Acts of Violence

by Ross Harrison

  Through the door was no less fancy. The thick black carpet was rimmed with chrome. A glass staircase with chrome handrail led up to a small landing outside the office. All four walls of the office were glass. Even the floor was glass. But that was opaque. As I thought, there was no one inside. The door was locked.

  Scanning the corners of the room, I found a second problem. In the corner to the right of the door was a tiny box. A security camera. It may have already seen me, but I wasn’t concerned with anyone knowing I had been there. I was concerned with someone knowing I was there while I was still there. If I went into the office, it would almost certainly send out an alert. The question was, to whom? If it alerted the cops, they’d know I wasn’t in my apartment and they’d come looking for me. I could lose my chance to find the information I needed to save myself from Anshan.

  I guessed, though, that Cole Webster wouldn’t have it connected to the cops. He’d have it connected straight to him. It would be his men who came for me. Right now I was more okay with that than DeMartino’s flyer landing in front of me again.

  I took out my pistol. Held it by the barrel and hit the glass door right in the middle. It wasn’t reinforced. A spider web of cracks appeared across most of the door. A few good kicks pulled the crackled sheet out of the frame on one side. One more gave me enough of a gap to reach inside and flip the lock.

  As the door swung open, I knew I didn’t have long. I doubted I’d need more than a few minutes though. The only things in the room were the desk and chair I saw from downstairs, and a leather couch. Probably real leather. Illegal.

  I crossed to the desk. One drawer hung suspended on the right hand side. It was locked. I’d try that in a minute. Tapping the corner of the desktop brought up a display across the surface. Reminded me of the interrogation room. Unsurprisingly, it demanded a password. I tried a few, but I didn’t think Webster was sentimental enough to use his son’s name. Or anything I’d be able to think of, really.

  DeMartino probably had the tech to get past the security. But I wasn’t about to give him a call. Not without knowing for sure that what he wanted was on there. I doubted it. I’d just hoped there was a lead for me.

  I had nothing to get the drawer open with. I was running out of time. Webster’s men could be just around the corner. I glanced at the big window behind me. I needed to get into that drawer.

  The chair wasn’t heavy, but its feet were chrome. I swung it hard at the glass. The impact had the same effect as my pistol on the door, but it jarred my wrists and the chair dropped from my grip. I tried a few more times, all across the window. It took about a minute, but the whole thing glittered with an erratic pattern of cracks. Sweat ran into my eyes. I gave it a push and it bowed outwards pretty easily.

  Next, I went along the span of the glass and gave it some hard kicks. I was sure Webster would be watching me and, despite everything, I found myself thinking how embarrassing it would be if my plan failed. I’d look like an idiot. Then a few minutes later I’d look like a corpse.

  I pulled the desk around lengthways to the window. Then dragged it back nearly as far as the door. It had something soft on the feet so it slid nicely across the glass floor. I stopped to wipe my brow again. Couldn’t help giving the camera a little smile and a thumbs up.

  I doubted I got up much speed in that small space, but the desk hit the glass pretty hard. Hard enough. The whole window popped right out. What should have been a moment of peaceful silence was filled by ‘Holy mother shit!’ from below. The crash was followed by another as the desk slammed into the crackled glass.

  With another glance up at the camera, I hurried back down the stairs and out into the main club. Frank was now behind the bar gathering as many high priced bottles as he could carry. The rum sat on the bar with its cork and a half-full tumbler beside it.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said.

  ‘I thought Webster’s guys had bust through the door to kill me!’

  ‘I’m sure all your new friends will make you feel better.’ I nodded at the collection of wines and spirits.

  ‘I knew they had good stuff here. Always gave me that synthed crap. I’d help you tear up the place, but…’ He nodded at the bottles too. ‘Oh, here.’ He threw me a lighter. Went back to his shopping. I smiled.

  The desk wasn’t as strong as the window and door had been. It had shattered into hundreds of pieces. Here and there, shards were held to others by hair-thin wires. The wood enclosing the drawer had cracked in places, but the damn thing was still shut tight. A few bashes with the foot of a bar stool changed that.

