout. I sat glued, watching it all. I could see officers I didn’t recognise who must have been drafted in from Cambridge or Nottingham. I knew I should be trying to speak to Sam, beg for forgiveness, but I couldn’t pull my eyes from what I was seeing.
People weren’t just in the city centre, they were also at the scenes where the crimes had taken place: the Chinese, the nightclub, the library, the footbridge and the rowing lake were thronged by hundreds of people, placing candles, and paying their respects.
None of it changed the fact it was going to happen again, and with people out, needing policing, there would be fewer officers available to find The Host.
On Sky News they showed overhead footage of Bridge Street, rammed and defiant, a street that was getting progressively busier and busier, then they cut to a shot of a woman holding a small child somewhere amongst the crowd.
‘I think it’s important for people to be out together – we can’t let this man terrorise us anymore. He is trying to teach us all we are bad, so we need to prove that we aren’t, that people are basically good.’
A person off-camera asked if that was why she had brought along her child.
‘Yes, I want her to grow up knowing that this city is a safe place to be, where people look out for one another. We are a close-knit community.’
Another person came onto the screen, from another part of the burgeoning vigil. The young man looked like he’d had a few drinks, and as he spoke, he didn’t look at the camera or the interviewer.
‘This is what we should have done after the first Game – we will not let terrorists win. If we stick together, we have safety in numbers. We can fight terror with love.’
I wanted to believe him, but it didn’t stick.
The camera switched to show footage of the vigil outside the Chinese takeaway. The studio reporter described the scene.
‘… the site of the first crime, of course, was the Chinese restaurant in Fletton. As you can see from the images, dozens of people are in the area, laying flowers and lighting candles…’
The camera zoomed in on the ground outside the front door where a card to Timothy and Michelle sat open, the message showing the hashtag #protectednotarrested.
The next half hour’s viewing consisted of the same scenes: footage from the city centre, the occasional interview, and images of the other areas where crowds were forming. Each time a new location came into shot that was busier than the last. And the clock ticked down.
Twenty-six minutes.
I was unable to blink as I watched the screen, looking for anything that might be a clue. Trying to work out what that bloody rock meant that was found by the rowing lake. Really, all I could do, all anyone could do, was hope that because
the city had taken a stand, The Host’s plans had been disrupted, and I hated it.
Because deep down I knew, even if tonight he didn’t play, he would tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, and there was no way to stop him.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The Host
7.43 p.m.
Seventeen minutes until the next Game
Moving effortlessly through the crowds, his song playing in his headphones, The Host enjoyed what he was seeing – confirmation that it truly was a wonderful life. People smiled and talked and drank. And he smiled with them. Their reaction was exactly what he had dreamed of, it was part of the reason the Stroud couple had been chosen. The world would either become fully docile and accepting, as he first thought, or agitated like this. People were incensed yet optimistic, they believed they could make a difference. Along with the anger, he heard conversations of hope. Hope was a dangerous thing. It can lift a person one moment and crush them the next.
In the throng of people, someone played music through a portable speaker, making those around toe-tap; The Host joined in too. Dancing to his own song, arms high above his head, reaching for the heavens. He didn’t care what he looked like; he didn’t care that some were laughing at him. He was high on his Game, he was high on the fact they were all there, because of him, and they would never know.
Up ahead, close to the archway that led to the cathedral – the very spot he knew The Game would work because of a homeless man and his dog – he saw a familiar face. A part of him knew he should give him a wide berth, and yet he just couldn’t help himself. His invincibility, his invisibility insisted he approached. As he drew close to DS Carlson, he smiled apologetically and removed his headphones.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Is everything all right?’ Carlson asked. For a moment The Host thought he might recall his face from only a few hours earlier, but the spectacle of the city masked him.
‘Yes, sorry, I thought I wanted to be here this evening, but really, it’s all a bit much,’ he said, loving each word that slid off his tongue. ‘Do you know whether the buses are running? I heard they weren’t.’
‘Yeah, it’s a bit much for me too,’ Carlson agreed. ‘Let me radio, see if anyone is close to the bus station and knows what’s going on.’
The Host smiled as DS Carlson turned his back and spoke into the closed-circuit radio on his shoulder. After a moment, Carlson turned back.
‘Yes, all buses still seem to be running.’
‘Brilliant, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Make sure you get home safely.’
‘I will, thank you.’
The Host turned and walked away, back into the heart of the ever-growing crowd. Once he was confident DS Carlson could no longer see him, he turned back and headed down Bridge Street towards his next location. Around him people held crudely drawn cardboard signs. WE WILL NOT BE AFRAID OF YOU, one shouted. Another said that The Host was a monster. They were right, he was a monster hiding in plain sight, a monster that looked just like them, that sounded just like them. He was the most wanted person in England, he was all anyone could talk about. They could grab him right now, stop him, stop The Game they so fervently protested against. But they wouldn’t, because he was one of them, a mirror reflection of their innermost thoughts. Instead they smiled when he agreed with their signs, patted him on the back when he danced with them, hugged him when he spoke of defiance and courage and love instead of hate. He was just like them, or rather, they were just like him. As he made his way towards the site of his next Game, he saw another sign: WE WILL NEVER PLAY YOUR GAME. WE WOULD RATHER DIE.
They were like him; the only difference was he knew the truth. But they would get there, just like him; just like Michelle Reed and Milly Hallam and Richard Mullis and Maggie Stroud. Just like another would very, very soon.
