The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2

by M. L. Stewart

  He hit the “Phone a Friend” button immediately.

  Sorry. This option is not available yet.

  The screen changed to a black background with green text.

  ROUND ONE

  Your name is Imran Hamid?

  He touched the yes button.

  Your brother is Abdul Hamid of 14b Carlton Terrace, Edinburgh, Scotland?

  The clock in the top left corner began to count down. He probably didn’t know that the bastard had moved.

  YES.

  Are you prepared to die for your brother’s sins?

  The clock ticked away. Ten seconds. Nothing. Thirty seconds. No response. Fifty seconds.

  NO.

  Our monitor dimmed for a second, I could hear the buzzing from within the boarded up storeroom and I knew then that this was going to work. The question came up again. This time he answered yes. The buzzing continued but didn’t become any louder.

  He flew through the advanced mathematic questions, which I had sourced from The Internet, only getting two of them wrong, but that only added to the buzzing coming from the storeroom.

  ROUND THREE

  Q: A murderer and rapist is sentenced to death. He is given the option of how he wants to die. The choices are held in 3 rooms.

  1. A room full of King Cobra snakes.

  2. A room full of poison gas.

  3. A room full of tigers that haven’t eaten in two years.

  Which is the safest room?

  1 2 3

  It took fifty-six seconds before the buzzing increased again.

  INCORRECT ANSWER

  TRY AGAIN OR MOVE ON?

  He should have moved on. The lights in the office dimmed after his second attempt.

  INCORRECT ANSWER

  The correct answer was room number 3.

  YOU HAVE NOW SUBMITTED 5 WRONG ANSWERS. THE MAXIMUM LIMIT IS 15 BEFORE CERTAIN DEATH.

  The screen began to flash up images of the most gruesome victims I could find on the net. Beheadings, road kill and mutilations. It went into a sixty-second loop, no doubt drilling into his brain.

  ARE YOU READY TO CONTINUE?

  NO.

  Another buzz.

  YES.

  I didn’t say that Imran was given a fair chance, but he did have a slim one. Some of the questions were impossible and some had no correct answer at all. By now he had managed to get thirteen answers wrong. We were running our laptop on battery power and had turned all of the lights off in the office. I activated the camera on his computer. We watched Imran wiping the screen. He was dripping with sweat.

  I paused the game. Another twenty minutes and he would be ready to play again. Norman and I popped out for a quick drink in the bar two streets away.

  It was Norman, not me, that noticed the time, but I still blame him. One is never enough for that man. When we got back to the office Imran was still on the screen but only his forehead and hair were visible, some of the blisters had already burst. He was trying to kick his way out of the box.

  I restarted the game and answered the next question for him, incorrectly of course, that’s when the second last sunbed tube buzzed into life. The office was in darkness now and the purple glow radiated under the boards that sealed the storeroom.

  FINAL ROUND

  Is your brother, Abdul Hamid, a rapist and murderer?

  I didn’t expect him to think about it for so long. For me, the worst part was that he didn’t answer at all. We checked him on camera; he was just staring at the screen.

  YOUR “PHONE A FRIEND” OPTION IS AVAILABLE.

  Would you like to use it now?

  YES.

  All fifteen lights were now blazing. The heat must have been excruciating in that box. Norman and I watched the screen as Skype connected. Gerradine had assured me that Hamid would be at home waiting for his chance to sell his story for a six-figure sum.

  “Hello. Abdul here,” I felt the rage as soon as I saw his smiling face in that little box on the screen. “Imran? Is that you? What the fuck...Imran! Where are you?”

  “Brother,” his voice was weak, “what did you do brother?”

  “What do you mean? Imran what the fuck is happening?”

  “You did this to me Abdul. Allah is angry.”

  “Imran!” Abdul was screaming now, on his feet, shaking his laptop as if it might wake up his brother, “Imran!”