  Inside, I hit a very small jackpot. Credit chips were scattered about the bottom of the drawer. Mostly tens, but there were three fifties as well. Only about two hundred credits in total, but at least now I wouldn’t have to hike to my next destination. I could probably stretch to a new packet of cigarettes too.

  The only other thing in the drawer was a small book. I thought it was a notebook at first. It was an address book. I flipped through the pages. It was the names and addresses of club employees, some VIPs and a handful of useful people.

  It was only then I remembered. Like DeMartino said, I hadn’t asked the girl’s name. There were letters beside the names, but no titles. I guessed those letters represented the positions in the club. If the girl was a manager of some kind then I guessed it was an ‘M’ I was looking for.

  That was a new problem. There was no ‘M’ beside any of the names. There were several female names and a few that could be male or female. How the hell was I going to find her now? I couldn’t wait for the barman to come round…

  I turned. The drunk was shaking the last drop of rum from the mouth of the bottle. He raised the glass to his lips, but then spotted me staring. ‘What?’

  ‘Frank… Did you know the girl who worked here? The darker skinned one?’

  ‘Oh,’ he put the glass down and lowered his head for a moment. ‘The one who was murdered last night?’

  ‘Yeah. Her.’

  ‘I knew her. About the only one who could stand the sight of me. Don’t listen to this prick,’ he gave the barman a light kick. ‘She was nice. To me, leastways.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  I could feel the open book shaking in my hand. He was my only chance right now. If he couldn’t help me, there was a significant possibility that the next Frank I spoke to would be the seven-foot mountain of muscle who came to my cell to see if I’d make a suitable girlfriend.

  Frank took a sip of rum while he thought. Opened his mouth. I leaned so far forward in anticipation I nearly fell. ‘Laura.’ I laughed for some reason. Looked back to the address book to find the name. ‘Or maybe it was Michelle. Could have been…no I don’t think that was it. Agatha?’

  Shit. I flipped through the book. No Lauras. No Michelles. No Agathas.

  ‘Thanks, Frank.’

  I pocketed the address book. Felt all around the drawer for anything hidden, but there wasn’t. Neither of us should be there when Webster’s men did bust through the door. Which wouldn’t be long.

  ‘Yeah.’ He took another sip. ‘I remember one time when the goons on the door took exception to me. Thought my face should be a different shape. She came out on her way home. Stopped them. She took me home with her to fix up the cuts. I told her she didn’t need to do that—’

  ‘Frank… You know where she lived?’

  NINE | LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

  Surprisingly, Frank had remembered where the girl took him. I’d identified the address in Webster’s book. It had been written underneath the name ‘John Hancock’. The letter beside it was a ‘J’. Janitor? Webster had hidden this girl in his own address book. Who was she to his operation?

  I had the cab drive on past so I could check out the area. There were only a few cars parked on the street. None of them looked like unmarked cop cars. Too shabby to be Webster’s men. Looked safe enough. I pretended I’d missed the stop and had the driver go around the block. Webster could have
motion detectors in the apartment, with men around the corner. Maybe I was being paranoid. I didn’t think he had any particular reason to think I’d come here. He seemed to think I’d stolen whatever was in the girl, which suggested I already knew enough about her, so why would I?

  The cab pulled up in front of the apartment building. It didn’t look like much. I guessed in that sense it looked like most buildings in Harem.

  I didn’t want to get out of the warmth of the cab. It was dark now at nearly seven. The thunderstorm was in full swing. The cab rocked in the wind and drifted a little onto the sidewalk. I could hear the static thrusters on the left working harder to keep the cab steady. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see little dents all over the doors where the rain pelted them.

  I paid the driver before I got out. I almost wished I hadn’t given that old woman the umbrella, but it would have only got whipped out of my hand anyway. I climbed out and slammed the door. In that time, the torrent across the sidewalk filled up my shoes.

