Racing down the stairs he turned into the cold lounge and grabbed his telephone.
“Put eCitTV on,” the familiar voice at the end of the line said. It was Jones.
Reaching for the eCitTV console Michael flicked the unit on, sitting down in one of the armchairs.
“It’s started,” Jones continued sullenly as the picture snapped into life.
On the screen the BBC were broadcasting one of their many news specials. In the top right-hand corner was a photograph of a grey-haired man in his early sixties. The newsreader was talking with a sombre, reverential tone, listing the man’s early career achievements. He’d clearly died Michael thought, hearing the name ‘Sir Donald Allison’.
“Who is he?” Michael asked, fearing the worst.
Jones exhaled loudly before answering.
“He is, or rather he was, the President of SemComNet.”
Michael felt a slight numbness begin to spread through him.
“How did he die?” he asked in a virtual whisper, his mouth dry.
Jones made no attempt to hide the cynicism in his voice.
“Oh, it was an ‘accident’, of course.”
As the sentence trailed of Michael knew Jones was dying for him to ask the next question.
“What sort of accident?”
“An electrical fire of some sort at his house in Elvetham.”
Michael felt a lump forming in his throat, but he was unable to speak. His mind was locked in a state of confusion.
“Michael, they must have perfected the app. This is too much of a coincidence for it to have been an accident.”
Michael shook his head as he took it all in.
“But why would they kill the President of SemComNet? Who would kill him?”
“Who’s the most to gain from this?” Jones asked firmly, although clearly knowing the answer to his own question.
Michael said nothing, not wanting to hear what he knew was coming.
“Vincent Trevellion,” Jones continued somberly. “He’s just been appointed as the new President by the company’s board in an emergency meeting.”
Michael watched as the familiar face of Vincent Trevellion flashed up on screen. He was leading the tributes that were pouring in for Sir Donald.
Looking into the emotionless face he’d sat opposite not so many days before, he heard Trevellion use eulogies such as ‘online visionary’ and ‘leading pioneer’.
“Fucking hypocrite,” Jones hissed down the line as Trevellion talked about his own sense of ‘personal loss’.
“Trevellion was the only one to survive an attack from the anti-net activists,” Michael said bitterly as he watched Trevellion speak, although failing to register a word he said.
“If he was attacked at all,” Jones added doubtfully.
“You’ve to get that app working,” Michael said firmly, watching Trevellion’s feigned grief.
What does he know about loss?
“We’re still working on it,” Jones said thoughtfully. “But testing is going to take a bit of time because we simply don’t have the same resources that are available to UKCitizensNet.”
“Just get the damn thing working,” Michael replied angrily, flicking a button on the eCitTV console, any button just to get Trevellion off the screen. He turned away from the picture before noticing he’d inadvertently activated UKCitizensNet.
“We’ll do our best. I’ll talk to you later.”
Michael slumped into his armchair, holding his head in his hands. For the first time since he’d left the care home he didn’t feel overcome by grief. Now he was feeling something quite different. The nausea had gone. The feelings of self-pity and loss had been replaced. All he felt now was anger. Raw, undiluted anger.
Despite all he’d read and had been told, there’d always been a sense of doubt clawing at the back of his mind.
Did anti-net activist Davey Wilkes really kill Colette and Clare?
The whole thing had been too clever and precise for a campaigner who lived his life up a tree to have done it. In retrospect the soil samples they’d found, allegedly from the Brookwood area, were also just a little too convenient.
An image of Trevellion flashed through his mind again. No, someone, or something much cleverer than Davey Wilkes was behind this. Something like SemComNet. And Trevellion himself.
Michael grimaced as UKCitizensNet’s logo slithered silently across the screen. Closing his eyes for a moment he let his troubled thoughts wander to a happier time and place.
In front of him the swing in their garden was bobbing backwards and forwards, temptingly close to him. Colette gently pushed Clare to and fro. She giggled happily, the wind rushing through her hair as she went higher and higher. He watched in utter contentment as he gazed at the two most important women in his life.
Clare laughed again as the swing rushed upwards leaving her dangling in the cool autumn air. Colette was laughing too, speaking to him from behind the swing. He could see the words forming but they were lost in the autumnal wind. He leant forward slightly, straining to hear.
“Michael,” came the hollow voice. “Michael, Michael, Michael…”
His eyes flicked open as he sat up with a jolt, a slight sweat on his forehead.
“Michael,” said the familiar voice again, filling the quiet room.
“Colette?” he whispered as her image flashed up on the screen.
His pulse began to quicken as he watched. Colette stood motionless on a hill in rolling countryside stretching further than the eye could see. At the back of his mind the voice of logic was telling him he was imagining the whole thing, imagining Colette. The funereal black dress clinging to her shapely body and the rolling countryside simply couldn’t be real.
But he could see it all on the screen. And he could hear her, hear her angelic tones.
“Michael, I’m with you. I’m here to guide you,” the voice said again, although her expression was vacant and looked straight through him.