  I flicked the network switch and lay Norman on the desk as I felt the heated air brush my face. I can only imagine what that bastard thought when he saw me. He certainly didn’t say anything. We just stared at each other. We were four thousand miles apart yet only inches separated us. I had been over and over, in my head, what I was going to say to this bastard, this, this coward. Yet it all fell away. Devoured by the rage. I pulled Adela’s phone from my pocket, never once taking my eyes off Hamid, I pressed the call button and I could here the tinny noise of a phone ringing on the screen. He glanced sideways, looking visibly shocked. It wasn’t his mobile phone ringing this time. It was his home phone. He knew I had him. His face disappeared from the screen. The connection cut.

  Whilst Abdul Hamid hurriedly packed whatever he could fit into his suitcase, Norman set to work removing his brother’s teeth, one by one, with a heavy-duty pair of pliers.

  When Hamid was frantically trying to hail a taxi on Prince’s Street. Norman was already in a cab, heading to the taxidermist’s shop.

  As Hamid fled the city, heading West, Norman released the five hundred or so Dermestid beetles into the box.

  By the time Hamid awoke in the Grand Station Hotel, Glasgow, his brother was half eaten.

  Whilst Hamid ate his evening meal in the dining room, the beetles were down to the bones.

  As Albert and I packed our cash into the backpack ready to leave, Serge’s man sat in his Range Rover outside of the Grand Station Hotel, Glasgow.

  Chapter 15.

  “This whole thing has turned into one huge bloody farce,” Pearson screamed at Dick, “I thought you said that he’d set up home? Now you’re telling me that he’s done another runner?”

  “It looks that way,” replied Dick, sheepishly.

  “With all due respect, Bill,” Gerradine intervened, “this isn’t our fault, none of it. We are trying our best to help here and I don’t think shouting at either of us is going to help matters.”

  Dick glanced at Gerradine, the expression on his face as though Gerradine had just called the headmaster a twat. Pearson looked down at his open laptop before taking his seat again. He held his head in his hands and sighed.

  “OK. I apologise. I’m sorry if I’ve been a little bit...over-reactive. But remember gentlemen, there is a hell of a lot at stake here. If we can carry this off we’ll all be very well rewarded, but if we fail we face the very real prospect of going to prison,” Pearson relented.

  “What I don’t understand is why Hamid has apparently left in such a hurry,” remarked Dick, “I mean, we are the only people who knew where he was.”

  Gerradine felt himself blushing, he was ready to blame the whisky, but no one else noticed.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” said Pearson, almost to himself, “How long will it take you to track him down again?” He asked Dick.

  “It all depends. It’s mainly down to his credit card use. I can have his mobile phone triangulated but that takes time and it doesn’t look like he’s been using it in the past few days. We have taps on his parent’s and lawyer’s phones, but there has been no contact.”

  “What if Madison has got to him?” Gerradine asked innocently.

  “And how would that be possible?” Retorted Pearson.

  “I don’t know, just a thought, sorry,” Gerradine mumbled. Pearson looked deep in thought. Dick typed away on his computer, trying to find any new evidence on Hamid’s whereabouts. Gerradine poured another round of drinks.

  “Well why don’t we ask him?” Suggested Pearson.

  “What?” Asked Gerradine. Dick stopped what he was doing.


  “Let’s ask the fucker. Matt, open your emails, will you?” Said Pearson. Gerradine did as he was told, “Now bring up the last email we got from him.”

  Pearson took Gerradine’s laptop from him without even a please or thank you. He began to type. Gerradine gave him a disdainful look. The headmaster was a twat after all.

  Dear Mr. Madison,

  It has been some time since our last correspondence. During the interim, I have been informed by my source in the Metropolitan Police Service that new evidence has come to light regarding the recent deaths in the London area to which you have indicated a level of participation.

  Although I cannot divulge this evidence, it appears that your claims can no longer be substantiated. Unless you have something to back up said claims, neither my newspaper nor myself are willing to take part in any further communication. I can however refer a very good grief councillor and psychiatrist to help you overcome the current mental problems, which you seem to be experiencing.

