Death Games

by Chris Simms

  Jesus, she thought. What can I do to make him trust me? She typed out another message and coughed. I know you must do it soon. I know because that information came from me!

  He read her words then looked out the window once more.

  Ask who sent you here. They will tell you. She coughed to get his attention again.

  As he read her latest comment, his face darkened and he rubbed at the back of his head with his good hand.

  Something’s wrong, she thought. Oh my God. As quick as she could, she typed again. Do you remember why you are here?

  ‘Da,’ he snarled angrily. He went over to the shelf above the gas fire, picked a piece of paper off it and dropped it on the table. It was the picture she’d drawn. The one she’d pushed through the letter box.

  OK, she thought. He knows why he’s here. But he can’t remember everything. Maybe he can’t remember the exact details of the plan. She turned to the screen. How will you do it?

  He let out a bitter laugh and crossed to the window.

  She sighed. Let’s start again, she thought. Maybe retracing his steps will help unlock whatever it is he can’t recall. His mind was obviously functioning immediately after the accident. After all, he knew to escape, and he knew how to find this address. She guessed he’d fallen asleep after getting here – and that’s when his memory had been wiped. Like waking up after a night involving far too much alcohol and having no recollection of how you got home. Did you walk here after the crash?

  After reading her words, he did nothing for a full minute. Then, hesitantly, he nodded at the window.

  She lifted her eyebrows in question.

  Sitting down once more, he accepted the controller. The big red car outside.

  Elissa’s eyes widened. The Porsche! He came in that. How the hell did he manage to drive it? Where was it from? She typed again: I don’t understand. Is it Uncle Bilal’s?

  His head slowly shook.

  Then whose is it?

  He shrugged.

  You stole it?

  He looked away.

  He bloody stole it, she thought. Which meant the police could be looking for it. We must move it. Now!

  He waved a hand at the window, pointing left, right, forwards, backwards.

  He doesn’t know where to take it, she thought. Give me the key.

  Yet again, he hesitated.

  For Christ’s sake, she thought. There isn’t time for this. She gestured at her comment on the screen then held a palm out.

  With a look that bordered on hatred, he beckoned for the controller. It is probably in the car.

  She stared at the words, imagining the state he had been in. How he’d done it with a dislocated shoulder, she couldn’t imagine. She glanced at her wrist watch. Almost nine, already. She indicated one hour and stood. ‘OK?’

  He gave a nod and also got to his feet.

  At the doorway to the kitchen, she hesitated and then stepped through. The fridge was empty except for a carton of milk. Some packets of flavoured rice were strewn across the work surface beside the kettle. She indicated she would get things to eat.

  He nodded.

  Out in the corridor, she pointed at the toilet, then herself. With a look of embarrassment, he retreated to the front room. She waited a second behind the closed door, quietly re-opened it and quickly stepped across the corridor to the door that was shut. The one she could tell he’d been shielding earlier.

  It opened without a noise.

  What she saw caused her to freeze. In a chair beside the bed was a female form. Elissa glanced fearfully towards the front room. No sign of him. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The room smelt strongly of urine. The woman’s head was hanging forward and her breathing was shallow. She seemed oblivious to Elissa’s presence. Tape – the same type he’d used on her wrists – secured the woman’s legs, torso and forearms to the chair. More of it covered her mouth.

  Elissa leaned down trying to see if she was conscious. With a sickening jolt, she realised the face was one that she recognised.

  CHAPTER 23

  Jon gazed down at the little lump. The night-light filled the cot with a soft orange. His son looked so snug and warm. He reached down and folded the top of the blanket back so he could see him properly. Brown curls of hair and one chubby cheek pressed against the towelling sheet. His bottom lip was squashed outwards. How, Jon wondered, could something that appeared so serene and placid morph into such a monstrous ball of energy just by opening its eyes?

  Affectionately, he trailed his fingertips through the curls. Sweet dreams, he thought, even though they probably involve beating up your big sister.

