by Pete Trewin
HYBRIS
‘The biggest threat today. A virus that eats into networks. It can learn like an evolving organism. Frightening. Though Billy Whizz here can manage.’
Now a slide showing huge steel doors.
‘This place is called Fort Silicon. Safest place in the world. But physical protection is actually no use. The only answer is to know more than your enemy.’ He paused. ‘So, to recap.’
SECURITY: A £50 BILLION INDUSTRY
Then a slide showing a group of McDonalds protestors.
‘Good PR is vital. And…’ Now a slide showing a rubbish bin. ‘You’ve got to be careful. Remember Garbagegate? But out biggest asset is:’
OUR REPUTATION
OUR SERVICE
•Person checks.
•Company problems.
•Company’s regulatory position.
•Forensic accounting.
•One-offs.
Alison realised that something had gone wrong. The background to the words had showed a pair of grinning protestors giving V signs to the camera. Now it had changed, showing them turned as one, bent over and presenting glistening white bottoms to the camera.
‘There are lots of bad things out there,’ Chester was saying. ‘But there are also lots of good guys trying to make a living, and pay the mortgage. You need to help people like that. Our job is to stop the bad guy ripping the shirt off the good guy’s back!’
Someone tittered. The titter exploded into a roar of laughter just as the lights flicked on.
‘OK, ladies and gentlemen,’ Chester’s young sidekick shouted. ‘That’s the end of the presentation. We’ve got a buffet lunch at the back of the hall. Please help yourselves.’
Alison relaxed.
Chester was staring at the image on the screen. He turned and motioned to the young man with his head. Alison wondered who he was. He was very slim and athletic-looking. Nice curly hair. A little younger than her. Rather attractive. Both men went into the back room.
Simon crashed the door shut. He pulled his suit jacket off and threw it onto a chair. He tried to rip his tie off but the knot got twisted and he gave up. When he turned, his face was purple with rage. He looked so silly standing there with the tie round his neck like a noose that Chris had to try really hard to stop himself from laughing out loud.
‘You engineered that in there, just to get back at me. Don’t think I don’t know what you are up to, Mr Billy fucking Whizz!’
‘Come on, Simon, it was a glitch. Why would I sabotage your presentation?’
‘Why ? You and your harassment tactics.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, someone murdered our cat and nailed it to the door. What a thing to do. And someone’s been watching my house from the woods. And I had a threatening telephone call. As if you don’t know.’
‘When was this phone call?’
‘Last night at seven.’
‘What did the caller say?’
‘Nothing. Just heavy breathing and laughing.’
‘I was with Jeanette then, working on the presentation. Call her.’
‘Hah, she’s probably in with you.’
‘Simon,’ Chris said as gently as he could. ‘Let me give you some advice. You need help. Psychiatric help.’
Simon’s face turned from a dark purple to white: in a moment from the skin of a ripe Victoria plum to a sheet of eighty gram photocopier paper. His whole body jerked, and then he slumped to the floor, like a stricken crash test dummy.
Chris checked Simon’s pulse and put him in the recovery position. He ran out of the room. Everyone was sitting at tables, enjoying their buffet lunch.
‘Is there a doctor here?’ Chris shouted. His words were lost in the babble of conversation. He took a deep breath. ‘Is there a doctor here?’ he yelled as loud as he could.
TWENTY
Stroller left his seat by the window and went out on to the landing. The flat opposite must be empty or the occupier away. He went to the door and listened.
Nothing.
Two hundred and fifty quid wasn’t enough. By the time he’d shelled out for a proper meal, rather than chips, the night before and acquired a nice North Face jacket that morning, there was hardly anything left. There would be bus fares, train fares, taxi fares. Expenses. Meals.
There were three options. Ambush them in the car. Or on the street. Or in the house. The first two were risky. They would almost certainly be armed. He looked up. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling, fastened by a hook and eye. Access to the loft. Another door at the end of the passage. He opened it and switched on the light. Cleaning stuff. An extendible ladder. Flashlight.