  Regards,

  Matthew Geradine.

  The message was sent without discussion or agreement. When Gerradine read it, in the sent box, he was livid. An image of his mother, bound and gagged, flashed through his mind. He jumped to his feet, the kitchen chair crashing to the floor behind him.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” He shrieked. Pearson and Dick exchanged glances.

  “Exactly what we discussed,” said Pearson, “provoking the old bastard into giving us something solid to work with. All I need is some evidence that Madison is the killer and then I can go over my boss’s head to the Commission. They are the only ones who can sanction a reward for Madison. They are the ones who will discipline the Chief Constable for wasting millions of pounds looking for the wrong man. The commission, Matt, will make us all very rich. Dick here will claim the reward, which will, of course, be divided equally,” he shot a stare at Dick, who was nodding in agreement, “ and both of our careers will flourish.”

  “What if he doesn’t go for it? What if he blows us out?” Asked Gerradine, looking increasingly worried.

  “He won’t,” said Pearson, “Remember? He got in touch with us first.”

  “With me,” Gerradine corrected him, “he got in touch with me.”

  Chapter 16.

  This was the exact reason that the English Police are referred to as pigs. It’s a term that was first used against them over two hundred years ago and it has stuck. I first lost my respect for the Police back in 1991. Being in the bomb squad, we lived, worked and died together 24 hours a day for nine months. We existed in scorching Iraqi temperatures, never knowing whether we would make it back home intact. We were machines. Robots. Living and breathing the job. Not like these boys with their basic education and clean uniforms. Their shirts nicely ironed by their wives. A home cooked meal waiting for their husbands who come home complaining about the amount of paperwork he has to do.

  It was our first night back in England. We were young. We still had sand in our boots. We had lost four comrades. Friends. I admit we had drunk too much, but for fuck’s sake we were celebrating the fact that we had survived. It was the local lads who started the fight. But it was the pigs that finished it. Eddie lost his front teeth that night. Brendan suffered a fractured skull and I escaped with three broken fingers. After everything that we had been through this was our welcome home. Our thanks.

  I had, for many years, considered the Police to be stupid and they hadn’t done anything to change my opinion. As I sat reading that email from Gerradine I knew that I was supposed to be infuriated. Probably even order the execution of his mother, if he had told them, which I doubted. But all I could do was sit looking at that one letter and laugh. The pigs were stupid back then and they had just proved that they hadn’t evolved. That little missing letter “r”. Gerradine must have written his name thousands of times in his life. Nobody misspells their surname. And that is what told me that he hadn’t written the email.

  Dear Mr. Ger-adine,

  I am afraid that you have caught me out. My bluff has been called, as they say. My lack of communication is due to my ongoing participation in intensive psychotherapy.

  I shall waste no more of your valuable time on these delusional fantasies. Please offer my regards to your mother.

  Dermott Madison.

  *

  The six-month lease, which we had taken on the office, guaranteed that Imran’s skeleton wouldn’t be found until this whole thing was over. We still had two weeks left on our suite in the Avari but decided to up sticks again. With only two apples left in Pakistan, we could never be too cautious.

  That was a sad day, burying Norman in the grounds, he went before his time but there were too many links to him. The hotel, taxidermist, office, Badshahi Mosque. Albert laid him to rest under some sort of prickly bush. We marked the spot with a rock in case we ever had the chance to return. Something I doubted would ever happen. It made me feel like a murderer.

  Albert and I booked into a cheap room near the Old Town. No butler. No silver service dining.

  Ahmed Rustam and Meena Hamid

  The final apples... for now. Hamid’s little sister and his cousin. Anna used to tell me that when she did our washing she would always lose a sock, or when she did the washing up she would inevitably end up one teaspoon short. Malik and Shaher were my sock and teaspoon.

