Maurice threw his holdall on the floor next to the right-hand pile of money, almost ripping the zipper as he scooped the bundles of notes into the bag. The others did the same but with less panic; they were old hands at this type of thing.
“Everybody ready? Good. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The group, each one with a bag containing at least one million pounds slung over his back, ran through the space where the window had once been and sprinted towards the gate. Maurice, not being as fit as the other three, lagged a little behind.
“Oi! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The more experienced and better-trained men continued running, but Maurice had been startled. He turned round to see the shock of platinum hair that crowned the head of the homeowner. It was such a stupid haircut that it couldn’t be anyone else other than Christian Parks standing on the lawn, staring right at him.
“I said, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? And where the fuck are my security guards? And my fucking dogs?”
Panic surged through Maurice’s veins. He wasn’t cut out to be a criminal. He raised his pulse-gun. It would be alright… Christian Parks would be unconscious for a couple of hours. No harm done. He pulled the trigger and the footballer collapsed like a half-empty sack of potatoes.
Wayne and Craig had been watching the scene unfold as Manfred used his DNA samples to open the gates again. Wayne stood with his mouth open, unable to speak. Craig broke the silence.
“Boss. We’ve got a problem.”
“What problem?”
“I think he’s, I think he’s……”
Wayne cut in…
“That twat has only gone and killed the gooner.”
“You’re joking.”
“The light was red. The pulse was red. It was red wasn’t it Craig? I didn’t imagine it, did I mate?”
“Nah. it was red alright.”
Manfred’s face turned as red as the pulse beam from Maurice’s weapon.
“I told the Businessman not to let the accountant have a gun. I told him. He’s a pen-pusher I said.”
He walked up to Maurice and looked him straight in the eye, wrenching the pulse gun from his grasp.
“If it weren’t for the fact that I have a young daughter myself, I’d kill you right here and now, you fucking wanker. But your little girl doesn’t deserve to die just ‘cos you can’t follow simple instructions. If it weren’t for her I’d fucking kill you and take your share of the money. Why the hell do you think it was so easy? Everyone was in on it. The only one who didn’t know was the footballer. And he wasn’t even supposed to be there. The guards knew nobody would get killed. Well that went tits up didn’t it! A nice easy job, a stroll in the park, and then the fucking footballer has to come home early! And on top of that, you get trigger happy. I fucking told the Businessman not to let you have a gun, but he insisted. You’re a fucking idiot! Come on… let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Craig, Wayne, and Maurice started to run towards the waiting cars. Manfred grabbed Maurice by the arm and poked him in the chest with his pulse-gun.
“Not you, Jesse James. You’re on your own. My advice to you is to get the money to the doctor and fuck off far away from here. Go wherever the fuck you want – but you’re not coming with us. Save the girl and – if you’re lucky – save yourself. We all get reincarnated but murder is still murder, and the cops will still investigate. Especially when the victim is rich.”
With that, the three thieves trotted back to the cars, Manfred all the while training his pulse-gun on the hapless Maurice, who could only stand and watch as the rear lights of the vehicles faded into the distance.
Chapter 14
3 a.m. Saturday, 28th January, 2051
Maurice was lost. Not only physically, but emotionally and mentally. He had never even hurt anyone before, not really, not deliberately. But now he had killed someone. He was sure he’d set the pulse-gun to stun, but there was a dead footballer laying on the lawn that testified to the contrary. He tried to gather his thoughts, but one thing was certain… he couldn’t stay where he was. The police would be on their way soon, expecting to find a crime-scene for sure, but one where the only loss was financial. They were required to attend for the insurance company to make good Christian Parks’s financial loss and they were only expecting to find several immobilized security guards and several million pounds missing from the safe. They were certainly not expecting to find a dead footballer.
A dog barked in the distance and forced Maurice to remember that now wasn’t the time for procrastination. He was on foot and had to get as far away from the crime scene as possible and as quickly as possible. He ripped off his gas-mask and balaclava and stuffed them into his holdall, on top of the million pounds in crisp new notes. Which way to run? At first he didn’t think it made much difference until he noticed that there was a wooded area. That would give him some cover. That would be the best idea. Get off the road and into some kind of cover. He started running, the holdall knocking against his hip as he ran. Without breaking step he slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder and adjusted the buckle to make it shorter and the bag less awkward.
The wood was surrounded by a fence but it was a pathetic attempt at security if that was indeed its purpose. Maurice climbed over it easily and head towards a lake, whose waters glistened in the moonlight through the trees. Once there, he looked around for a decent sized rock. It had to be heavy enough that it would sink to the bottom of the lake but not so heavy that Maurice with his athletic failings couldn’t throw it a decent distance. There were plenty of small to medium-sized rocks to choose from and it didn’t take him long to find the best one. He wrapped the strap of the gas-mask around it and pulled the straps tight. He then stuffed the balaclava between the strap and the rock so that it couldn’t fall out.
“Please don’t let me down now,” he whispered to himself as he launched the missile into the air towards the centre of the lake. He felt a physical sigh of relief as the rock and its cargo plunged into the lake, far from the shoreline, and sank without a trace.