“Justice can be yours. You are the only one who can stop him.”
The voice paused.
“Stop who?” Michael finally managed to splutter.
“You must stop the only survivor. This is his will, his game. My pain, and your pain, is his triumph. Please stop him. Please stop Vincent Trevellion.”
Michael’s breathing was becoming more rapid. He rubbed his eyes as the image of Colette began to flicker and slowly fade.
“The great dragon was hurled down - that ancient serpent called the devil or Satan, who leads the world astray. He was hurled to the Earth, and his angels with him,” the voice echoed as the UKCitizensNet logo melted back onto the screen.
Covering his eyes with his hands Michael heard the words reverberate through his mind again.
Is it real? Did I imagine it?
He didn’t know how, and he didn’t really care either, but he knew he’d seen and heard Colette.
But he knew she was dead. That was painfully real. But he also knew there weren’t voices in his head telling him what to do, what to think.
His thoughts briefly returned to the lonely care home. They’d pumped him full of drugs for months when he’d arrived. Was this a side effect of that? He shook his head. The one thing he knew for certain was that the words in Colette’s message hadn’t come from some piece of information picked up in the past and filed away in his unconsciousness. And now he’d heard her tell it to him twice. That was the only real truth he could see at the moment.
Reaching for the eCitTV console Michael flicked the ‘Web’ button and sat back in the chair. It was about time UKCitizensNet actually did something to help him. The origins or meanings of Colette’s message surely had to be somewhere amongst the millions of UKCitizensNet pages.
When the UKCitizensNet search engine appeared on screen he rapidly typed Colette’s message whilst it was still fresh in his mind.
His thoughts were cluttered with images of Vincent Trevellion who Colette had implicated. Or maybe it was all jus
t in his head? Perhaps he’d listened too much to what Jones and the others had to say. He’d never realised until this point how contagious paranoia seemed to be.
Before another image of Trevellion could form in his mind the screen changed and a list of matches to his search appeared. Moving his finger over the first item in the list he clicked on the link and waited expectantly.
His eyes widened in surprise as a page entitled ‘Online Bible’ appeared. Quickly scrolling down the page he stopped as he saw Colette’s words highlighted in red in the middle of a paragraph. To the right of the text in blue it read: ‘Book of Revelation, 12:9’.
The Book of Revelation?
Colette had never been the most devout person he knew. Although more so than him.
His eyes scanned the words again. But as he read it, it was her voice speaking the words.
“The great dragon was hurled down - that ancient serpent called the devil or Satan, who leads the world astray. He was hurled to the Earth, and his angels with him.”
Michael screwed his eyes up, trying to find meanings in the words. Was UKCitizensNet the great dragon and Trevellion the devil or Satan who was leading the world astray? Was Trevellion the great dragon and the mysterious four men the angels who’d been sent to try and help him? Or was UKCitizensNet intended to signify the devil and Trevellion one of its angels?
He clenched his fists. It was nonsense. It didn’t make sense. None if it made any sense. Least of all Colette appearing before him and delivering obscure biblical references. His knowledge of the meanings of the Book of Revelation was patchy to say the least.
Shaking his head again he began laughing wildly at the absurdity of it. Colette was dead, had been dead for nearly two years.
Maybe I’m falling apart again?
Maybe this was just another step nearer to a total mental breakdown. But how had he known the extract from the Book of Revelation if it was all just in his head? He’d received very little religious schooling as a child.
Flicking the ‘Video’ button the picture returned to yet another interview Trevellion was giving following Sir Donald Allison’s ‘accidental’ death. He looked into his face and the ever-present ice-cool exterior.
Voices or no voices in his head, he was sure Vincent Trevellion had somehow been involved in Colette and Clare’s deaths.
And he wouldn’t rest until their deaths had been avenged.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
March 25th 2010
The scene was set and the waiting was over. Standing expectantly outside the main doors a hum of excited chatter filtered up the queue of those waiting patiently. From inside the hall the sound of music blaring from speakers on the stage slipped through the door, adding to the anticipation as they all waited. Any moment now they’d be let inside.
For the girls, it was a matter of pride to make sure they looked their best. What had seemed like hours had been spent in the toilets, making sure their hair and accessories were all present and correct. None of them wanted to be outshined by another girl. Particularly not at the St Winifred’s Girls School Easter disco. And certainly not when the boys from nearby St Marks were there as normal too. With the exception of the Summer and Christmas discos, this was the highlight of the school’s social calendar.
Clare Robertson stood about a third of the way down the line of children, rubbing her bare arms from where goose bumps had surfaced. It might have been nearly April but there was still a chill wind - and she didn’t like the cold, just like her mother.
Knowing this, her mum had instructed her to take a coat after inspecting the weather forecast that morning. And despite several minutes of futile protestations her coat had been neatly folded into her school bag. And as she stood in the queue, it was still tucked in the bag.
Around her none of the other girls were wearing coats, all showing off the latest trendy tops they’d bought just for the disco. Why was it they were allowed to choose their own clothes without the intrusive input of their parents, whereas her parents always had to approve what she wanted? It just wasn’t fair.
