I didn’t say anything as I fought to remove her from the radiator. The cords were tight, so I grabbed a pair of scissors from the desk and began to cut through the thick plastic that was biting into Sam’s wrists. I noticed a small, red pipe-cleaner figurine on the table but ignored it. After several attempts, I managed to hack through, and Sam’s arms dropped to her side. I didn’t wait for Sam to nurse her wounds or shake blood back into her lifeless limbs before digging her under her armpits and dragging her to her feet.
‘Sam, we have to get you out of here. Please, you have to do exactly as I say then we’ll both be safe,’ I urged, and opened the classroom window. The drop was only a few feet onto a gravel border of the asphalt playground. Nothing obstructed the drop, which wasn’t high enough to cause any harm.
‘Come on,’ I demanded, and in shock, Sam drew by my side. ‘Climb on the windowsill, I’ll help you out.’
Sam climbed up awkwardly. Then, throwing one of her legs out of the window, she straddled it for a moment before the other joined on the outside of the ledge. I held her until she was ready, and then Sam jumped. She landed heavily, let out a little yelp as she hit the floor.
‘Sam, have you got your phone?’
‘No, it’s by the whiteboard, he broke it.’
I looked behind me, sure enough, there it was, the screen smashed. I passed her my mobile phone through the window. ‘Find somewhere to hide. Ring Bradshaw. Tell him what’s happened.’
‘Wait – you’re not coming with me?’
‘No. When he sees you’re gone, he’ll either try to find you, or slip away.’
‘Karen, what are you doing?’ Sam begged as I began to close the window once more.
‘Ring Bradshaw, hide somewhere, stay low until he arrives. I can’t let him get away again,’ I said, retreating to go and find The Host.
Chapter Seventy-Four
The Host
9.48 p.m.
Twelve minutes until the next Game
He felt panic; it was something new. He often felt grief, shame, anger, hatred, frustration, but for a long time, not panic. The last time was that moment just before he and his mother had held hands, listened to that song and accepted they would drown. That day that made him who he was. The day he watched two strangers make a choice and save him over his mother.
He needed to regain control of his emotions, his status. He couldn’t find Karen Holt, couldn’t hear her moving around the school, playing her childish game of hide and seek. She thought she would outsmart him, and for a moment, she had by luring him out. But if she thought she was going to win a game that was of his design, she was sadly mistaken. She would either comply, or he would kill Miss Clarence without The Game being played. It might muddy his message, but things had gone beyond that – they had, if he was honest, after the incident with Jim Weston.
As he entered the classroom again, his stomach dropped: his teacher was gone.
‘No!’ he yelled, running over to the radiator. The cable ties were on the floor, and on the windowsill a pair of scissors that had been on the desk when he’d tied the teacher up. Karen Holt had been in; Karen Holt had snuck past him and freed her wife. He had foolishly slipped up, and both were gone, and he didn’t doubt that they had already contacted the police who would be on their way to arrest him. He needed to leave, quickly.
The battle was lost, but his message would live on. It was time to regroup, go into hiding, start again somewhere else long after the dust had settled. His message was global. He could play anywhere he wanted. He would have to disappear and be patient until he knew they would never find him. His work wasn’t done. Not until they all understood. Grabbing the motorbike helmet, he made his way towards the door, but something caught his eye and stopped him. On the whiteboard, a rudimentary drawing of a steam train, above, an arrow, and beside it, in large capital letters, a question.
IT’S NOT YET 10 P.M.
DO YOU STILL WANT TO PLAY?
The Eighth Game
I hoped he was enticed by my challenge and would follow my arrows to the sports hall, where I waited for him. When I heard footsteps approaching, I felt relief and terror in equal measure. He had taken the bait, which meant Sam was safe and hopefully Bradshaw had got the message and was on his way. But until then, he and I would be alone, and he would want me dead. I just had to buy a little time until help arrived.
