‘Why do I seem to make a habit of waking up in Range Rovers?’ he said groggily. Except, he realised somewhat belatedly, he was no longer in a Range Rover. At some point, they had changed cars. He was now in a Mercedes people carrier.
Otherwise, everything was the same. Still the same companion next to him, a guy they had been referring to as List, or maybe it was Liszt, while upfront sat Kilgore in the passenger seat with McGregor driving. The difference being that McGregor, driving, was now on the other side of the car.
‘Not a Range Rover, now,’ said McGregor redundantly.
‘Yeah, I just worked that out,’ said Abbott. ‘You know, if you’re wanting me to take part in your game, I mean, just a thought, but it might be worth not drugging me beforehand.’
Kilgore and McGregor shared a look. Kilgore was the older of the two, taller and clearly the most senior in the relationship, but of the two of them McGregor knew Abbott better. He wondered which of them had suggested drugging him and which of them had been against it.
‘OK, well, how do you feel now, then?’ asked Kilgore. It was him, Abbott decided. He was the one who had wondered about the wisdom of drugging Abbott. He could imagine the conversation. McGregor telling Kilgore, ‘No, it’s too dangerous, pal.’
‘Groggy,’ said Abbott, which was an accurate reflection of how he really felt. ‘When do the games begin?’
‘We’ll be arriving in a couple of hours,’ said Kilgore. ‘Just get some rest.’
He sat back, partly because it really was in fact the world’s dumbest idea to drug a guy you were expecting to go into battle for you, and so, yes, he could use the rest, and partly because he needed to think.
His plan for the game had always been that he would have the back-up of Ward, Miller and Brace, but the situation had gone FUBAR (an old military term meaning Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition) before he’d had the opportunity to set those wheels in motion. And to say the situation had moved rapidly was understating it. In the space of what felt like a few hours he’d gone from a Travelodge in Derby to what felt like the back of beyond in Poland.
So you’re on your own. What are the odds? What are your chances? For the first time possibly since Lady Norton’s proposal he thought seriously about it.
OK, so what did he know? Well, he knew that the battle-ground was to be somewhere in Eastern Europe, and here he was. He also knew that the five immediate members of Charles Norton’s family – his widow Lady Norton; his daughter Montana, her ex-husband Clifford Levine and their two sons, Ross and Simon – had each chosen a proxy. So that meant five of them in the battle. Presumably each of the other competitors would have a similar skill set to him; presumably they would all be highly motivated and carefully chosen.
That said, Lady Norton and her lieutenant, Kilgore, seemed especially keen that Abbott should represent them, even though he had incriminating evidence on her.
Despite that fact? Or because of it? Did it mean that Lady Norton could feel justified in getting rid of Abbott when it was all over? Was it better to keep him close at hand? Either way, there was very little point in worrying about imponderables.
So it would be Abbott versus the other contestants. He had faced worse odds. Would any of the Nortons cheat, that was the question? After all, he had been busy putting plans into place himself. Then again, he had no designs on winning the contest. For them, cheating was a far riskier strategy.
But that wasn’t the whole story, was it? Because if he was going to do the job properly – and he fully intended to do the job properly – then he was taking out the Nortons at the same time. And that would mean going up against whatever private army they had on site.
What did he know about those guys so far? They were in a convo of two people carriers. In his: Kilgore, McGregor and beside him in the back seat, the hate-filled one they called Wilson. Was Kilgore a combatant? He couldn’t be sure. He had the appearance of a hard nut but perhaps in more of a corporate sense.
McGregor? McGregor had no training, but he wasn’t squeamish, he was prepared to have a go and that counted for a lot.
In the other vehicle was Morris, again probably not a combatant. Even though he was a weapons expert, he was more of an IT guy. Abbott had come across the type many times. Guys who knew all there was to know about guns, who always wanted to – so they said – ‘pick your brains’, which was really just an excuse for them to show off their own detailed weapons knowledge. Guys who fell asleep at night dreaming of combat, but if you put them in the field would shit their pants.