  A crack of thunder right above my head made me wonder if I’d ever hear again. As the cab pulled away, its headlights cutting through the wall of rain, I considered my mistake in letting him leave. Who knew if I’d get another cab now?

  There was no lock on the front door so I pushed it open. No infrared thing to dry me off this time. I was already drenched. Felt like I’d just dragged myself out of the lake again. There was no desk in the small lobby. No one around to ask what my business here was. I checked the mailboxes. Apartment thirteen, Frank had told me. He’d remembered because it was a Friday. The barmaid’s kindness had proved to him that there was nothing to the ancient superstition.

  Nothing was in or on apartment thirteen’s mailbox. No name. No mail that I could see. That wasn’t surprising. Mail was rarely delivered physically.

  I pulled open the door to the stairwell with the tips of my fingers. This was the kind of place that made me want to sterilise the very air I was breathing in. On the stairs, each step I took sounded like ripping paper as my shoes stuck to the balding carpet. On the fourth floor, I pushed the door open with my foot.

  Apartment thirteen was the first door out of the stairwell. The light in the hallway flickered. Hummed. It was off more than it was on. There were three apartments on the left of the hall and one on the right. At the end, a window let in the lightning. Every twenty seconds or so the hallway lit up white. It didn’t exactly make me feel good about the place.

  I walked slowly down the quiet hall. Past the door to apartment thirteen. Heard no sounds from inside. No one jumped out at me. I kept going. Down the hall to the window. Through the hypnotising waves across the glass I saw three cars, no people. Didn’t look like I’d been followed. People wanting you dead really had a way of making a man paranoid.

  Back at the apartment door, I thought for a moment. I could talk to the neighbours first. I’d have to kick the door in and I doubted they’d talk to me after that. It would probably be a good idea. I started with apartment fourteen. No answer.

  Apartment fifteen instead. No answer. Apartment sixteen was the lone one on the right hand side of the hall. No answer there either. A particularly paranoid man might think there was something to that. Webster’s men could be on the other side of all four doors staring at me on the little peep screens.

  I pulled the pistol out of my waistband. Told myself everyone was just out to dinner, or late back from work. The idea that Webster had men hiding out in apartments around the city just in case I wandered by was ridiculous. The ergonomically ribbed pistol grip was reassuring. At least if my paranoia was on the money I’d have some kind of chance.

  With no neighbours to chat up and my time running out, I went back to thirteen. I’d never had the chance to kick a door in before. The novelty was lost on me now. These doors were cheap and flimsy. One straight kick below the lock was enough. A well-timed clap of thunder masked the noise. It hurt my shin a bit, but the door swung open. The thin door jam on the other side was ripped away from the frame and clattered to the floor.

  My thumb pushed down the safety catch. The click was exaggerated in the quiet after the thunderclap. I stood in the doorway for about ten seconds, listening. Waiting. I heard nothing. Except creaking and groaning and whistling. Banging somewhere on the roof. The wind wanted the place torn down. Still no one jumped out at me. The brief act of minor violence made me feel better. More confident. I remembered that I wasn’t a little dormouse hiding from a cat. I was a man. Or least a big hamster. With a gun.

  Lightning lit the apartment in front of me. Lightning lit a bare, thin-carpeted floor. Lit four bare walls and two doors. Lit a thin mattress rolled out on the floor in the corner. One plate beside the sink. The place wasn’t a home. It was a prison cell hidden in the middle of an apartment building.

  I stepped into the middle of the floor. It was cold. The thin blanket bunched up at the end of the bed wouldn’t have kept her warm enough. I raised my pistol and crossed to one of the doors. Pulled it open. It was a small, walk-in wardrobe. Empty. Not a single item of clothing remained. No dust had settled on the shelves though, so I suspected she’d at least owned some clothes. Webster would have had everything cleared out. Clothing could be tracked back to the shops that sold it. Then to the person who bought them. That person, I suspected, had used Cole Webster’s money.