As the gym doors opened, The Host stepped in. His motorbike helmet was back on. He walked confidently towards me, and as he drew close, he spoke. The voice, altered, as always, rang out.
‘Hello, DI Holt.’
‘I’m glad you could make it,’ I replied, hoping my fear didn’t show in my voice.
‘I know what you’re doing. You’re keeping me busy until back-up arrives.’
‘How have you drawn that conclusion?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. You freed your wife, gave her your phone, told her to call it in, and now you’re enticing me, knowing I would be curious to see you eye to eye, even though we have already met albeit briefly.’
‘Yes, thank you for that, it hurt like hell,’ I said, tapping the side of my head where he’d hit me with the motorbike helmet.
‘You startled me,’ he said by way of apology.
‘You think you’ve got me all worked out, don’t you?’
‘Don’t I?’
‘Partly,’ I said, as I started to move towards the light switches on the far right-hand side of the gym. ‘I did free my wife; I did help her escape out of the window. But…’ I pulled out the burner phone I’d bought to speak with Howard. ‘My phone is still in my pocket.’
‘Interesting. Were you not tempted to call the police?’
‘Tempted, yes. But I wanted to speak to you.’
‘I see, and avenge your partner?’
‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’
I flicked the switch and the ceiling lights hummed to life. The old fluorescent tubes lit up, weak at first, but growing with intensity as they warmed. The Host looked up, and as he did, I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
‘So, DI Holt, are you suggesting that you and I become Players in my Game?’
‘That depends.’
‘On?’
‘On whether there will be repercussions for anyone I love.’
‘No repercussions.’
I moved again, circling back the other way, putting myself further away from the exit. I knew he would assume I was making a mistake, removing my only chance of escape. I hoped he wasn’t right. He would be closer to the exit, and closer to the police who would hopefully see the gym lights on and come charging in. He took a look behind him, which gave me a second to look at my watch.
9.58 p.m.
‘Two minutes,’ I said, and I suspected he smiled inside that helmet.
I had to buy a little more time. Bradshaw would be close by now, I just had to wait until he found us.
‘Theo.’ Saying his name caught him off guard, and his body recoiled, just a step, but it was enough for me to know he wasn’t feeling in control anymore. ‘You see a runaway train moving toward people lying on the tracks. You are standing next to a lever that controls the line. If you pull the lever, you save five people. However, there is a single person lying on the side-track. A single life…’
‘I’m flattered to be quoted, DI Holt,’ The Host said, removing his backpack and placing it on the floor in front of him.
‘I think what you have done will be quoted for a long time,’ I replied, hoping I was playing to his ego.
‘That’s my plan.’
He drew open the rucksack and emptied it on the floor. Out fell zip ties, a hammer, a small hacksaw, a Stanley knife, a thick chain and a pair of garden shears. Standing up, he reached above his head and turned on the GoPro. I flashed a look at my watch.
9.59 p.m.
‘I decided not to use conventional weapons with my games. Knives and the like would be too easy to identify, so everything here is from a garden centre or this school. If only
someone had thought to check, you might have been able to stop me.’
‘Maybe, or maybe you are just too smart.’
‘DI Holt, are you trying to butter me up?’
‘Just allowing everything to be said, while we have time.’
‘I see. A catharsis of sorts.’
I saw something in the high windows directly behind The Host: lights. Car lights. Bradshaw was here, he was coming in. The lights went out, and I could swear there was the faintest sound of footsteps coming into the building. It would be easy for them to find us; The Host had laid a trail into the school, as I had done from the classroom to the gym. They just had to follow the arrows. For a second, I thought The Host heard the footsteps too. But the helmet would buffer out quieter sounds. I needed to keep talking, keep him distracted for a little longer.
‘Ask me again, what I would do if I was by the track.’
‘Do you have an answer now?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘OK, I’m fascinated by you, Karen Holt. I’ll bite. You see a runaway train. What do you do? Throw the switch or watch them die?’
