Minions

by Addison, Garrett

  “No.” Devlin was proud that he’d replied quickly, knowing that it would surely represent honesty, or perhaps denial, but in either case it would represent conviction.

  Glen shrugged off the reply and kept watching the televisions. Devlin watched a full commercial break on two different channels before he felt that Glen was going to say anything. “I don’t know where Ikel is, so I can’t help you on that front. Perhaps your Detective friend might be a better help.”

  “And Malcolm?”

  “And what?”

  Devlin felt his frustration rise as he tried to determine whether Glen was being deliberately annoying, or just playful. The net effect was the same.

  “I’m not going to tell you anything about Malcolm or Tania.”

  “I just don’t want to be like the rest of your readers, Glen.”

  “You’re not like them Devlin, that’s why you’re here,” Glen offered some consolation. “Give me a name, and I’ll tell you why you aren’t like them.”

  Seizing the opportunity, Devlin fumbled for his list of readers, but began with the first name from the top of his head rather than the listed sequence. “OK, Casey. I can’t remember his surname.”

  “Lawrence. Casey Lawrence. But I’ve got a better idea. How about you start with Keegan Kirkby.”

  “Why him?” Devlin scanned the list, but the name wasn’t even listed. “Actually, who’s he? Was he?”

  “He was my first real employee after Malcolm, and he is alive. Still.”

  “So where is he, and why isn’t he listed?”

  “The point is that it’s not a complete list of employees, intentionally, and just because a few are not available for your interrogation doesn’t mean they are all dead.”

  “So what’s so special about him?”

  “Nothing. He was a decidedly un-remarkable man. God knows where he is now, or what he’s doing. He made sense of his life and continued on his own path. You could end up like him.”

  “So why did he leave? Money?”

  “There are limits to wealth.”

  Devlin felt no obligation to argue, opting to move on. “Alright, who’s next?”

  Glen turned off one of the televisions. Casey Lawrence. He’s on your list.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “He had to go. You wanted to know why I did my homework on you before I offered you a job? Blame Casey.”

  “So what did you do to him?”

  “Spare me your accusations. He made some bad choices. Check with your Detective, again, as I know you must have already. Next I’ll tell you about Alun Boyle and Leon Newman,” Glen turned off another two of the televisions. “I had high hopes for both of them. I figured them for their commitment to the law and doing the right thing, and they didn’t disappoint.”

  “So where are they now?” Devlin asked as he scanned the list.

  “They found the waiting difficult.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “They thought more would happen, and when it didn’t … they reacted.”

  “What happened?”

  “Alun was clearly disappointed with my protocols and thought he could do better.”

  “And got LastGasp’ un-necessary attention. Right?”

  “He wasn’t that blatant. He just figured that he’d pass on information, sit back and be the better for his role in making things happen.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “You know I understand people better than most, and certainly better than Alun. He thought that if people knew, then things would change. The reality was that it didn’t. It saddened him, and he left.”

  “So if they’re similar, why isn’t Leon dead too?”

  “He and Alun, were similar, but in the end they were also very different. Where Alun was committed to the law, Leon was more interested in justice.”

  “So where’s he?”

  “Jail.”

  Devlin gwarfed. “How does that work?”

  “Leon described it as activism. Purists would have called it vigilantism. You’d have to understand by now how it was, how it is. You read messages, guilt in varying degrees and various strains and sooner or later, in spite of the lack of identifying information, you’ll be able to work out who the bastards are. Looking back, it was just a matter of time before someone would want to do something about it themselves.”

  “And he got caught,” Devlin pre-empted the story. “So how did you and LastGasp’ not get implicated?”

  “I’d like to say that good management kept LastGaspStore clear, but it was largely luck. There was a like-minded Detective in the mix in charge of the investigation. One who understood.”

  “Albert?”

  Glen nodded. “A good guess. He kept LastGaspStore free of implications, but he couldn’t prevent Leon from going to jail. It cost Albert all the favours he could call in, and forced him into professional purgatory.

  “Alun would have got himself into trouble in much the same way eventually, but his exuberance was tempered somewhat when Leon got into trouble. A different guilt is what killed him, but not before talking to Conrad. Then I should tell you about Derrell.”

  “Ikel told me that you actually shed a tear for Derrell.”

  Glen turned off the entire bank of televisions. “You know I’ve learnt a lot from the various readers that I’ve employed over the years. Most importantly, I’ve learnt never to be surprised by people.”

  “So what was so special about Derrell?”

  “You understand that I’m telling you this happy in the knowledge that you’ll surely pass all of this onto Conrad and the Detective. But I have nothing to hide.” The leather on Glen’s armchair creaked as he wriggled in an effort to get comfortable. “The fact is that Derrell represented the changing of the guard. The readers before him were different to those who followed.”

  “Does that include me?” Devlin asked.

  “I hope so. But anyway. Derrell.” Glen took a mouthful from a bottle of beer that he’d held inconspicuously on his lap. “Derrell believed in the law. Father was a cop, grandfather was a cop. I thought he’d be perfect.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He started passing information to his family, which essentially, indirectly, meant the police. That in itself didn’t concern me, but it had all the makings of others, like Casey and Alun. I didn’t want that to happen again.”