He still wasn’t far enough away from the footballer’s house so he crossed the woodland and ran towards where he hoped there would be another road. He hadn’t heard any police sirens; that had to be a good sign. He was in luck and found a main road. A few seconds after leaving the wood he had to duck back inside as two police cars flashed by.
Once the coast was clear, Maurice walked along the road in the direction of the town centre. He was tempted to hide again when he saw more headlights approaching. As luck would have it, the lights belonged to a taxi with no passengers.
“May as well…” thought Maurice as he flagged the car down. The car stopped and Maurice slid into the back seat.
“Where to, mate?”
The cabbie was in a remarkably cheery mood considering he was undoubtedly doing the graveyard shift.
“Erm… the town centre, somewhere near the bus station will do.”
“Righto!”
Maurice wondered if the cab driver was at all curious as to why he was walking the streets at that time of night but, in truth, the cabbie was just thankful to pick up a fare and have someone to talk to for a few minutes.
“You a Spurs fan then?”
“Sorry?”
“Your bag. You a fan of Spurs, The Lillywhites, The mighty Tottenham Hotspur F.C.?”
“Um… Yes, I am.”
“Me too. And my old man. And his old man before him. And the rest before him. Runs in the family, it does.”
Maurice thought he’d better chat with the driver. He didn’t want to be memorable because he was rude.
“My dad didn’t like football. I don’t really know how I got into it, but I’ve always loved Spurs.”
“Nah? My dad loved it. Reckoned Spurs never looked back after they stopped sacking managers every six months. That Argentinian geezer, Pochettino. He liked him. My dad was at the old White Hart Lane – I can’t remember
who against – when a young Argentinian kid, Lamela his name was, did summat called a Rabona and scored a brilliant goal. I’ve no idea what a Rabona is or was, but my old man never forgot it. Said it was a once in a lifetime thing to see live.”
The car was cruising through the town centre, about half a mile from the bus station. Maurice leaned towards the seat in front of him.
“This’ll do. Thanks.”
“Sure thing mate.”
The cab stopped and Maurice paid the driver.
“Keep the change.”
“Thanks mate.”
Just as Maurice started to walk away from the car, the driver called after him. Maurice froze.
“Oi, mate?”
Maurice turned around.
“Yes?”
“Come on you Spurs, eh?”
Maurice fist-pumped the air, rather half-heartedly.
“Yeah, come on you Spurs.”
It was now about three forty-five in the morning. In the last two hours or so Maurice had left his wife sleeping in her bed, driven off with three professional criminals and killed a man. Oh, and he mustn’t forget the small matter of stealing one million pounds. A wave of sadness washed over him as it suddenly dawned on him that he may never see his wife again. He may never see his children again. But Caitlin would be saved. He was suddenly jolted back to reality by the realization that he had to get the money to the doctor as soon as possible. He had to come up with a plan.
Across the street was a small hotel. It didn’t look particularly luxurious but Maurice wasn’t interested in the quality of the place; what was more important was that it was open 24/7. He crossed the now deserted street and pushed open the door. A buzzer sounded as he entered.
A rather grizzled looking man with a head that seemed too big for his body looked up from a book he was reading.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes please. I’d like a room please.”
“That’s generally what people want when they come in here, sir… this being a hotel and all.”
“Quite.”
“How many nights, sir?”
“One. I think. Maybe two. No more than that.”
“Cash or credit card, sir?”
Normally Maurice would have paid by credit card but he’d seen enough movies to know that he shouldn’t leave a digital trail behind him.
“Cash please.”
“Wise move, sir. Wise move. 10% discount for cash.”
“Nice.”
“Just place your thumb over this small area of glass please, sir.”
“Um… pardon?”
“Place your right thumb over this small area of glass please, sir. It’s the law now.”
This was new to Maurice. He hadn’t stayed in a hotel for some time now, but he’d never had to have his fingerprint read before when checking in.
“Really? Since when?”
“Since six months ago, sir. Helps the government keep track of people. Of course, if you’d rather not, you could always pay a 250% surcharge on the room. No questions asked, sir.”
Under the circumstances, Maurice didn’t think that was too bad a deal. He could easily afford it anyway.
“Yes. OK. I’ll pay the surcharge.”
“Very good sir. You’d be surprised to know how many people prefer to pay the surcharge.”
The big-headed man took a sheet of film that was just like the film that Manfred had used to gain entry into Christian Parks’s house a few hours earlier.
“My name is…”
The big-headed man interrupted him.
“I know your name, sir. You’re a twenty-seven year old Indian pharmaceutical sales representative named Tuhina Kapoor. Ma’am.”
“Oh…. OK. If you say so. I guess that’s who I am.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
The big-headed man enjoyed seeing his guests’ faces when he suddenly gave them a digital sex-change. It brightened up his otherwise boring nights. He handed Maurice his card-key.”
“Room 201, ma’am. Second floor. Enjoy your stay.”
Maurice dragged his tired bones up the stairs and headed towards his room. He slid his cardkey into its slot and the door to room 201 opened with an audible click.