  Two steps took him across the small landing and into her room. A never-ending procession of unicorns, angels and fairies slid silently across the ceiling, down the walls and then over her bed. She was lying on her back, face slightly tilted as if she’d been enjoying the spectacle the bedside lamp made when sleep took hold. One strand of blonde hair was slightly askew, so he lifted it back in place with a finger. Even asleep, she was perfect. Knowing how soundly she slept, he knelt down and pressed a kiss into the smoothness of her cheek.

  Alice killed the telly and sat back. There was a bottle of red on the table and he glugged a hefty load into a glass.

  ‘It’s pasta bake,’ Alice said, with a nod towards the oven. ‘I put some on a plate, but you’ll probably need to zap it for a couple of minutes: we ate ages ago.’

  Jon flipped the oven door open, stooped down and reached inside. Tentatively, he tapped his fingers against the edge of the plate. Still quite hot. ‘It’ll be fine as it is, cheers.’

  He picked the plate out, placed it on the table and took a seat.

  ‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Stop being all enigmatic, will you?’

  He shovelled a forkful of food into his mouth and gave her a frown.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘The job. You know, the one you started today?’

  ‘Oh.’ He chewed for a while and eventually swallowed. ‘It’s good. Different, but good.’

  ‘Different, but good?’ Her legs were stretched across the next chair, ends of her slippers bobbing back and forth as she excitedly wiggled her toes. ‘Jon Spicer, you are so crap. How is it different? What are the people like? Does your boss seem OK? Is your desk near a window? Come on.’ She clicked her fingers impatiently, like she was summoning a waiter. ‘I want the gossip.’

  He ate for a bit longer, watching her mounting impatience with amusement. ‘Right. People – ’

  ‘Hang on.’ She leaned forward, breaking eye contact, but only by an inch. ‘Is that a cut on your eyebrow?’

  ‘Yes, but only a little one.’ He resumed eating.

  ‘Christ. Your first day. They had you out on a job on your first day?’

  ‘No,’ he said through bulging cheeks. ‘It was in the gym. Downstairs at the base. Sparring.’

  ‘Spar – ’ Her face grew serious. ‘No. No. You didn’t get into a – no. Not with a colleague, please.’

  Jon’s mind went back to the seconds after Hugh Lambert went down. He’d got to his feet after a minute or so and, helped by a colleague, had climbed slowly out of the ring.

  ‘Fucking prick,’ Kieran Saunders had muttered, dabbing at Jon’s eyebrow.

  Jon was still breathing heavily. ‘Will this, you know, will I be – ’

  ‘Hey,’ Kieran looked him in the eyes, a forefinger raised. ‘It stays in here. Any little ring kerfuffles stay in here. He knows that. Everyone knows that.’ He threw the tissue aside then scrunched a small plastic pouch of gel-like liquid to start the chemical reaction that would drop its temperature to near freezing. ‘Besides, he fucking asked for it with that head butt. Did I mention what a class punch you gave him. Class!’

  Jon sucked in breath. ‘What was his problem? He’s been gunning for me all day. Or is he like that with everyone?’

  Kieran held the pouch to Jon’s cut. ‘He went for DS last year. Missed out. I know he’s going for it again. Mu
st have decided you are his competition.’

  Jon worked the over-sized gloves off. The knuckles on his left hand were throbbing. ‘I’ve only been here for two minutes. Why the fuck would I be applying for promotion?’

  ‘What can I say? He’s a twat.’ He handed Jon the ice pack. ‘Though something tells me they won’t let you stay as a DC for too long.’

  Jon pressed his knuckles into the chill surface. ‘You what?’

  Kieran shrugged. ‘You’re too good for that, it’s obvious.’

  Jon lifted more food towards his mouth. ‘It’s fine. Just one of those things.’

  Alice’s legs stayed perfectly straight as she angled forward to reach for the bottle. ‘I need a drink.’ She splashed wine into her glass.

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ Jon said, slipping his left hand under the table so she couldn’t see the inflamed skin of his knuckles. ‘This guy bumped heads with me. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, not sounding convinced. ‘What else, then?’