As well as Morris, there was another guy, Liszt or List? A large bloke. Abbott found himself thinking of the three guys he’d accounted for, back at the Travelodge. Wishing he’d managed to take out more.
And then, of course, was the impossible-to-know. The guarantee that not only would there be more security at wherever they ended up – guys in cargo pants and polo shirts and Aviators – but that the individual Nortons were likely to have their own guys on board. PAs probably, but maybe security experts, too. After all, whoever was finding their proxies for them had to be in the game. The fixers wouldn’t necessarily be on site. The fixers of Abbott’s acquaintance liked to steer well clear of the action. But who knew? If the money was right, then why not?
One thing was certain: they were either underestimating Abbott or overestimating him. And either way that was a mistake for which they would pay.
And then, of course, was the question of Tess’s location. Would they have brought her to Poland? If he was right and they intended to get rid of him whatever the outcome – and after all, any other option didn’t quite make sense – then the answer was yes, they would bring her to Poland and deal with her, this loose end, at the same time as they dealt with him.
After that? What? Go through his phone, of course. Cuckoo was in his phone as Cuckoo and not his real name, but if you had their kind of resources, it wouldn’t be too difficult to put him at military intelligence and military intelligence at Bedford, the destination of the CD. Another loose end they’d want to tie.
Which meant that Cuckoo’s was another life he needed to save.
He settled back in his seat. Trying to keep his mind clear. Trying to stay present and focused on the job at hand. As he knew from years of drinking and then being on the wagon and then drinking again, there was one thing to be grateful for, at least, and that was the fact that he was neither drunk nor hungover. His condition could be better. But on the other hand, it could be a lot, lot worse.
He dozed, conserving his energy, reaching for a state of total focus by clearing his mind, until he heard the word ‘Abbott’ and opened his eyes. ‘We’re here.’
And the first thing he saw was the fact that they were entering what looked like a vast construction site. His brain struggled to make sense of what his eyes could see. A theme park, by the looks of things. Half-built theme park, the skyline a forest of cranes and scaffolding providing a strange and surreal counterpoint to the attractions.
But what kind of attractions? He had his answer when they drove beneath an arch surely designed to welcome visitors to the Norton’s latest entertainment venture.
An arch on which was emblazoned the words, ‘Welcome to Murder World!’
CHAPTER 49
Abbott saw CCTV cameras but thus far, no guards, armed or otherwise.
That was interesting, he thought. It indicated that any security presence at the site might not be quite as large as he had feared. The two people carriers drew up together in a car park. A car park that was intended for the park’s visitors. Lines were painted, while already positioned were several other people carriers of the same make, as well as a large Humvee. Not far away was a sign with blood-dripping words saying, ‘This Way to Murder World’ in English and – he assumed – Polish.
The men assembled. From the boot of the people carrier, List took two M-16s, one of which he handed to Wilson. Taking the weapon, Wilson’s eyes were on Abbott. Abbott wondered if one of the dead or wounded bac
k at Travelodge was big pals with Wilson. He’d have to watch that one.
Now Kilgore swept his arm around as though introducing Abbott to the place. ‘What do you think of it so far?’
‘I think it’s a car park, mate. It’s a nice car park, but I’ll be honest, it’s not the first car park I’ve ever seen.’
Kilgore chuckled. ‘This is Norton Gaming’s latest attraction. It’s due to open next year. The world’s first murder-themed theme park. Adults only, of course.’
‘Got to protect the children,’ said Abbott pointedly. ‘What’s next? Sex World? Drug World?’
Kilgore almost smiled. Almost. ‘You’re closer to the truth than you might imagine.’
‘Sex World. I knew it. You’ll be opening that one in Chipping Norton, no doubt.’
‘Oi, Billy Connolly,’ said McGregor, ‘let’s get a move on, shall we? People to see.’