  Devlin kept watching Glen. He’d grown accustomed to a lack of eye contact, or at least a lack of reciprocated eye contact, but still he tried. If nothing else, it made him feel that Glen was being honest. He also sensed sadness in his tone, like he was peeling the scab from a wound that just wouldn’t heal. “So what did you do?”

  “Nothing,” Glen replied indignantly. “I spoke to him. It wasn’t like I read him the riot act or anything. I just tried to explain his role in the greater scheme of things. You’d understand, of course. And I actually thought I’d hit a chord. He stopped. Just like that, he stopped. He broke contact with his family, his life, everything.

  “’Kindred spirit’ sounds so, so … inappropriate. But at the time I was sure I’d found someone who was more than just an employee.

  “For a time it was just him and I. He was younger than me, and I saw him as being someone who’d continue when I moved on. So I broke my own rule and explained a little of my technology. I knew my system was secure, and telling him was as much a measure of my trust in him as my trust in my system. And it was good for me. He was good for me. A friend who I trusted.

  “Gradually, he became more and more fixated on watching TV, or the bank of TVs as I am now. At the time I remember feeling a little put out that his watching TV was interfering with our friendship.”

  “Was he an employee when he died?”

  “He became very moody. Highs and lows so bad that I suggested medication, which he fought I might add. Then he grew more distant, more aloof. He started spending more and more time out of the office, and we drifted apart. I resented the fact tha
t he knew so much about LastGasp’, and for a time I wondered if he was going out on his own, potentially as a competitor. Eventually I confronted him on the matter.”

  “Was he going it alone?”

  “Can I say that until Derrell came along, I believed that my system was perfect. I’d seen competitors come and go, and fail, all because LastGaspStore was perfect, for what it was intended. I’d weathered god knows how many attempted infiltrations, legal furore, bad media. But Derrell found a way to exploit it.”

  “How?” Devlin asked, but Glen said nothing in reply, as if he was thinking either what to say or how to say it. “How’d he get in?” Devlin asked again.

  “He didn’t. But he discovered that LastGasp’ was geared for the truth, and I wasn’t prepared for misinformation. Ikel and the others would have explained ghosts, for which I have a protocol. But when is a ghost not a ghost?”

  Devlin was beyond riddles. “Can’t you just tell me?”

  “What happens when you have real people, but fake messages?”

  “That would have to depend on the message.”

  “So what happens if you received a message from a relative, a friend, who described their involvement in some crime? Would you believe it?”

  Devlin considered the question. “Yes.” Though it made him think, and he was still thinking when Glen continued.

  “The trouble was that the messages didn’t change anything, and in themselves they didn’t make things happen. It was some time later that he killed himself.”

  “Lori told me how sad you were to hear about … that.”

  “It was before Lori’s time. I might add that Carson was worse. And if ever there was a period when I was legitimately concerned, it was then.”

  “What did Carson do?”

  “Other than demonstrate a failing in my judgement? Where Derrell was disappointed with waiting for the messages, Carson couldn’t wait.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Glen glanced Devlin’s way, and then turned on the bank of televisions, each a different channel. He said nothing.

  Infuriated, Devlin considered stepping outside for some fresh air, where he was sure that the Detective would be waiting when his phone rang. He fumbled for it as he stood and left the lounge. The displayed number wasn’t known or familiar, but he was beyond caring and answered it anyway.

  All the Detective needed to say was that he’d found Ikel. Devlin left Glen without another word.

  Chapter - 69.

  Malcolm was nestled into the corner of a well-lit booth in the bar with a novel in his hand. There were others with books, a few business-men, presumably travelling away from home and weary of the surroundings of their respective hotel rooms and associated sterile confines. They sat lonely, one person per table, reading fat paperbacks. Malcolm’s book was nothing special, and if the truth be known, he would have struggled to recall anything of the preceding twenty or so pages, but he wasn’t there to read.

  He wasn’t there to drink either, though he had sampled a few designer beers interspersed with iced water and a single coffee. The coffee was decidedly average, even for a bar, and promised to leave him unable to sleep for hours, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. The evening was not supposed to be recreational. He just watched Tania, unobtrusively but not covertly.

  Tania was in ‘life of the party’ mode, and as such, she dominated the majority of the bar patrons. She was putting on quite a performance too. Most watched and laughed raucously, laughing at her, not with her, though it seemed that she was either incapable of, or beyond telling the difference.

  The crowd around her was thinning. Gradually people were leaving, possibly because they’d had enough, or possibly because they were tiring of watching the spectacle before them. Not even increasing the frequency of flashes of her breasts stemmed their departure, and her outbursts as to their lack of staying power did nothing to endear them. It was mid-week and late at night, and soon only the sexual opportunists and very drunk remained, but she showed no sign of slowing.

  Malcolm enjoyed the show. He knew it wouldn’t be long now.