‘If it was the first time it happened, I’d throw the switch, saving five people.’
‘But in the process killing one.’
‘Yes. Killing one. It’s something I know I can live with.’
‘Of course, you know all about killing someone, don’t you, DI Holt?’
‘As do you.’
‘No, no. I’ve never killed anyone. Hurt, yes, but never killed,’ he said, crouching down to pick up the hammer. He felt the weight of it, flipped it in his hand, nodded. Satisfied he had chosen his weapon well, he stood and continued. ‘I’ve just allowed people to find the part of themselves that could kill. Until tonight, that is.’
‘So, yes, first time, I would throw the switch. But this isn’t the first time it’s happened, is it?’ I said, continuing, ignoring his threatening stance and words. ‘It’s the eighth.’
‘So?’
‘I’d know the train was coming, wouldn’t I? I’d stop the train before it could happen,’ I said.
Understanding, he stumbled backwards and as he spun for the exit, we both saw torchlight coming towards us through the crack under the gym door. He panicked, trying to find a way out – being caught wasn’t part of his campaign. When he realised he had been played, and cornered, he turned to face me once more.
‘You bitch!’
The gym door burst open and three officers charged in. Raising the hammer high above his head, he ran towards me. I lifted my hands to try as best I could to save my skull from being crushed. Then, he stopped, his body going rigid, the hammer falling from his grasp just before he fell to the ground, the taser cables embedded in his back.
As the police officers dropped their weight onto his body so he couldn’t move and placed him in handcuffs, I staggered back against the wall. I could barely catch my breath, my own internal hammer pounding so hard, I was sure I would die. The Host was dragged to his feet and they began to remove him from the gym. As they left the room, I slid down the wall, put my head in my hands, and slowed my breathing down, regaining control.
‘Karen!’ A voice came from the back of the gym, and as I looked up, Sam was coming towards me. I tried to get to my feet, but my body wouldn’t comply – it didn’t matter, though, because Sam dropped to her knees and grabbed hold of me.
‘Oh God, I thought you were going to die,’ she sobbed.
‘Shhh, it’s all right, Sam, I’m fine. Everything is going to be OK. Everything is going to be OK.’
One Week Later
THE HOST’S TRAGIC IDENTITY REVEALED
Ross Cooper for the Peterborough Post
Further details have emerged about the identity of The Host, the fifteen-year-old boy behind the violent ‘Games’ that brought Peterborough to a standstill and made headlines across the country.
Although the boy cannot be named for legal reasons, it is widely believed that he was a student at the City Academy. And according to fellow students, he had faced personal tragedy of his own.
A family member unaware of his crimes revealed that his mother, a nurse, had died the previous year in a car accident in which the suspect himself was involved.
Exactly a year before the death of Timothy Smart, the suspect and his mother were involved in a car accident, skidding off the road into a water-filled dyke close to Ramsey.
A couple who do not wished to be named recalled that upon witnessing the accident, they had to make a ‘horrific choice’ as to who they would save and chose the teenager.
There has yet to be any published information as to charges or a court date.
A service of remembrance honouring the victims Timothy Smart, Alexandru Stoica, Roberta Richardson, John Stroud, Nistor and Rusu Hofer, and Detective Sergeant Howard Carlson is due to take place next week at Peterborough Cathedral.
DI Karen Holt, the officer in the centre of this crime, has yet to return to work.
Jack Anderson > Peterborough Free Discussion
I know it’s all over, but I read an article online about The Host, did anyone else see it? I hated the guy, but now, reading this, I don’t know what I think anymore…
39 Comments
Claire Turner
I can’t believe he lost everything and no one helped. He was just a fifteen-year-old kid.
Johnny Ormo
Doesn’t change what he did though, does it? I still think he is evil. Regardless of what comes out now, all those people died because of him.
Claire Turner
Have you seen what’s been said online about when they went into The Host’s address?
Johnny Ormo
No?