He put the ladder against the wall, clambered up and opened the trapdoor. He got down, extended the ladder a few notches and put the top in the trapdoor. He climbed up with the flashlight. The loft was empty apart from some paint tins and a couple of rolled up carpets. Dusty. Cobwebs. Recently laid boards on the floor. He climbed up and tested one with his weight. The board sagged a bit but it was OK. He walked slowly and carefully to the wall separating the hostel from next door, the flashlight showing the way.
There was an old stone lintel set into the dividing wall, about two feet up from the floor. He squatted down. The opening was filled with loose bricks. At one time many of these houses would have had the same owner. He removed the bricks and stacked them by the wall. He had to lie on his back to get through and it was a tight squash. Two hundred years ago people were a lot smaller. There were no boards on the other side, just the joists. A lot of cardboard boxes stacked one on top of the other across them.
It was a bit tricky stepping from joist to joist guided by a flashlight. One slip and you would go through the plaster ceiling below. Eventually he reached a trapdoor. It wouldn’t move. Most likely on a latch. He would have to risk some brute force and hope that the trapdoor didn’t crash down on a couple making out on a bed or on pimps counting money. He squatted down and forced the edge of the door down with a boot. It took several goes but it splintered and crashed down onto its hinges. Surely they would have heard?
He leaned down and listened. All quiet apart from muffled piped music.
Hallway, bare walls, paint tins. Floor covered in decorators’ sheets. He had to go back for the ladder. He checked the whole of the top floor of the knocking shop. All empty and being redecorated. The piped music was coming from the next floor down. He eased his way to the top of the stairs. Passageway below with several closed doors. Low light level. He went down the stairs, one at a time, listening. At the end of the passageway a door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open enough to see inside.
Some sort of office. Bright striplights. Table. Chairs. Small kitchen in the corner. Bags of money on the table. Two cups of tea. Warm. He checked the bags. Separated out into different denominations of notes. And pound coins. No silver or copper. Most punters would pay cash, rather than risk an item on a bank or credit card statement. The bag with twenty pound notes was the largest. He weighed it in his hand. Maybe a couple of grand?
Back in the loft, putting the bricks back, he allowed himself a giggle at the cheek of it. There would be shit to pay when they noticed that the bag was gone. They would suspect each other. Punters. Girls. Strong-arm tactics weren’t always the way forward.
TWENTY ONE
Once you left the road around the edge of Sefton Park at night and entered the woods, it took a while for your eyes to adjust. The trunks of large trees loomed out of the darkness. Grass and leaves rustled underfoot. Occasionally Chris tripped over a branch or a root. You just had to trust to luck with any dog shit that might be there.
He cut out a faster pace than usual, and he was soon breathing hard. He could hear throbbing music not far away. Someone was having a party. He ran away from the noise and soon left it behind. Alone in the darkness. Lost in the rhythm of running. Eventually he could see the glow of streetlights at the other edge of the park gradually getting brighter.
Kids were scream
ing somewhere nearby. Scallies probably. Then the deeper roars of a man. Chris cut round the last screen of bushes and he was out on the road under bright streetlights.
Someone was kneeling on the pavement by a wall. A big rucksack lay on the ground. Kids were shouting and dancing around him.
Chris could see blood and streaks of vomit on the pavement.
One kid threw a large stone or brick which bounced off the man’s head with a full thump.
‘Fucking pervert!’
The man screamed and tried to cover his head with his hands.
Chris waded in.
‘Hey!’ yelled the kid who had thrown the brick as Chris pushed him aside. ‘Who do you think you’re pushing?’
He kicked Chris on the shin. Chris gasped with pain.
‘I’ll get my dad onto you!’ the kid yelled, thrusting his face towards Chris.
Chris took careful aim and hit the kid as hard as he could on the side of the head, his knuckles grinding on bone. The crack of the punch sounded brutally loud in the sudden silence. The kid staggered back, stunned. The rest of the gang backed off.