  Chapter - 70.

  Devlin recognised Ikel’s car, or what was left of it, by the licence plate. He hadn’t noticed it before, but it was hard to miss a plate ‘IKEL’ and he understood immediately that everything the Detective had said en-route was true, despite his best efforts to convince himself otherwise.

  He didn’t need to see the body, though Detective Reymond would have possibly allowed it. There didn’t seem much point. The identity had been confirmed adequately, but not formally, by the time they’d arrived, and the ambulance and its crew was just keen to get on their way. In any case, there was too much blood on the wall for the body to be recognisable as his new friend.

  Detective Reymond spoke quietly with the attending Police. He looked unfazed as he mainly listened, alternating between surveying the car wreck and looking at the uniforms as they filled him in, periodically glancing at Devlin. Eventually after what seemed an eternity, though it was only a few minutes, Detective Reymond sauntered over to Devlin, seated on the kerb with his legs stretched onto the road, away from shattered glass and debris.

  “At least he died doing what he loved. He loved that car,” said Devlin, nervously slipping into banality. “I’m assuming it was suicide.”

  “Possibly.” Detective Reymond eased his older body onto the kerb beside Devlin. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he wasn’t comfortable. “Traffic incidents aren’t my thing. The uniforms are still checking and looking for witnesses. There’s an unsubstantiated report that he might have swerved to miss a dog, so the write-up might call it accidental. Of course, we have a distinct lack of an animal, or carcass as the case may be, and there’s no skid-marks to substantiate the report.”

  Devlin said nothing. He just sat staring into infinity.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Detective Reymond asked.

  “I guess I’m wondering how this fits with my understanding of what is going on at LastGasp’.”

  “Well.” Reymond braced himself, as if about to suggest something unpalatable. “Of course you have to consider that perhaps your friend did just … call it a day.”

  “Oh, please!” Devlin was incredulous. “Another LastGasp’ employee on the list and you’re telling me that …”

  Reymond interrupted Devlin at the start of what was sure to be a nervous or scared rant. “I’m just saying that perhaps the suicides are real. Pure and simple. Of course, for the sake of argument, I’m not including your friend here in this list pending the formal outcome of the investigation. But maybe the problem lies in your employer’s recruitment practices.” Reymond took a deep breath as if in anticipation of a rebuttal.

  No rebuttal came. Instead, Devlin was silent, thinking, and for a few seconds he said nothing, until, “You know Detective. I think you’re right.”

  Chapter - 71.

  Albert was so close he could taste it, but taste, like the sense of smell, was little more than a memory. He didn’t really miss the sense of smell, and in his current surrounds, being able to smell anything would have been more than he could handle. To him, sloshing around amid puddles of urine was no different really than walking around after fresh rains, except that there wasn’t the intangible feel of renewal and cleanliness that accompanied rain. While he didn’t miss most scents and smells, he did miss the pervasive odour of cleanliness, that, and the taste of a good steak. Even just the thought of the taste of some meat made him miss his life, or what was his life. But what he could taste now was better than the best steak at the best restaurant. He could taste sweet revenge, and it was both sweet and savoury, and more than worth the wait.

  It had taken forever to track Sam down, but faster than the man could be identified, he could re-invent himself, assume a new identity and disappear leaving the process of finding him back at square one. Right now he was using the name Malcolm Venn which hurt even more.

  He didn’
t have all the time in the world for his quest either. Not only was the search wearing, but what was left of his lungs were getting worse. He was brave in the face of his own mortality, as fast as his death was approaching, but he was scared that he mightn’t get to actually find Sam in time.

  The most important thing in what remained of his life was that he find the guy. He needed for Sam to understand what he’d done in the last few moments of his life.

  He didn’t want to be too over-confident though. He’d been close, arguably this close before, only to have that bastard slip through his fingers and disappear. Most recently, only a few days ago, he’d tracked Sam down to where he was hiding out with some bitch, but before he could do anything about it, Sam was gone. For her part, either Sam had briefed her very well, or she genuinely didn’t know anything, but she didn’t concede any clues as to his whereabouts.

  Albert bit his lower lip as he remembered meeting her, frustration giving way to regret as he thought of how he’d lost his temper. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault, but it was no use. He could have walked away at any time, particularly when it was obvious that she wasn’t going to talk. He should have walked away when she voluntarily raised her skirt, as if he would be that easily placated. And when he saw the bruises, that in particular should have appealed to what was left of him and he should have run away for fear of becoming what he loathed. And he was going to, until she suggested that he’d never find Sam. The years of anticipation, the pent up resentment at looking for him and not being able to find him, and the bottled aggression was suddenly uncapped. He couldn’t even remember what he’d done to her, but it wouldn’t have been pretty. Not his finest moment.

  Albert wasn’t even sure if she was alive, whoever she is, or was. He’d left as soon as he’d heard a car pull up outside and made his way back to his own noxious smelling cave. Perhaps the only upside was that irrespective of whether she lived or died, Sam would get the message and maybe, just maybe, it would be enough for him to make a mistake.