Claire Turner
They found loads of pipe-cleaner models of people. So fucked up.
Johnny Ormo
Jesus.
Claire Turner
Gets worse, the feature I read also says that they found evidence of The Host having multiple social media accounts, they didn’t say any names, but did say one of those accounts was used to set up the vigil on the night the brothers played.
Amanda Belkin
What, do they mean Emily?
Claire Turner
It seems so, I have since tried to make contact, her Facebook page is blocked.
Jack Anderson
ShitCan’t believe we were talking to The Host this whole time!!!!
Claire Turner
I guess that’s the power of social media, we can all hide behind it, pretend to be someone else.
Jack Anderson
I know, but he fooled us, I thought Emily was real, she looked real. It’s so scary.
Amanda Belkin
Yeah. It is. We all chatted like we were the same. She was just like us.
Claire Turner
Online, we can be whoever we want.
Jack Anderson
It’s crazy, if it’s true, The Host was an admin on this page, The Host pretended to care when we spoke of fear and offered kind words to those of us who knew someone who had to be a Player. Emily, or rather, The Host organised the vigil in the city, and then played right under our noses.
Johnny Ormo
Goes to show, anyone could be a Host, hiding in plain sight, waiting for the next Player…
Acknowledgements
Well, we are here again. For me, this the hardest part of writing a book, as there are so many people to thank for the journey I have been on! I find it all a bit overwhelming at how many people are in my corner, and how lucky I truly am, I struggle to know where to start. But start I shall.
Firstly, I need to thank my editor, Katie Seaman. Writing The Players has been the toughest undertaking of my career so far – this book has challenged me, and I need to thank you for being there every step of the way. This book has changed from a rough idea into something I am incredibly proud of, because of your hard work. I’m so excited for what is next for us. Let’s keep pushing the boundaries and I cannot wait to see whe
re it takes us.
Also, a big thank you to the team at HQ: Melissa, Izzy, Fliss, Harriet, Sammy, Hannah and Darren. The work you do behind the scenes in helping me find readers is something I’m so grateful for, I just wish I could tell you more often.
Thank you to Jon Appleton for such wonderful work on the copyedit of this book and to Kate Oakley and Lisa at the Brewster Project for THAT COVER! Every time I look at it, I get giddy.
To my agent, Hayley Steed, you are my rock. There has been several meltdowns on this journey, and every time I felt myself unravel, you have sewn me back together again. Even during the difficult time of lockdown, you have always been there, and I honestly count my blessings. You do so much, without even knowing it. I am so proud to have you as my agent, and to be part of the Madeleine Milburn Agency.
To the man who came into a takeaway about two years ago, and told me I was going to die, I doubt you will read this, but despite scaring the s*** out of me, I need to thank you. Without your ridiculous prank or genuine homicidal thoughts (I still don’t know which one it was) I wouldn’t have had the idea for The Players. And to the man whose name I never learned, who was braver than me, and scared him away, thank you also, for you know, not letting something awful happen.
For help with the police research in this book, thank you Police Constable Kirsty Hulley and Police Constable Chris Smith. Chris – thank you for showing me around Thorpe Wood Station; without your insight and patience, I would have struggled to reflect the inner working of a station I needed to in The Players. Kirsty, thank you for always responding to my messages when a random question pops into my head. I take up a lot of your time, and I’m very grateful to you both.
Thank you to Louise Jensen, John Marrs, Phoebe Morgan, Lisa Hall, Cally Taylor, Lucy Knott, Louise Beech, Sarah Bennett. It’s been a tricky time to be a writer, thank you for being around, offering advice, sharing stories and helping when things have gotten tough. How lucky am I to know you guys?
Richard Taylor, when I first told you about ‘the game’ you led me to the trolley problem, which is so influential to the story and the ethical debate around The Players. Your idea opened up this book for me. Cheers buddy. Darren Madison, we talk about everything, thank you for being around for me to chew your ear off when I get excited about writing.
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