She’d spent the whole week worrying that her white top, ornately decorated with a sunflower down the middle, and a pair of black jeans, although not as tight as the ones she really wanted would look out of place compared to the rest of her friends. The competition to look good both in and out of class, had been getting steadily more intense this school year as they’d all started getting more experimental with their makeup and hair.
But thankfully all her friends had commented on how ‘cool’ her top was, and the sense of relief had finally made her look forward to the disco. The only thing she was more excited about was the prospect of seeing James Bartlett again.
Ever since first seeing him at the Christmas disco she’d had eyes for no-one else. The only problem was being at an all girls school meant she barely ever saw him. And even then it was only as part of a group when her friends just happened to bump into his friends when leaving school.
She wasn’t even sure whether he’d ever noticed her. He always seemed to travel round with five other boys, including Giles Nelson, commonly acknowledged amongst her friends, and most of the other girls in her class, as the best looking boy at St Marks. If Giles and his friends, and he was clearly the head of the pack, were ever near St Winifred’s then all the other girls would hone in on him, fawning and flicking their hair in appreciation of his corkscrew blonde hair and square jaw. The other boys were almost always crowded out so she’d never even managed to speak to James.
But maybe tonight would be her chance. Everyone knew Giles was coming so that meant his group of friends would be there too. Her heart fluttered as she thought about James again and his dark hair, slightly long, hanging around his ears.
Clare looked down at herself once more, hoping she looked pretty enough to finally attract his attention. She’d never told her friends about her crush on James. They were all far too wrapped up in Giles to have noticed she was indifferent to his charms. And that was fine. It was her secret and she liked it that way.
The chatter which had been coming from the line of children waiting at the school hall door rose to a crescendo of excitement when they finally opened. With a gentle push the line moved forward and Clare followed her friends into the hall.
On the stage, as for previous discos, were too vast black speakers, each about six feet wide, and normally used to support the orchestra when it was giving a concert. But tonight it was playing the latest chart music. The DJ, a maths teacher who believed he was far trendier than the children accepted, had selected an assortment of songs for the evening, all vetted for unacceptable lyrics.
The hall filled and within a matter of minutes two groups had formed. All the girls stood on one side with the boys lined up opposite. A wry smile crossed the head of year’s face as she surveyed the disco and the gender and school divide. Who was going to be the first to breach ranks?
Clare watched from where she stood with her four friends. All of them had their eyes firmly set on where Giles Nelson stood opposite, nonchalantly standing sideways onto them and wearing a black shirt and faded blue jeans. But next to where Giles stood, laughing at something one of his friends had said, was James. She could feel her heart racing as she laid her eyes on him for the first time in four months. He was even more gorgeous than she remembered. A white T-shirt with a logo she couldn’t quite read across the hall was offset by black jeans and white trainers, the tongue riding up over the bottoms of the black denim.
The group of girls all fell silent from their chattering as Giles strode out onto the dancefloor, the first person at the disco to do so. Slowly walking towards the army of girls opposite he was lit-up by the light display emanating from the stage between the two speakers. For a few seconds he looked up and down the line of girls, making his selection, reveling in the adoration he knew he commanded, before turning in the direction of Clare’s group.
Kelly, one of Clare’s friends, thin, tall for her age, and with strai
ght blonde hair half way down her back, grabbed her arm and hissed under her breath.
“He’s coming over here. Please, please let him pick me.”
Clare began to frown as Kelly danced excitedly on the spot, a very different thought going through her mind.
“Oh God, don’t let him pick me. I don’t want James thinking I like him.”
Giles stopped two feet in front of Kelly. A wide smile crossed his face, his teeth lit up by the ultra violet light spinning from the light display, causing them to glow unnaturally.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked finally, a warm but super-confident air in the question.
Clare was sure she heard Kelly squeal in delight as she finally let go of her arm and followed Giles onto the dancefloor. A sense of relief washed through her as she gazed longingly in James’ direction.
Within a few minutes, inhibitions about being the first on the dancefloor had receded and the disco had really taken off. Clare danced with her group of friends, near to where James was, but not within talking distance. And despite all her best intentions she couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to move any closer to him, instead hoping she could will him in her direction.
After half an hour of failing to coax James any closer Clare finally left the dancefloor, hungry and thirsty. With two of her friends, Rachel and Zoe, in tow, the three girls headed for the vending machine they knew was in the corridor outside the school hall.
“Kelly is going to be talking about this forever,” Zoe blurted out when they finally left the hall to the relative quiet of the corridor.
The other two girls giggled noisily, knowing it was true. The whole school would be talking about it.
The vending machine had been restocked for the disco, but only half way through the evening it was almost empty of snacks. Virtually all the crisps had gone and all that was left was cheese and onion, and the girls all agreed it was because they were disgusting.
“It’s going to have to be chocolate then,” Clare joked, inspecting what was left.
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