Everett's house is almost as famous as its owner. The previous occupant -- another computer guy -- spent ten years arguing with the planning department over it. He wanted to knock it down; they said it was of historical value. They were right, too. The original was built in the nineteen hundreds for a railroad tycoon, and according to the planning guys it was the last of its particular kind still standing.
The computer guy won, of course. Money always does. Every time his application was rejected he'd appeal, and appeal, and appeal again, until the whole thing had cost the council so much money they had to cave in or go bankrupt. It wasn't spun that way, of course -- the official story was that the building was too far gone, too dangerous, and that it would be replaced with something showcasing the very latest eco-friendly technologies. Never mind carbon neutral; this thing was going to be so green that its very existence would make Mother Nature jump for joy.
So after a decade of wrangling, the computer guy finally got the green light -- and he died three weeks before the project was finished. If there's an afterlife I bet he's spending eternity in a really bad mood.
There aren't many people who can afford a house like this, but Everett's one of that very select group. He bought the place about fourteen years ago, and he's been here ever since.
I don't think he's here right now, though. And I don't think Sleazy Bob is going to be very happy when he realises that.
Everett's house isn't the biggest mansion I've ever seen, but it's not exactly a two-bed semi either. For an eco-house it looks pretty old-fashioned: stone walls with huge rectangular windows and wooden shutters, a balcony overshadowing the front door, ringed with sparkling white ironwork. I was expecting something a bit more sci-fi, I think, something that looked a bit more green, something made of curved steel with blacked-out windows and cows grazing on the roof. Everett's house is nothing like that, and I can't help feeling a bit disappointed.
We're nearly at the front entrance, the SUV crunching gravel and low-level lights illuminating as we approach. There were no signs of life at the main gate -- Sleazy Bob punched a PIN code into a keypad to get us in -- and there aren't any signs of life around the mansion either. The building is dark, the outbuildings are dark and there's no sign of Everett's big black car or any other vehicle. The only thing moving is the water in a fountain, burbling away in the centre of the driveway. You'd expect a security guard or two at the very least.
Sleazy Bob kills the power. "Wait here," he says, and climbs out of the SUV. The locks thunk closed when he's about a metre from the vehicle, and I immediately try to open the door. It doesn't budge and I can't see any sign of an unlock button.
I could always hot-wire the SUV and drive away, but unfortunately I don't know how to hot-wire a car or whether you even can hotwire one of these. I don't have the keycard, so I can't turn on the electrics to use the phone. I look around the cabin for something I can use as a weapon but there's nothing, just paper cups and alarmingly well-preserved bits of half-eaten junk food. Somehow I doubt I'd be able to overpower Sleazy Bob long enough to force-feed him an ancient burger and wait for food poisoning to kick in. Let's face it, if I could do that it'd be much more sensible just to grab his gun.
I'm regretting the beer I drank earlier. My bladder's not very happy.
So far Sleazy Bob has pressed an intercom button, bashed digits into a keypad several times and hammered on the door with his fists, all without success. Now he's just standing there, looking at the house as if he expects Everett to suddenly appear at one of the windows. He doesn't.
The dashboard clock says 4.24 and I'm starting to shift uncomfortably in my seat when Bob gives up and starts walking back towards the SUV. And that's when I have an idea. The locks unlock when he's nearly at the car, and as he opens the door and pulls himself into the SUV he's concentrating on getting in rather than pointing his gun at me. He's half-way into his seat when I swing the passenger door open, jump out and run as fast as my legs can carry me.
Running when you really, really need to go to the toilet isn't a very pleasant experience, but I imagine that being shot with a gun is probably a lot worse.
As plans go, my one is pretty simple. Step one, I'm going to run as fast as I possibly can. I'll get back to you about steps two and three when I've worked out what they are.
