The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  ‘What?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Shhh.’ I replied, straining to hear. There was something there – a distant noise – but I couldn’t pick out what it was. When he spoke, in the same robotic tone, I jumped and moved the phone away, I noted there was a slight echo that carried his words around the room. Wherever he was, it was big and spacious.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed the false hope this evening. I’ve enjoyed the words of strength and solidarity. I’ve enjoyed how this city has decided to rise against me, to show me that you were no longer playing. Except you have.

  ‘What you are about to see is unedited footage of a game I played tonight when you flooded the streets and were speaking of community and identity. A game I will play again…’

  The screen cut to the image of a terrified young man, tears streaming down his cheeks. As The Host lay down a pair of hedge trimmers and a brick I looked to Sam who had turned grey.

  ‘Lock your phone,’ Sam asked, unable to look away.

  ‘I have to see this,’ I said quietly.

  Sam didn’t respond but left the room quickly. Once she was gone, I turned back to the screen and watched.

  The Sixth Game

  ‘The camera is rolling; you need to say what we have discussed,’ The Host said.

  ‘Please…’

  ‘You know what will happen if you don’t.’

  The young man, no older than twenty-five, looked directly at the camera.

  ‘My name is Nistor Hofer. I am here, in Peterborough city centre, with my brother, Rusu. We have been instructed to play…’ His voice trailed off as he began to cry. I watched as Nistor dropped to his knees sobbing, his right hand covering his face, his left rigidly tied to something; he was a prisoner.

  ‘You don’t want to kill your brother, do you, Nistor?’

  ‘No, I would rather die.’

  ‘You think you would rather die.’

  The camera turned, and I could see a younger man with a cut on his head, also tied to something. If I had to call it, The Host had attacked the smaller brother, told the older to tie himself, and then instructed the younger brother to do the same.

  ‘Rusu. You don’t want to die, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good, that’s good.’

  The Host turned back to Nistor, who had stopped sobbing.

  ‘Tell our audience the rules.’

  Nistor looked up at the camera. I don’t think I had ever seen anyone so afraid. As he spoke, his whole body shook.

  ‘Me and my brother have to fight, if I refuse, he will kill Rusu, if Rusu refuses, he will kill me.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘And if he believes we are not trying, he will kill us both.’

  ‘Well done, Nistor. That’s right; if either of you doesn’t play properly, I will kill the other. Do you both understand?’

  Nistor nodded, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. Rusu slowly dragged himself to his feet and nodded also.

  The Host stepped back, allowing the camera a view of brothers. The younger picked up the saw, the senior the brick. Neither of them spoke. The Host wound up his clock and placed it on the floor so they could both see it. Rusu was the first to strike, slicing through the air with the saw, slowing down just before it hit his brother on the arm, making him bleed, but not as much as it should have. Nistor pushed him back using the brick but there was no force behind it.

  The camera moved as The Host stepped forward, and using a baton, the same he had in the nightclub, I watched as he hit Rusu across the back of his legs, sending him crashing down.

  ‘Next time I’ll aim for his face.’

  Nistor charged at The Host, the brick high in his hand, screaming he would kill him, but as he approached, the binding on his wrist pulled taut and stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Tick tock,’ The Host said.

  Then it happened, the violence exploded.

  As Rusu attacked Nistor it looked like he wanted to hurt, but not kill him. They had to make it look real, or the other would die. I couldn’t imagine being in that situation. Having to hurt someone you loved, hoping it would save them if they then killed you in return. It was difficult to watch, difficult to listen to, and once it was over, both men were on the floor, one face down, blood pooling from a wound on the back of his head where he had been hit with the brick, the second, beside him, a torrent of blood coming from a cut on the inside of his elbow. I couldn’t help but feel that some of their blood was now on my hands, because I hadn’t stopped him when he called me out.

  Once it was over, the video faded back to The Host.

  ‘I want to pose three questions to you all.

  ‘Question 1: You see a runaway train moving toward five incapacitated people lying on the tracks. You are standing next to a lever that controls the line. If you pull the lever, the train will be redirected onto another line, and the five people on the main track will be saved. However, there is a single person lying on that new track. These are the options. You do nothing and allow the train to kill the five people on the main track. Or you pull the switch, diverting the train onto the side-track where it will kill one person. What do you do?

  ‘Question 2: What if you were on the track? You do nothing you die, to live you have to push someone else in front of the train. What then?

  ‘The ultimate question: What makes you so special?’

  I thought the screen was going to fade to black, but it didn’t. The Host continued to speak:

  ‘My final message is for DI Karen Holt. I know who you are. I know you are looking for me, but your search will be in vain. Fear not, however, our paths will cross in time.’

  I lowered my phone, my heart beating fiercely out of my chest. Looking behind me, I could see Sam’s back as she stood watching the kettle boil. I hoped she hadn’t heard the final message to me. The Host had forced me to act. Because doing nothing would make me just a culpable as him. Getting up, I put on my shoes and coat and walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Sam—’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘No, Karen, you don’t have to do anything.’