  She was an experiment. That’s what Webster had said. What kind of experiment was given managerial status at the city’s most exclusive nightclub and kept in these conditions? She obviously had some freedom, or she wouldn’t have come home with me. Or maybe she thought if she reported back to Webster on what I was doing, he’d understand her going AWOL, and forgive her for hitting Little Dick.

  What was stopping her from disappearing though? She couldn’t have lived like this by choice. The kind of salary a manager of The Web would bring in would at least allow her to buy furniture. An actual bed. A thought struck me and I looked into the top corners of the room. I didn’t want to turn on the lights. Just waited for the lightning flashes. Sure enough, in two of the corners I could make out lighter patches. She’d been under surveillance. They’d had cameras in here watching her all the time.

  I crossed to the second door. It was the bathroom. Toilet, sink and shower cubicle. No shower curtain. There were no windows in here, so I pushed the door closed and turned on the light. No towels, no facecloths, no makeup. No mirror. She must have done herself up once she got to the club. Associate that place with looking good, the high of men and women constantly giving her their number, and she wouldn’t want to leave? Take the mirror out of her apartment so she couldn’t see that she was still beautiful without the makeup? Maybe I was making things up.

  A bar of soap on the sink was the only occupant of the room. It was worn to a thin sliver. If I really put my mind to it, that might help me work out how long she’d been held here. But that would depend on how hygienic she was. I had to admit, I normally only used my soap every other day. Unless I found myself face down in the dirt at some point between my scheduled ablutions. That soap could have lasted her anywhere from a few months to a few weeks.

  In the corner above the toilet was another light patch. The camera would have seen every inch of the bathroom. Every inch of her. There was nowhere she could have got away from them.

  The light patches didn’t help me determine her sentence either. She smoked. That would have stained the walls around the cameras. Made them dark quicker than usual.

  If she was under such close observation, why hadn’t they kicked in my door and killed us both? It kept coming back to Little Dick. He’d gone into my apartment after I left. Cut the girl up, I was sure. I was kind of sure. My mind kept going back and forth on that. But he’d waited. Waited all night. Waited until I’d left, in fact. I’d been thinking that was coincidence, but maybe not. If my theory was right, and he was setting up to take over from his father, maybe he wanted the girl to tell me something. Something I’d use against Webster senior. Maybe I was making th
ings up again.

  Nothing really made sense yet.

  I turned off the light and went back into the room. A sudden jolt of hope spurred me to check every inch of the wardrobe by the dancing flame of my new lighter. Maybe she’d left some kind of note. Carved a message into the wall for someone to find. It was a lot to hope for. Naturally, I found nothing. It brought my thoughts back to the previous night. She’d acted pretty normal. If she had wanted help, she’d have asked for it then, not scrawled something into a wall where no one would ever find it.

  Between the booming rolls of thunder, I heard a tinny clicking sound. At the head of the bed was an old analogue clock. It had been so long since I’d had to tell the time on an actual clock face, it took me a few seconds. Seven thirteen. I guessed I had all night to find something for DeMartino, but it didn’t feel like it. Felt like any minute, he and Lawrence would shock me from behind, cuff me and throw me on the train to Anshan. I didn’t think the new evidence they had was enough to get me off the murder charge. Especially with Lawrence testifying against me.

  The pistol still weighted down my hand. The world weighted down my shoulders more. I thumbed the hammer back into place. Decided to keep it out for now though.

  There was nothing more here for me. Nothing at all here for me, actually. Just an empty prison cell and the lingering scent of despair.

  A creak in the hallway! I spun to the door. Brought up my gun and flicked the safety catch off in one move. A pale figure stood in the doorway. I heard a quick gasp. A woman. I opened my mouth to speak but she turned and ran. A flash of lightning lit her as she disappeared. Lit a thin, fresh scar behind her ear.

  I didn’t move as quickly as I should have. The relief of not being shot and the surprise of seeing the girl again froze me for a few seconds. Had she been following me since DeMartino let me go? Or just from The Web? I thought back to the diner. She’d been staring out the window. Just like me. Just like me, she’d been staring at Webster’s club. I had to catch her.