I'm surprised Sleazy Bob didn't expect me to make a run for it, but obviously I'm not complaining. I was halfway across the driveway before he even made a noise, and I'm not slowing down. I'm about three-quarters across the front of Everett's house, my feet pounding on the gravel. I'm making enough noise to wake the dead, or at least to wake any rich old guy who happens to be asleep inside. The windows stay dark and the curtains stay closed. I keep running, my arms pumping, my bladder complaining a little bit more with each step I take.
I can hear Sleazy Bob behind me, feet thudding with the lightness and grace of a dainty elephant, wheezing like he's about to have an asthma attack. He doesn't stand a chance. I'm younger than he is. I'm faster than he is. And I've got a seriously big head start. Yes, my bladder feels as if somebody's stuffed a watermelon inside it, but even with that handicap there's no way Sleazy Bob will be able to close the gap.
I think Sleazy Bob's just come to the same conclusion, which is why he's started shooting at me.
For such a big gun, Sleazy Bob's shotgun makes a pretty disappointing noise. It just sounds like a shotgun, not the cannon of doom it looks like. I was expecting something much more impressive, and much more accurate.
If it isn't a terrible gun then Sleazy Bob is either a terrible shot, is firing shots to warn me rather than to shoot me or I'm so far ahead that I'm out of range. There's no ping of pellets rushing past my head, no ricochet sounds or rushes of air to indicate a near-miss. Just a few loud pops.
I can see the corner of the mansion now and I run even faster, my heart hammering in my chest. There's another loud pop but again, nothing comes near me. Propelled by the twin forces of adrenaline and really, really needing a wee, I sprint around the corner, race through some flowerbeds and sprint down the side of Everett's house.
The gravel's gone, replaced by a grassy embankment that leads on to a perfectly manicured lawn. It's bigger than a football pitch, with huge bushes and trees in the distance. I run down the middle, head down, becoming more and more uncomfortable every time my feet hit the ground.
The windows of the mansion remain dark, but the lawn doesn't. As I run, lights on either side of the lawn blink into life, creating triangles of light on the grass. It looks like I'm running on top of a swimming pool, and while I'm sure it's very pretty it's not hugely helpful when you're trying to run away and hide from someone who's firing a gun at you.
I'm tired. I'm really uncomfortable. I'm being illuminated against my will. And just when things can't get any worse, they get worse.
What kind of merciful, benevolent God looks down on a running man, a scared, tired, exhausted running man whose bladder is about to burst, and thinks "I know! What this man really needs right now is lawn sprinklers!"
If I don't survive this, me and God are going to have words.
The sun's coming up. I think Sleazy Bob has stopped chasing me. Maybe he's scared of sprinklers, or maybe he's just given up and gone home. I'm at the very edge of the lawn, by the bushes, and the sprinklers have finally switched themselves off. You know that bouncing thing kids do when they need to go to the toilet? I've been doing that for ages.
I really, really need to go to the toilet.
Keeping my eye on the far end of the lawn, I move across the grass, down the embankment and towards the mansion wall. I look left. I look right. Nothing. Nobody. I undo my zip and within moments, I'm feeling human again. Relieved doesn't even begin to describe it.
I'm just zipping myself back up when I notice the window. The open window. It’s at the back corner of the house, a sash window that’s been left open a few centimetres. The room beyond it – I’m assuming it’s a room, but I can’t see in
from here – is dark.
I stand for a moment, listening for the sound of footsteps, but all I can hear are birds. I wait a bit longer, but there’s nothing. I’m pretty sure that Sleazy Bob isn’t anywhere nearby, so I walk on tiptoes towards the window. I stop just before I reach it and listen again, but there are no sounds coming from nearby or from inside.
I sneak a peek. If there’s anybody inside, they’re hiding in a tumble dryer. It looks like a utility room. I can make out what looks like a pair of washing machines, or maybe a washer and a drier. There’s an enormous fridge freezer, a boiler, a sink and lots and lots of cupboards. I’m sure they’re expensive cupboards. The room’s almost in darkness, the only light coming from a few LEDs in the appliances and what little dawn light is coming through the window from behind me.