Putting his headphones back on, he played his song, drowning out their noise. The ballad in his ears contrasted with the energetic and chaotic movement of the people around him. It was beautiful, like they were moving in slow motion. Swaying to his own rhythm, he moved towards his destination.
The Sixth Game was going to be perfect. He couldn’t wait to see what would happen when they learned who the next Players were.
Chapter Fifty
8.22 p.m.
Twenty-two minutes had passed since the time The Host had given, and the police were still diligently holding their posts. There was no sense of panic, no officers rushing to a crime scene. The news broadcaster who spoke over the images of smiling, dancing people, raising their glasses and toasting a victory over terrorism, couldn’t hide their personal elation. Too much time had passed, and there had been no indication the ‘Game’ had been played. I didn’t want to believe it until my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. Pulling it out, I looked at the screen; it was dark which confused me – then I realised it was the other one, the burner. And only Howard had the number. I took a deep breath and retrieved it, not knowing which way this conversation would go. I could hope, but hope seldom counted for much.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ Howard replied quietly, then after a beat, ‘There was no call.’
‘What?’
‘There was no call, it seems people’s reactions have spooked him.’
‘Oh,’ I said, unsure how to react.
‘Yeah, I don’t know if I trust it either.’
‘Is that why you’ve rung?’
‘Partly. Jim Weston was discharged an hour ago. He’s back home.’
‘I see.’
‘Jim’s wife has got a solicitor. The police cannot talk to him unless it’s formalised.’
‘Why the bloody hell would she do that?’ I asked.
‘I don’t blame her. She’s freaking out.’
‘But he didn’t do anything.’
‘I guess, neither did the other survivors. She’s got a point though, right?’
‘Yeah, she has,’ I conceded. ‘But why are you telling me this?’
‘We’re going to try to get Jim into the station to talk. Rawlinson is leading.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah, not good. I’m stuck here, in town, until the crowds disperse.’
‘You want me to go speak to him?’
‘Karen, I hate this, all of it, but if Rawlinson speaks to him first, he’ll back poor Jim into a corner, make him feel like he did something wrong. He’s too heavy-handed for something so delicate.’
‘Howard, it didn’t help when I spoke to Michelle.’
‘No, you’re right. However, Jim saw the conflicted side of The Host. Maybe he saw something that no one else has?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘I just want this to end, I want to catch this fucker.’
‘Me too.’ Howard had got me thinking. There was no doubt The Host was conflicted on the bridge; it was likely to be the reason it didn’t go to his ‘plan’. He was off his Game; he might have slipped. Jim might have a detail that we didn’t know. A way to find him. ‘What’s the address?’
‘117A, Fulbridge Drive.’
‘I can’t promise I’ll go, but I’ll try.’
‘That’s all I can ask for. This all feels personal now.’
‘Yeah, it does.’
I didn’t say goodbye before hanging up the phone because behind me, Sam had entered the room and cleared her throat.
‘Hi Sam,’ I said quietly.
‘Hi,’ she replied, taking a seat beside me. Her eyes were puffy and red. ‘Howard?’
‘Yeah?’
Sam shook her head, her lips clamped shut as if she was trying not to say something. She took a deep breath. ‘So what’s happening?’ she asked, looking at the TV.
‘It seems that he didn’t do it tonight.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Yeah,’ I replied. Sam sensed I was unsure.
‘Karen?’
‘I don’t know, I’m over-thinking it.’
‘What was that about Fulbridge Drive?’
‘And Howard just told you that?’
I didn’t reply but looked at Sam imploringly.
‘No,’ she said, matter-of-fact.
‘Sam…’
‘No, Karen.’
‘I need you to see this from my perspective. This guy, this Host he is—’
‘I don’t care what he is, you are not at work, you aren’t on this case. This maniac filmed you and spoke out to you directly in the last video. Karen, he singled you out by name. When will you realise this is dangerous?’
‘I know it’s dangerous, but Sam, my job has always been dangerous.’
‘Not like this. This is different: a risk you don’t have to take, and you bloody well know it.’
‘What am I supposed to do, sit back and watch it on the TV?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do, just like me, just like everyone else is.’
‘But it’s my job,’ I pleaded.
‘Right now, it isn’t, is it?’
‘I can’t just switch off, Sam.’
‘Your job right now,’ Sam continued, ignoring me, ‘is to work on keeping this family safe, given that he knows who you are.’
Sam’s words stunned me into silence. I had been so desperate to help that I hadn’t even thought of the danger I might be putting Sam in. I felt ashamed at how reckless I’d been. Sam was right, I hadn’t been keeping her safe and that realisation hurt, especially when we’d vowed to love and protect each other. The day I married my wife, I swore I would always put her first. And I was failing.
The TV behind us fell silent; I assumed Sam had turned it off, but Sam’s eyes lifted to the screen, confusion painted on her face. The live footage of the city centre still played but now the crowd had fallen silent, their heads cast down, the night illuminated by a thousand phone screens.
‘No, God, no,’ Sam whispered, her hands going to her mouth. She looked at me as I grabbed my phone and went online.
It didn’t take long to find what the crowds were staring at. The screen on my phone was filled with the image of the motorbike helmet. Behind him wasn’t the same white wall as in his previous posts, this one was dark, he was somewhere new. I thought I could hear something in the background. Turning up the volume on my phone I put the speaker to my ear.
The Players Page 20