  ‘I do, Sam, I do. I need to talk to Jim.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jim Weston, the man who jumped.’

  ‘You’re talking like you know him, you don’t, Karen. You don’t know anyone involved. And you are not on this case.’

  ‘He thinks he’s smarter than me, I can use that agai—’

  ‘Because he is smarter than you, he’s smarter than everyone.’

  ‘Sam, I have to.’

  ‘You need to make a choice,’ Sam said, silencing me. ‘You can either stay here and support your wife, who’s scared shitless by the way, or you can go out there searching for him.’

  ‘Sam, that’s not fair.’

  ‘What’s not fair is I’m scared for you, Karen, and you aren’t.’

  ‘Sam, please.’

  ‘Choose, Karen. Choose to stay at home. Choose to see if you carry on with this, you’ll get hurt, or worse.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Choose to accept that throwing yourself into this isn’t dealing with what happened with Grayson James.’

  ‘Sam—’

  ‘Choose to show me I matter more.’

  ‘You do matter more.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Sam, people are getting hurt, people are dying. I need to stop him.’

  I zipped up my coat and repeated, ‘I need to stop him.’

  ‘If you go, I might not be here when you get home,’ she whispered, tears in her eyes.

  I looked at Sam, my eyes brimming also, I hated seeing my wife so upset. But this was more than us disagreeing, this was life and death and he was speaking directly to me, meaning it was now fully my responsibility to stop him. It was time to get off the back foot and be proactive.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as I kissed Sam, turned, and disappeared out of the front door. If The Host wanted me to
play in his little Game, I would, and I would beat the bastard at it.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  9.23 p.m.

  I took my place on the back seat of the bus and rested my head on the cold glass, watching the houses go by. I should have taken the car for two reasons: first, it wasn’t safe for me to be out, at any time of day, and second, if I had the car then Sam would likely not leave. But what kind of person would I be to stop my spouse doing what she felt was right? So the bus would have to do.

  I knew Sam wasn’t bluffing; I knew when I went home, she would be gone. Not because she was unreasonable, but because it was right. I knew that, and still I had to leave. The Game I was now being forced to play was one of small margins. A word here, an action there, could be all I needed to latch on to a new thread that I could pull and unravel The Host’s tapestry. And time was ticking. The Host would play again, but more pressingly, Rawlinson would have his clearance to interview Jim Weston. And I needed to speak to him first. This was personal now.

  By the time I arrived at Fulbridge Drive the streets were entirely deserted. As I alighted the bus, the driver smiled with a faint line of concern, then he closed the doors and pulled away. Finding number 117A, I hesitated before ringing the doorbell. It was late, perhaps too late, but Rawlinson would be there first thing, so it was now or never.

  After a short wait, there was movement behind the frosted glass of the door, and I heard a safety chain being slotted into place, the snap of a lock, then the door opened just wide enough for half a tired face to show through. I knew from the TV press conference that it was Jim Weston’s wife, Susan.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you so late…’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked again, clearly in no mood for small talk or pleasantries.

  ‘I was wondering if I could talk with Jim.’

  ‘Are you press?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Not strictly.’

  ‘So that’s a yes. If you want to talk to him, you’ll have to go through our solicitor.’

  Susan Weston began to close the door, and I saw my chance to find out something, anything that might help, fade away.

  ‘I’m Karen Holt.’

  The door paused.

  ‘I’m the person The Host has mentioned, I’m the woman from the video by the rowing lake.’

  The door opened again, the safety chain still attached. ‘You nearly saved that man.’

  ‘Yes, nearly, but I didn’t.’

  Susan paused, nodded, waited for me to continue.

  ‘Have you seen the news? What happened earlier this evening?’

  Susan nodded again. ‘I thought we might have beaten him at his own game.’

  ‘I did too. All I want, Mrs Weston, is to stop it happening again.’

  ‘And you think Jim can help?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe. But I hope you can understand why I’m here. I have to try at least,’ I replied honestly.

  ‘You said you weren’t strictly with the police. What did you mean by that?’ Susan asked, and I knew it was a test of some kind.

  ‘I’m not on the case.’

  ‘I think you’re lying,’ she said and began to close the door.

  ‘No, wait. I’m not. I’m on restricted duty following an incident.’

  ‘What incident?’

  I didn’t want to say it, but I had no choice. Susan clearly wasn’t in the mood for any bullshit. ‘A man died while being arrested.’

  ‘I see – that Grayson James thing?’ she asked. I simply nodded. ‘You were involved in that?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, catching me by surprise.

  ‘I’m sorry about Jim. I just want to help everyone who has been forced to be a Player. They are all victims. All of them, Jim included.’

  Susan closed the door, and after releasing the safety chain, she opened it fully.