I put my hands underneath the window, take a deep breath, and slowly slide it upwards.
If I’ve triggered an alarm or summoned a robot army, it’s happening silently. I count to ten, take another deep breath and give the window a proper shove. It shoots up, but that’s the only noise: no bleeps, no sirens, no robots. Another ten seconds and I’m climbing over the sill and into Adam Everett’s house.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
For a moment I’m five again, clambering out of a cooling bath and into a radiator-warm towel. Whoever does Adam Everett’s laundry – somehow I doubt he does it himself – uses the same stuff my mum does.
I’m in a long, rectangular room, maybe ten metres long and four metres wide with a heavy-looking wooden door at the far end. I gently close the window behind me, leaving the tiniest crack so I can get it open again if I have to come back this way. I tiptoe across the floor and towards the door.
I’m about halfway across the room when there’s a huge bang behind me.
I hit the floor, rolling into a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible.
Nothing happens.
I wait.
Nothing happens.
It’s a while before I work out what the bang was. It was the central heating boiler kicking in.
I’m very glad nobody I know can see me right now.
The wooden door opens without a squeak and I’m looking at the kitchen. It’s enormous, easily bigger than my apartment, and it looks like something from a spaceship: all dark woods, glossy white doors and expensive-looking appliances. There’s a central island big enough to carve a mammoth on, and the rack suspended above it has enough pots and pans hanging from it to fill an entire department store. Every single one of them is gleaming, so either Everett’s recently gone on a saucepan shopping frenzy, they’re only here for show or Everett isn’t in this bit of the house very often.
The one thing I don’t see is a phone, or a screen, or any other kind of communication device.
There are three doors out of here, or four if you include the one I’ve just walked through. There’s a door that takes you outside, and there are two more heavy wooden doors, one towards the rear of the house and one towards the front. I choose the one nearest the front. I reckon if I can find the bits of the house where Everett relaxes or works then I’ll find a phone, and the best views are at the front of the house.
I turn the handle and pull the door open, half-expecting an alarm to go off, but the house stays silent. I’m in a hallway. There’s an enormous wooden staircase and a long corridor to my left, huge windows making the most of the sunrise on my right, and another door directly in front of me. I walk over and open it.
I think this is where the maid sleeps. The room’s pretty big, with a single bed on the left, a tall wardrobe beside it and a chest of drawers on the opposite wall. Everything’s immaculate: the bed is perfectly made, there’s nothing lying around and there aren’t any pictures, photos or posters on the wall. It’s completely impersonal. The only sign that the room is actually used for anything is the phone.
Bingo.
The phone is sitting on a charging mat, on top of the chest of drawers. I pick it up and swipe my thumb across the screen to unlock it. It asks me to enter my PIN code.
This could be a problem.
If the phone works like my one, then the code isn’t just there to keep me out: if I get it wrong too many times it’ll brick the phone entirely, wiping all the data and putting it into a state of suspended animation that can’t be fixed without a visit to a repair shop. The good news is that depending on how it’s programmed, I’ve got between three and ten guesses before the phone locks up.
The bad news is that there are 10,000 possible combinations between 0000 and 9999. And that’s assuming the phone wants a four-digit PIN. If it’s expecting six digits or more then we’re into the millions.
Unless the owner hasn’t set a new code, that is.
This is something Dave’s always banging on about. The most common password, he says, is "password". 12345678 isn’t far behind. And with PIN codes, people tend to stick with the factory settings. That’s why bank cards come with randomly generated PINs, because the banks know that otherwise most of us would just choose 1234. And with phones, 1234 just happens to be the default factory setting.
I punch 1234 into the keypad and press OK.
"Wrong passcode," the phone says. "Try again."
Okay. If it’s not 1234 then it’s definitely 0000.
"Wrong passcode. Try again."