  ‘Well, I don’t have a boss, as such. Not like in the Major Incident Team, anyway. People are put together on a job-by-job basis. So if you need fieldwork guys, surveillance for example, someone with financial training, a couple of SFOs and someone with vehicle pursuit training – they put you all in a group and off you go. Two branch managers run all the ops.’

  ‘And how do they seem?’

  ‘Fine. They seem fine. Quite a few ex-forces, as expected. Funnily enough though, I might have been paired with this female detective. Five feet two, at most. Tiny little thing.’

  Alice smirked. ‘Beauty and the beast, then?’

  ‘Think you’re so funny, don’t you?’ He smiled.

  ‘How old is she?’ Alice asked, eyes on her glass as she rocked the ruby liquid about inside it.

  Jon knew his wife well enough to know what that question was about. Threat assessment. ‘Babe? She’s about twenty-five. I could – literally – be her dad.’

  Alice looked up innocently. Wine had tinged her lips purple and she had that mischievous look in her eyes he so loved. ‘An older man like you? All big and muscley and powerful?’

  He put the fork down so he could lay his hand across hers. ‘She’ll be sorely disappointed in me, then. Besides, she’s dark. And I only like blondes.’

  Alice flipped her hand over and gripped his thumb tight. ‘Good. Because you know what I’d rip off if you did anything.’

  Jon grimaced. ‘I do, my sweet little angel, I do.’

  She released his thumb with a good-natured grin. ‘What’s she called, anyway?’

  Iona let herself in through the back door of her parents’ house. The windowsill of the utility room was lined by glass jars of her dad’s green tomato and red chilli chutney.

  Below them was a shoe rack fashioned from a recycled pallet. Her old wellies were at one end, next to those of her sister, Fenella. Then came Moira’s and Wasim’s. On the shelf below was her mum and dad’s walking boots. The rich smell of leather mingled with the aroma of food seeping in from the kitchen beyond. Before opening the inner door, she stood still and soaked up the comforting sights and sounds. Was it right, she wondered, that – even after five years in my own flat – this feels more like home?

  ‘Here she is!’ Moira announced, looking over her shoulder with delight as the door opened.

  Her mum’s hair was – for the moment at least – a pale shade of blue. Bangles clinked as she placed a spatula beside a gaping pan. ‘Come here, hen.’

  Iona dumped her handbag on the wicker stool in the corner. She stepped round the table and hugged the other woman tight. Not for the first time, she thought her mum’s back felt more curved and bony. With every visit, Iona seemed to be gaining height; but she hadn’t grown since her teenage years.

  ‘How’s my favourite youngest daughter?’ Moira asked, leaning back to look into her face. ‘Beautiful as ever.’

  ‘You’ve made Puttanesca,’ smiled Iona, looking over at the simmering sauce in the pan. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been hard at work all week. How’s it been?’

  ‘Fine,’ Iona replied, reaching for the fridge door.

  ‘There’s a carton of fresh juice at the bottom,’ Moira announced.

  Iona smiled at their routine. There was always a carton of fresh juice when she came round for tea, no matter how often Iona said she’d be perfectly happy with tap water. Still facing the fridge, she began to mouth her mum’s next comment.

  ‘Or there’s a bottle of red wine on the side Wasim opened earlier.’

  Iona lifted the carton out. Pineapple, lime and orange. ‘I’ll pinch some juice, thanks.’ She plucked a glass off the rack and sat in her usual seat. ‘Dad in his study?’

  ‘He is. So, what’s new?’

  Iona knew this was Moira’s way of asking if she was seeing anyone. She deflected the question easily enough. ‘They’ve got me working with this new guy. Detective Constable. He only arrived today.’

  Moira turned the gas on below a large pan of water. ‘Older or younger than you?’

  ‘Oh, older. Definitely older.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘At least a decade-and-a-half. Probably more.’

  Moira placed a hand on one hip. ‘What rank did you say he was?’

  ‘Detective Constable.’

  ‘And he’s about forty? Am I missing something?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It sounds like that famous poster with the headline, I never read the Economist. Except it was signed by a management trainee, aged forty-seven or something.’