They moved off with Kilgore and McGregor at the head of the pack, List and Wilson covering Abbott with the M-16s, Abbott’s hands still zip-tied in front of him. He had thought about trying to work at the tie and loosen it, but then again, why waste energy? He had no plans to escape. Not yet at least. He wanted to give every indication of playing ball, going along with the scheme. So he went willingly with his captors, and instead of plotting escape took stock of his surroundings.
There was no danger of Norton Gaming underplaying the ‘murder’ theme. Everywhere he looked there were billboards on which loomed top-hatted killers wielding bloodstained knives, hooded figures with axes, old-timey gangsters with Tommy guns. Just off to his right and currently sectioned off by constructors’ wire fencing was a huge spiked metal ball. Not far away was another. Across from that, a mechanised hand holding a meat cleaver, chopping, chopping, a victim screaming. In one area were a whole bunch of figures presumably intended for distribution around the park. Men in boiler suits carrying machetes. Misshapen axe-wielding monsters. Surgeons with scalpels. Evil nurses with hypodermics. Supplies of red paint in Poland must have been severely depleted by the building of Murder World. Literally everything was liberally doused in blood.
The other thing that Abbott saw in abundance was CCTV. Everywhere he looked were cameras, sometimes whole nests of them fixed, he noticed, rather than oscillating but as he cast his eye around, he realised that they were positioned in such a way that every inch was covered.
Now they reached a pedestrianised area, either side of which were what were no doubt intended to be concessions stands. Empty, of course. A short walk led to a quadrangle. In the middle were picnic benches covered in plastic while on all four sides were more units intended for refreshments and souvenirs, but here, one storey above, was a balcony that ran around three of the four sides. The group approached a door. ‘Staff Only’ said a sign, again in English and Polish.
Kilgore pushed open the door, on the other side of which was a set of austere stone steps leading upwards. They ascended to the balcony above and here at last was another guard. He carried an M-16, same as Wilson and List, and greeted his two colleagues by name, waving them on to a room further along. Through another door, into a staffroom with a line of lockers on one side, a row of pegs on the other, and a piece of elaborate graffiti. ‘Killer Crew’.
‘So,’ said McGregor, ‘today has been an interesting morning for the Nortons. They’ve been meeting each other’s proxies for the very first time.’
‘But we proxies don’t get a look at each other?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ said McGregor. ‘Come on, you’re the last. As soon they see you, the game begins.’ He indicated a set of overalls. ‘You’re green. The competing colours are yellow, orange and bright blue.’
‘Just four of us? I was expecting five.’
‘Simon Norton has recently expired of a heroin overdose. Consumed by his grief for his inspirational grandfather, no doubt,’ said Kilgore drily. ‘As a result, we have one fewer competitor and therefore one fewer proxy.’
McGregor indicated the overalls. ‘You need to put it on now.’
‘Green’s not my colour.’
‘We’re not going the full Reservoir Dogs on this, are we? You’re green. There’s no discussion.’
‘Sure,’ said Abbott. He raised his zip-tied hands. ‘You’re going to need to get me out of these first.’
‘Aye, that’s true,’ said McGregor, almost ruefully. ‘Here,’ he produced Abbott’s Gerber knife, ‘I’ll use this, shall I?’
I’ll be taking that off you later. ‘Sure.’ Abbott proffered his hands. ‘Be careful, though, it’s very sharp. The last thing you want to do is give me a nasty nick. I’d hate to have to retire with injury, especially when I’ve come so far.’
‘No danger of that, pal,’ said McGregor. He glanced behind himself to check that Wilson and List were paying attention. In return they shouldered the assault rifles, watching Abbott carefully. To one side stood Kilgore, looking on with an almost bemused expression as McGregor reached forward and – snick – slashed the zip-tie.
The plastic dropped to the floor. McGregor stepped smartly back, already holding the knife away, as though concerned Abbott might make a sudden grab for it. Abbott’s eyes went from him to Wilson and List, to Kilgore. He rubbed his wrists. He turned, went to the pegs and reached for the set of green overalls.