‘Want more do you?’ Chris roared as gruffly as he could as he advanced on them.
They ran away and then stopped on the next corner to turn as one and yell abuse.
‘You wanker!’‘Tosser!’ ‘Weirdo!’ ‘I’ll get my dad onto you! Bet you’re a paedophile yourself!’
Chris tried to help the man to his feet but he slumped back, cringing away. Chris’s fingers caught on something sharp.
Jesus! They must have stuck nails or something into him.
The man wrenched himself away, tearing Chris’s fingers on whatever the sharp things were.
‘Ow!’ Chris yelled. ‘I’m trying to help you!’
The man slumped down and lay on his side, moaning something unintelligible.
‘Are you all right?’ Chris asked, leaning over. The man turned to look at him. Chris could see now that he had a round face with a sparse beard and long, straggly hair.
‘I’ll be OK,’ the man said.
‘No, you won’t. Come on. I’ll get you cleaned up.’
Chris helped the man to his feet, just about managing not to get snagged on the sharp things. With Chris supporting the man and at the same time carrying the big, heavy rucksack, they managed to get to Lark Lane. Back in the park, Chris could hear someone shouting.
‘Let’s get the paedo!’
‘Come on,’ said Chris, ‘let’s cut down this back alley. What was all that about?’
‘I dunno. I was minding my own business when this taxi comes by and these fellers started shouting that I was a paedo. I don’t know where they got that idea from.’
The man stumbled, still dazed, as Chris guided him back to the lodge. Chris managed to get him to the bathroom and clean the blood off his face. He had a cut on his lip and a raised reddening area on his forehead which would likely turn into a big yellow bruise. Chris caught his hand on something sharp. He pulled the man’s shirt open. Several strands of barbed wire were drawn so tightly across the man’s chest that the barbs were deeply embedded in the skin, each one covered in a kind of paste of dried and crusted blood. Here and there fresh bright red blood oozed from the wounds.
‘We’ll have to get you to a hospital,’ Chris said.
The man snorted with impatience and pulled away.
‘I’ll be all right. Mind your own business.’
Chris led the man into the living room and sat him at the dining table. He threw a pasta ready meal into the microwave and went into the bathroom to clean up. When he came back the food was ready. He served it up. The man fell on it and devoured it. Chris made up a bed in the spare room.
‘Just for tonight, mind,’ he said at the door. The man was already snoring.
It took a long time for Chris to get to sleep. The meal kept repeating on him, no matter how much water he drank.
The lodge had high ceilings, and the light from the streetlights outside sifted through the curtains and played on the far wall of the bedroom.
It was easy to imagine that a coat thrown over a wardrobe was an intruder no matter how much he told himself that it was silly and just his imagination.
He tried to visualize the crux sequence on Time Lapse. He gripped the undercut, his feet on smears, and reached up for the tiny finger hold. The slap for the vague edge. The fingertip layback with one hand, the other with the middle finger on the tiny hold. He was almost at the top ledge. There was a small hold just out of reach. But was it any good? Eventually he fell asleep.
At first he thought that the figure sitting on the chair only a few feet away was something in a dream. He lay back, shutting his eyes. After a few moments he shook his head, opened his eyes and sat up. The figure was still there.
‘Who is it?’ Chris whispered, his voice cracking. He reached out for the light switch. The bedside lamp did not illuminate the figure, which stayed in shadow.
‘It’s Billy Beamish, your old mate. I understand you’re not called Chris Paterson any more.’
‘Beamish…what?’
‘Surprised to see me alive? To see a ghost from your past?’
‘Porky?’ Chris cried out. ‘What the fuck?’
The man pushed his face into the light. A round face with a silly little beard and long greasy hair. Swollen lip and a lump on his forehead. Twenty years older.
‘Porky? That’s not very PC, is it?’
‘But you…you’re…’
‘Dead? Not quite. I spent twenty years in a loony bin because of you. Calling people nicknames like that isn’t on you know. No wonder that people have mental problems with behavior like that. Not to mention deadly assault and the rest of it. How are you supposed to feel if you’re a victim of something like that?’