The room wasn’t too bad. It had the usual conveniences; en-suite bathroom, satellite TV, a double bed, and a communications desk with free internet access. The place was better than it had looked from the outside. It wasn’t luxurious but it was certainly comfortable enough for the one or two nights that he’d be staying.
The screen above the communications desk suddenly emitted a buzzing noise. Maurice pressed a button on the bedside table and an image of the reception desk flickered into life. The big-headed man moved into view.
“Miss Kapoor. I have a call for you.”
Maurice had no idea who it could be. Nobody knew he was there. He was worried. Who the hell could be calling him in the early hours of the morning?
“Who is it?”
“It’s the Businessman.”
Of course. He was bound to know that Maurice was there. He was like Big Brother. So, it was no coincidence that both Manfred and the big-headed man had access to the same technology.
“I can hardly say no to him, can I?”
“Not really, sir. No. It’s not advisable. Not if you know what’s good for you”
The image on the screen was replaced by the silhouette of the Businessman.
“Good morning, Mr. Boone.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“I see there was a spot of trouble with the operation tonight. An almighty cock-up in fact.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well. It’s done now. No point in crying over spilt milk. Or dead footballers. Though it would have made things a lot easier if you hadn’t killed him.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Boone. What are we going to do with you? Eh?”
Maurice knew that he was way out of his depth.
“I don’t know sir.”
“Luckily, I do know. You are going to go downstairs to reception. You are going to give the sum of seven hundred and ninety-three thousand pounds to Charles, our mutual friend at the reception desk.”
“Seven hundred and ninety-three thousand pounds?”
“Yes. Seven hundred and ninety-three thousand pounds. Ten thousand pounds is a gratuity to Charles for helping you out of your predicament. Charles will, in turn, make an electronic transfer to Doctor Stefansson as full payment for your daughter’s surgery, which will take place a matter of hours after the funds are received. The replacement organ is being prepared as we speak. Later today your wife will be informed of two things. Firstly, that your daughter’s treatment has been paid for, so she need no longer worry about that. Secondly, that you have been killed in a car crash, been burnt beyond recognition in the ensuing fire and that you loved her very much. We’ll do our best to be tactful”
Maurice didn’t like the sound of that. It didn’t sound very tactful to him.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“You’re going to disappear. Without a trace, in fact. Although, of course, I will always know your whereabouts. That goes without saying. I know where everyone is. Well, almost everyone.”
“Thank you sir. May I ask… why are you doing this for me?”
“Mr. Boone. I’m not some kind of monster. I rather like you. And I sympathise with your daughter’s predicament. I too, had lifesaving surgery at her age. Now, goodnight Mr. Boone.”
Maurice wasn’t comfortable. He knew that if something looked too good to be true, then it usually was. The Businessman must have a reason for helping him.
He went downstairs and did as the Businessman had said, paying Charles the sum of seven hundred and ninety-three thousand pounds in cash. He had no choice but to trust the man. He went back to his room and lay on his bed.
“At least Caitlin will be OK now,” he thought.
Chapter 15
11:30 a.m
. Friday, 3rd March, 2051
A month later, Karen Boone was struggling to hold her life together. On the one hand, her daughter, Caitlin, was recovering well after her kidney transplant but on the other hand she was now a widow with two young daughters. A mystery benefactor had paid for Caitlin’s surgery and she wanted to find the man or woman and give them a big hug but nobody would tell her the identity of her daughter’s savior. She would be financially sound – one thing that Maurice had insisted upon paying, whether they could afford it or not, were the life-insurance policies. At least she had enough to keep her head above water. The bills were being paid, she had no financial pressure at the moment, and Caitlin was back at home. The family was reunited except for one important member. She wanted her husband back, but she knew that that was never going to happen, in this life or any other future life. Neither Maurice nor she had any memory of their previous lives and so she had to accept the fact that she would never see her beloved husband again, ever. Of course, Maurice would be reborn, but he would have no recollection whatsoever of his previous family, so a knock on the door in twenty or so years’ time would not be the new incarnation of her husband, come to be reunited with the love of his life.
Meanwhile, Maurice was living alone in a seaside town, in the southwest of England, doing his best to not spend every waking moment missing his family. When he did manage to gain a few minutes respite from the aching pain of separation he was tortured by the reality that he had cut short the life of a human being who had never done him any wrong, bar play for the wrong football team.
The Businessman had set him up with another new identity which, although he was obviously grateful, was worrying Maurice. The Businessman was too helpful.
To the outside world, Maurice was now Richard Saunders but underneath he was still the same Maurice Boone. A new name didn’t change who he was or what he had done. He had grown a beard and was letting his hair grow longer but anybody who had known him previously would still have been able to recognise him. He had a gardening job and somewhere to stay; he rented a small flat on the outskirts of town. It was comfortably furnished and had what were considered all mod cons with TV, DVR, washing machine etc. It even had central heating and double-glazing, but it wasn’t home. The mod cons were antiquated and everything had to be done manually. At home, he had been used to the refrigerator automatically rotating stock as food came close to its expiration date and then automatically ordering more food and drink as it became necessary. Maurice and Karen didn’t have to lift a finger.
REVELATION: Book One of THE RECARN CHRONICLES Page 10