‘Now,’ said Kilgore, ‘if you’d like to try on your overalls I shall go and check to see whether the competitors are ready for you.’
He walked to the staffroom window where the blind was drawn. ‘Perhaps you’d like to survey the battleground while you wait.’
The blinds ascended. Kilgore left the room. Abbott zipped up his overalls, moved to the window and looked out over Murder World. He saw bloodied clown faces, presumably entrances to attractions. There was a large automated knife sculpture, the hand moving up and down. He saw a large meat cleaver. More of the spiked metal balls. The park’s centrepiece was a huge under-construction rollercoaster, part of which passed through a gargantuan noose.
‘There are four areas.’ McGregor had moved across the room to join him at the window. He pointed. ‘See that bit over there? That’s Horror House. Over there, you’ve got Nightmare Alley. And there you’ve got the Fear Palace and next to that is Mutilation Mansion. Pretty good, eh?’
‘Whatever turns you on,’ said Abbott, casting a practised eye over the terrain, seeking out areas of good all-round vision. Places you might put yourself to achieve a height advantage. ‘When do I get to choose my weapons?’
McGregor chuckled. ‘If only it were as easy as that.’
‘What’s the process, then?’
The voice came from behind them. Kilgore. ‘All will be revealed. They’re ready to see you now, Abbott. Follow me.’
‘Wait,’ said McGregor. ‘Should we zip-tie him again?’
Kilgore seemed to consider.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Abbott, ‘better consider the optics on that one. Tied up or not tied up? What do you think will give Lady Norton’s opponents the right idea?’
‘Sharp, Abbott, really sharp. This is exactly how we want you for the game. It’s good that the sedative didn’t take that out of you,’ said Kilgore.
As it was, no zip-ties were produced. Instead, the five of them trooped out of the staffroom and back along the balcony. Kilgore knocked on a door, which was opened by another guy touting an M-16, who nodded them through into what looked like a small anteroom, the kind of place that a nervous job applicant might sit prior to an interview.
But nobody took a seat at the small sofas lining either side of the room. They were taken through to the next room, a big conference room. In here sat the Norton family.
CHAPTER 50
‘Thank you very much, Kilgore,’ said Lady Norton. Abbott looked at her and tried to square the image before him, the one of the slightly elderly but still very elegant multi-millionairess with the person he had seen on the video, presiding over the very worst sort of depravity.
And found that h
e could not. Because even though she was evidently a person capable of something so terrible – and indeed by the simple act of being here and competing in this sick charade was participating in something also quite evil – he still could not compute. That look. That Agatha Christie way of expressing herself. It didn’t fit. Even though he knew it to be true.
He cast his eye across the other members of the meeting. Next to Juliet Norton was a spare seat that Kilgore now took. Beside him was Clifford Levine. Next was a surprise. Sitting beside Levine was a fixer that Abbott knew from The Circuit, that collection of commercial security operators who worked all over the world but mainly in the Middle East.
The Circuit was where Abbott had gone after SF. It was where guys like him went when they couldn’t bear to leave the life behind. They either joined big security firms or they relied on work which mainly came through fixers, people like this guy here. His name was Monroe. He and Abbott were hardly what you’d call buddies. As far as Abbott could remember, they had once exchanged a few words in Baghdad, of all places. But still, he knew Monroe and Monroe knew him. Their eyes met across the room, but Monroe’s gaze slid away, and if Abbott had been looking for help in that direction, then he was looking in the wrong place. Monroe’s presence told him something else. That whoever his opponents were – his true opponents, the ‘proxies’ – they would not be paid thugs off the street. They’d be the cream.
Next to Monroe was a man that Abbott recognised as Ross Norton.
Norton was slouching. He wore an open-neck shirt and an air of relaxation shared by nobody else in the room. That was interesting, thought Abbott. Did that mean anything? Should he read anything into that?
Sitting beside Ross was a man older than him, who Abbott took to be his PA, or perhaps his security consultant. He wore a similar air to Kilgore, almost a Kilgore mini-me.
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