‘You look different.’
‘I’m entitled to look different. I’ve had a hard life on account of you.’
‘How did you get here, to Liverpool?’
Porky laughed.
‘The train, of course.’
‘Ed McPherson is who you should be after. How did you…?’
‘What do you think? McPherson didn’t finish me off. I crawled through the woods to the road, didn’t I? And I’m not after anyone. You and that ape, McPherson, will get what you are owed on the Day of Judgment. The Lord will sort all that out. All I want is a little contrition and willingness on your part to put things right.’
He paused and leaned forward into the light. Paul almost gasped. Porky now looked like an Old Testament prophet, with wild long hair, straggly beard and staring eyes.
‘I want what I’m owed. You let that big ape do what he did to me. You could have helped but you didn’t. It’s just as much part of the crime to stand by and do nothing. The legal term is “joint enterprise”.’
Chris laughed.
‘That’s for armed robberies and stuff like that,’ he said. ‘Like in that drama on the telly recently. Where the kid thought he was driving his mates for a pizza and they murdered someone.’
‘No, I’ve checked it out. You were part of the group. That makes you responsible.’
‘But you’re not dead.’
‘I was hit over the head and left for dead.’
‘Where’s the evidence? It’s just your word….’
Porky put his hand up and Chris stopped talking.
‘I was hoping….’ Porky’s voice was almost inaudible. ‘I was hoping that you might see the moral side of it, Atone for what you did.’
‘How do I owe you anything?’
‘You created me. Like Frankenstein in that film. With all these thoughts that I get.’
Chris laughed.
‘It wasn’t my decision or my action,’ he said. ‘I was scared of him. He might have done the same to me. It was a lapse on my part, yes. But it was a long time ago. Twenty years.’
‘All it needs for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing, mate. I spent twenty years in that hospital. My parents died while I was
in there. They wouldn’t even let me out to go to the funerals. This is supposed to be a civilized country. How would you like to spend twenty years in a loony bin, looking at the ceiling every night, lonely as hell? Well I’m not lonely now. I’ve got the Lord as my friend. With that forty grand I could make a new start in life. Get a nice flat, buy a car. Some new clothes.’ He looked down with a little smile on his face. ‘Maybe meet a nice woman on on-line dating. Someone who loves the Lord as much as I do. You owe it to me.’
There was a long silence.
‘So you tracked me down,’ Chris said.
Porky laughed.
‘I didn’t track you down, actually,’ he said. ‘You’ve both covered your tracks well. It was a pure stroke of luck seeing you on the street in Liverpool after all these years. Divine intervention if you like. You haven’t changed a bit, you know. Life’s been good to you.’
‘Why haven’t you been back yourself for the money?’
Porky tapped his forehead. ‘Being brained by that rock did strange things to my memory. I can remember some things clear as day. Others…’ He waved a hand.
‘What about the barbed wire?’ said Chris. ‘Those wounds will go septic. I’ve got some disinfectant and a first aid kit, but…you need to go to a hospital.’
‘I’ll be all right. This is my penance for being a sinner.’
There was a long silence.
‘I want two things actually,’ Porky said, pushing his face forward into the light, his eyes glinting. ‘I want the money. And I want McPherson’s address.
TWENTY TWO
Chris slept through the alarm. Porky had already gone, along with the spare keys to the lodge. Maybe the locks would have to be changed.
So he was late for work. But he had no boss to make excuses to now, did he? Things seemed to be continuing as normal, if not better. Jeanette had said nothing. Probably still shocked. Simon had really been a drag on the business. Once he was gone they could just get on with it, without him interfering.
Chris was expecting a call with some bad news from the NCA. If Hardy had complained, Safe n’ Secure might be thrown off the select list. Or, even worse, the NCA or the plods might investigate his own details. And the plods might be investigating Simon’s heart attack. Either way, he didn’t expect to be sitting in his seat for much longer.