  It was a concern of her parents Iona was well used to. They had never been comfortable with her entering the police, especially not the male-dominated environment of the Counter Terrorism Unit. Once she joined it, they quickly became convinced she was being constantly sidelined, undermined, or both. ‘Oh – he knows what he’s doing. Well, he does if it doesn’t involve photocopiers.’

  ‘So, if he knows what he’s doing, how come he’s still a detective – ’

  ‘He got kicked out of the Major Incident Team.’

  Moira lifted a large glass of wine from beside the cooker. ‘They’ve yoked you to someone who’s disgraced himself? Brilliant. What did he do?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. No one’s given me the full story. I just heard his transfer from the MIT wasn’t voluntary.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Well, I’d say he’s six-feet-four. Big guy, shoulders out here.’ She cupped the air either side of her. ‘Half an ear missing.’

  ‘Who has half an ear missing?’

  Her dad was standing in the doorway through to the main part of the house. He was wearing a moth-eaten cardigan, a mobile phone in one hand, a glass of wine in the other.

  Moira turned to him. ‘Wasim, they’ve paired Iona with this detective who sounds like a right bloody nightmare.’

  He turned to Iona.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’

  He came over and she lifted a hand to squeeze his arm as he kissed her.

  ‘Chucked out of his last place, turns up at the CTU,’ Moira continued. ‘So who do they put him with? Iona.’

  ‘Mum,’ she protested.

  ‘What? He does sound a nightmare. I don’t suppose he’s doing anything subtle, not that size.’

  Wasim took a seat next to her. ‘Another ex-military type, is he?’

  This gets worse, Iona thought. Her last boyfriend had been in the army. Iraq had left him mentally unstable and dependent on drink. Wasim, a left-leaning lecturer in Persian studies at The University of Manchester had never approved of him. ‘I’m not sure. Physically, yes. But something gives me the impression he’s not your usual meat-head.’

  ‘What’s his role?’ Moira asked. ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘Specialist Firearms Officer.’

  ‘Ex-Army,’ she stated. ‘A fiver says he is.’

  Iona decided against taking the bet. ‘Have you spok
en to Fenella? I saw on Facebook they’d taken the twins for a weekend in the Lake District. It looked lovely.’

  ‘They’re all fine,’ Moira said. ‘Little Archie and Ethan got to feed the animals; it was a proper farm.’

  ‘Nice,’ Iona took a sip of her drink. She often suspected that, in her mum’s opinion, the chief consequence of her lack of partner was to deprive Moira of more grandkids.

  Wasim’s phone pinged. He checked the screen then disappeared in the direction of his study.

  ‘His own stupid fault,’ Moira said. ‘This symposium thing he’s organising – he never stops having to sort things out. So,’ she leaned forward. ‘Is he married, this person?’

  ‘Yes, he’s married,’ Iona said, rolling her eyes. ‘But I don’t know any more than that. Don’t worry: I’ll report in regularly via text.’

  Moira beamed. ‘Be sure you do. A photo would be good, too.’

  ‘Iona Khan?’ Alice sipped her drink. ‘Odd name.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jon agreed, shovelling the last of his food into his mouth. He pointed at the ceiling, rapidly chewing.

  Alice looked puzzled.

  ‘She’s from up there,’ he managed to mumble.

  ‘Where? Our loft?’

  ‘She’s a wildling.’

  ‘Wildling? What are you on about?’

  ‘Scottish! She’s Scottish. Well, half-Scottish.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And half-Pakistani.’

  ‘Wow – that is unusual. I mean, family-wise and being in the Counter Terrorism Unit. Is she surveillance or something?’

  Jon thought back to the conversation with Kieran. ‘Yeah – analyst stuff, too. She’s a smart cookie, they say. Degree in maths.’

  Alice’s features lifted. ‘She can help you out when you get stuck doing The Sun’s Sudoku puzzle.’

  He raised a middle finger. ‘Ho bloody ho. She has a nick-name. The baby-faced assassin.’

  ‘For real?’

  ‘Yeah. She plays striker in hockey. Her dad, apparently, was in Pakistan’s national team. She was top scorer for her school and university. She also looks about fourteen. Round little face, big brown eyes.’