  ‘You better come inside. I’ll go get him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, stepping over the threshold to the Westons’ home.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Susan said, gesturing to the living room as she took to the stairs. I nodded and entered, perching myself on the edge of their sofa. From above, I could hear voices, Susan’s and a deep one belonging to Jim. It sounded like she was waking him.

  As I waited, my eye was drawn to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Pictures of Susan in her wedding dress, from maybe two or three years ago. Besides that, one of Susan, Jim and a young girl. The daughter posed between the two adults, but the girl leant ever so slightly towards her mother. Again, the picture looked recent. It told me they were a new family, and the daughter wasn’t sure of Jim.

  Footsteps came down the stairs. ‘He’ll be down in a minute. He’s still a little sore.’ She said when she joined me in the living room.

  ‘From what I heard he was very lucky. You look like a really nice family.’ I gestured towards the mantelpiece.

  Susan smiled. ‘Our wedding was eighteen months ago.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I married young, my daughter’s father was a bad boy – you know the type all teenage girls are attracted to.’ I smiled but didn’t pass comment. ‘Anyway, it all fell apart when my daughter, April, was three. He lives in France now, tries to come back a couple of times a year.’

  ‘Are April and Jim close?’

  ‘At first, no. Jim is sweet, he likes to listen, offer support. He’s a really kind man. I’m not saying April’s dad isn’t kind, but Jim is attentive and sensitive. She found it a little – um, I can’t think of the word.’

  ‘Intense?’ I offered.

  She relaxed. ‘Yes, intense.’

  ‘But not now?’

  ‘No. When Jim was forced to…’ She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to.

  From behind, a male voice spoke. ‘Susan, love,’ he said, his voice tired and sore as he limped towards her and gave her a hug before sitting down.

  ‘Jim, take it easy. You should have shouted; I would have helped you down the stairs,’ she said, helping him raise his left leg and place it on a pouffe.

  ‘Mr Weston…’ I began, trying not to stare at the bandage on his head, the bruises creeping under the bottom, extending towards his jaw. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you this late.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he smiled, several teeth were missing; it looked painful.

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to talk.’

  ‘Susan tells me you’re the copper who was in that video, the one he spoke about?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But you’re not working the case?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘It might be the medication – it’s made me a bit hazy – but I don’t understand.’

  ‘I want to stop this man. And I’ve been close,’ I said. I told him what happened that night on the footbridge after he had been taken to hospital.

  ‘Is that how you got that bruise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then you nearly saved that man in the water?’

  ‘Nearly, yes.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He’s leaving clues, so far, I’ve been mostly able to work them out,’ I said, not mentioning that I’d failed to work out the last one.

  ‘I see. So it’s a game you two are playing?’

  ‘I guess you could say that. But I don’t want to play at all. I want this to stop.’

  ‘So how can I help? The police have already taken my initial statement from the hospital.’

  ‘I want to know what happened before Lucas arrived.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The other Player. The kid.’

  ‘Lucas. You know, they wouldn’t tell me his name at the hospital. Well,’ he paused to shift his weight and get comfortable, ‘I don’t know what else I can say. I found him on the ground, at first I thought he was hurt, until he rolled over and I saw the helmet.’


  Jim related how The Host revealed himself. How Lucas walked past with a girl, and Jim had had to hide The Host from sight. When Lucas returned on his own, The Game began.

  ‘He hid on the footbridge?’ I asked. ‘How?’

  ‘He cowered beside me; I used my body to block him from view. I don’t know why I didn’t do something. I should have,’ he said, as he began to choke on his own words. Susan rubbed her husband’s shoulder, telling him he hadn’t done anything wrong, and I waited, permitting the man his need to cry. Afterwards, he blew his nose and apologised.

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Mr Weston. And don’t second-guess yourself. You handled the situation better than anyone else could have.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘In a game where someone had to die, no one did.’

  ‘But the boy, I could have stopped him seeing it.’

  ‘The boy is alive because of you, and he will get the help he needs after what’s happened. None of it was your fault, love,’ Susan said.

  ‘Mr Weston,’ I continued, ‘I’m struggling to picture the scene. You said The Host hid on the bridge. How was he not spotted?’

  ‘I blocked him from view. It wasn’t hard because of his stature.’

  ‘His stature?’

  ‘Yes, he was smaller than me.’

  ‘How tall are you, Mr Weston?’

  ‘Five ten-ish.’

  ‘And you say he was shorter?’

  ‘Yes, a good five inches, I’d say.’

  ‘Are you sure about the height?’

  ‘Yes, a hundred per cent.’

  Something didn’t seem right about what Jim was saying. A knot formed in my stomach. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘No, not really. He stopped the kid when he was on his own, the rest is in the video. I’m sorry I’m not much help.’

  ‘No, Mr Weston, you are, you’ve made a huge difference in the case.’

  ‘But you’re no closer.’

  ‘Maybe not, but the public perception has changed because of you,’ I replied, praying that was still true after the latest hope-destroying video. ‘You’re a hero, Mr Weston. You saved a boy’s life a few nights ago. Never forget that.’