  Albert and I searched for them, day and night, to no avail. Eventually we resorted to opening a new Facebook account. During my online studies I had read about the new face-recognition technology that had been introduced to the site and we decided to give a try.

  We opened an account named Albert Norman. No avatar, no details. We had twenty-eight photographs on file from their accounts. We uploaded them into “my photos”, logged out and let the billion-dollar big brother do its work.

  It took a further three days. Three days of eating takeaway meals and sharing a dirty bathroom with six other guests. Seventy-two hours stamping on cockroaches and being kept awake by rattling water pipes until the goods were delivered.

  Four days later Albert and I found ourselves in the sweltering Miami heat. I had never been on a cruise before and if this was anything to go by, I wasn’t going to enjoy it, except for the final outcome perhaps.

  The cruise terminal resembled a holding pen for the criminally obese and stupid. Albert presented his documents to an old woman behind a counter who had an exaggerated smile and received his blue “ship-card”; he was smilingly told that all on-board purchases would be made with this. Something we didn’t quite understand.

  The ship wasn’t due to set sail until 4:00 pm but by 10:00 am the queues of the obese and stupid had already formed. The food onboard was free; we were informed. Albert and I decided to remain seated until the masses had departed. We had to come up with something quickly. This cruise only lasted three days and knowing that they were both working onboard I felt that the end was, at last, in sight.

  The face-recognition had worked a treat. It suggested that we might like to become friends with, amongst others, Andrew Rust. I found a picture of someone in a naval uniform, used it as our avatar and we were immediately accepted by Mr. Rust as his new friend. I knew that Albert Norman and Andrew Rust were going to be much more than just friends.

  I spent two hours reading about Ahmed Rustam’s new life. He had run away to join Carnival Cruise Lines after a successful interview, over the border, in India. Meena had joined at the same time to escape an arranged marriage. His photo album was full of pictures of the two of them standing in front of a colossal white cruise liner with a massive blue and red funnel, which resembled the letter Y. I would soon learn it was referred to as the whale tail. Ahmed was working as a waiter and Meena, a bar waitress. None of their original friends appeared on Andrew Rust’s page. They were hiding. A fresh start; away from the law and the unwanted husband. We had found our sock and teaspoon.

  By 3:00pm the mad dash to get on board was over, no doubt they were all stuffing their f
aces by now. A few stragglers were still arriving, complaining about traffic or late flights.

  Albert took his ship-card, emblazoned with a whale tail, and followed the numerous signs designed to lead the stupid “TO THE SHIP”. I must admit, I was nervous. From what I had seen of my fellow passengers, I doubted very much if I could stomach three full days in their collective company.

  Albert was asked to stop to have his picture taken by a very effeminate young man whose name badge read simply, “Robert – Dancer – Brazil”. The machine pinged when he punched in the ship-card and we were through. Little did Robert the dancer know that this innocuous old man was here to execute two of his crewmates.

  After a few seconds of harassment by a trio of Indian photographers, demanding he poses for a “welcome aboard” photo in front of a huge, wrinkled cartoon depiction of the ship, he succumbed.

  We followed the never-ending ramp up to the ship. Occasionally jostled by Hispanics pushing past us or held up behind mountainous people in electric buggies complete with personal oxygen tanks. I wondered briefly just how much food these ships could carry.

  Another punch of the ship-card, a brief “welcome aboard” by yet another Indian, a further spurt of harassment to have a photo taken with someone dressed as the ship’s funnel and we eventually made it to our cabin, or stateroom as they had the nerve to call it. Our hotel suite in the Avari had been stately; this rabbit hutch was no better than a roadside motel. There was a double bed, an old television, a stereo and the biggest pair of speakers I had seen in my life. We had tried to book one of the better cabins onboard, one with a private balcony, but they sold out long ago. One of the occupants, a twenty-one year-old single mother of two from Alabama, made certain that most of the ship knew she had only paid fifty dollars for one, “cheaper than staying at home y’all.”