I’m assuming the phone wants a four-digit PIN here. Maybe I’m wrong.
I punch 123456 into the phone and pause before hitting the OK button. This could be my last chance.
I consider my alternatives.
There aren’t any.
I press OK.
The phone lets me in.
I’m about to call the police when I realise that they might misunderstand what’s going on here. To them, it might look like I’m a burglar and Sleazy Bob is the good guy. I decide to call Amy instead and get her to get hold of Burke.
I wish I knew what her number was.
I don’t know anybody’s number. I don’t need to. They’re all in my phone. Unfortunately that’s lying somewhere near my apartment, probably in pieces. And of course nobody makes their phone number public: do that and the spambots will call you twenty-four seven.
I check the time on the phone’s display. If Dave’s on an early shift, he’ll be at work by now. And if he’s at work, I can send him a message.
I flick the phone’s Messages icon and enter Dave’s work address. "It’s Matt," I type. "Need your help. Borrowed phone."
I hit Send. There’s a soft whoosh as the message heads off into the ether. Ten seconds later there’s a ding.
"What’s up?"
"What’s yr number?"
Another whoosh, another short delay, another ding. I click on the number and hit Call. Dave answers on the first ring.
"Dave," I say. "I need you to get Burke. Or get Amy to get Burke."
"What’s happening? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I’m okay. I’m in Everett’s house. Sleazy Bob’s after me with a gun."
"He’s what?"
"It’s a long –"
I can hear crunching gravel. A car is coming up the driveway.
"Dave, I need to go. Call Burke."
I hang up, turn the phone off and drop down to a crouch, creeping over to the window and peeking over the windowsill. Everett’s car is coming to a stop in the driveway and Sleazy Bob is walking towards it.
Nobody gets out.
I think Everett – if it’s Everett in the car – must have opened a window, because Sleazy Bob approaches the back door and leans down a bit, one arm on the roof.
After about a minute he stands back from the car and two men get out: Everett from the back and Everett’s driver from the front. I don’t think he’s employed just to drive cars, either: he’s another goon in a suit, with the big shoulders and easy movement of somebody who’s good at hurting people. The combination of a shaved head, a thick neck and a lantern jaw makes him look like a giant thumb in a suit.
Everett and Sl
eazy Bob walk towards the house, leaving Thumb Guy standing guard next to the car.
There’s no point in opening a window and trying to make a run for it. I’d be caught in seconds. I don’t think going back to the utility room and sneaking out that way is going to work either. I’d still end up on the driveway, and there’s no cover on either side. Thumb Guy would spot me long before I got too far away to catch. Anyway, even if I did get away Everett’s house isn’t really near anything. I think the best thing to do is hide until the Cavalry gets here.
Not in here, though. The wardrobe’s too small to hide in, there’s no space under the bed and there’s nothing else to hide in, on or under. If Sleazy Bob or Everett stick their heads in here I’m finished.
I creep to the door and listen carefully before gently easing it open. I look at the stairs, but I don’t think going upstairs is a good idea: one creaky step or creaky floorboard and the game’s up. I don’t know the layout of the house, and this is no time to go exploring. Remembering all the cupboards I saw when I first clambered through the window, I decide that hiding in the utility room is probably my best bet.
I cross the hallway on tiptoes, listening intently, but I still can't hear any sign that Everett or Sleazy Bob might be nearby. The kitchen door squeaks when I push it and I stop dead, my heart hammering and the blood thudding in my ears. I wait for the shout, for the sound of running footsteps, but there's nothing. I wait a bit longer and push the kitchen door again. It doesn't squeak this time, and I manage to close it silently behind me.
Full daylight means I can see more of the kitchen than before. There's a bowl of fruit on the central bit, black bananas suggesting that nobody's been in here for a few days. Nobody but me, anyway. There's also a granite knife block, black wooden handles coming out of it at forty-five degrees.
Coffin Dodgers Page 20