by Luca Veste
DC Hale started to reply, then kept his mouth shut. Murphy looked him over and waited for another remark, but it didn’t come. He didn’t bother giving him any more time to change his mind and instead turned to the others who had been watching silently behind him.
‘I know missing cases are usually a ball ache and best avoided, but you’ve all heard by now who it is and who is giving statements on our behalf.’
There were a few turned heads and whispered words.
‘That means we’re going to be on the clock. It also means that within hours we’re going to be under scrutiny from the outside again. Sam Byrne was a prospective MP, ahead in local polls and well liked within the community he wanted to represent. He was a Tory . . .’
There were a couple of heckles at that, but Murphy carried on as if he hadn’t heard them.
‘. . . which means he must be doing something right if he was about to be elected in this city, of all places. I want you out there, finding out what the real feeling was about him, whether he had anyone stridently against him, things like that. We have one full name for a friend, and a whole bunch of first names. I want a couple of you combing through his social media accounts to find out who these people are.’
There was a noise towards the back of the incident room, the sound of a phone slamming down. Murphy looked past a few heads to see DC Kirkham waving at him.
‘What’s going on, Jack?’ Murphy said, making his way towards the DC.
‘They’ve just found Sam Byrne’s car by the Rocket.’
‘Not exactly gone far then . . .’
‘Not just that,’ DC Kirkham said with a smirk, then looking past Murphy at the rest of the incident room. All eyes were on him. ‘It’s parked up just off the dual carriageway, near the bypass. Someone has just called it in.’
‘Right, well, now we have his vehicle at least–’
‘I haven’t finished,’ DC Kirkham interrupted, still not showing any impatience. ‘There’s someone inside it. A body.’
Murphy felt his stomach drop a few floors.
NINE YEARS EARLIER
City of Liverpool University
It wasn’t the university they were supposed to attend, but it wouldn’t matter much. Some of them had careers already mapped out in front of them. Sam Byrne would be an MP like his father. Simon would join a legal firm. James would work with his father in the City, moving back down to London. Tim was more single-minded about being his own boss and wanted to create his own company – helped by family money, of course.
They would all be successful. That much was certain.
Sam was the catalyst. The creator. They didn’t even need to be from the same background really, simply the same mindset as him.
Ambitious, greedy, selfish and committed.
He had contacts before arriving, secured by his father, so he knew two fellow politics students would be in his group. He would target economics and business students next.
They had some local flavour, provided by a mature student, a few years older and wiser. He wasn’t pure-bred British, but he was in there at the beginning. A history student who was trying to make something better of his life.
They were an exclusive band of eight by the end of the first semester, but Sam had further plans to recruit more. They would be the ‘grandmasters’. Others who joined, they would be less important. The local pub provided the backdrop to what would become the official moment the Abercromby Boys Club began.
‘There are points of order we must adhere to if we are to ensure our survival. Firstly, no one discusses the group with outsiders.’
‘The first rule of Abercromby Boys Club is we don’t talk about Abercromby Boys Club . . .’
‘Very funny, Tim. Let’s be serious here. There won’t be many people outside of this room who will understand what we’re doing here. There will be people who castigate us and try to shut us down. We must not break the code.’
‘Are we sure about the name? Only it’s the same as that clothing brand in America.’
‘It took hours to agree on that one. Let’s not go through that again. The university is situated on Abercromby Square. It makes sense.’
‘Fine, fine, what’s the second rule?’
‘We must exert our influence over the many. We may only be eight strong at the moment, but we must act as if we have the influence and power of eight thousand. We are the forebears of what will become a long-lasting group. We will pass on our wisdom to others. Next year we will become the welcoming party for a new batch of intakes. This is the beginning, gentlemen.’
‘Bullingdon Club for the north. I’m sure that’ll go down well in the south.’
‘We’re going to be better than them. For one, we won’t have any of the bizarre initiations they have down there.’
I heard you have to do something with a dead pig.’
‘That’s just rumours. My dad would never have fucked an animal.’
‘Well, that won’t be happening here . . .’
‘That’s a shame. That’s the only reason I turned up.’
‘Tim, enough with the jokes. We will have rituals, but they will be proper ones. They will be essential for new members.’
‘We need to write these down.’
‘I’ve already done that. Your overall responsibility is to the other members of this group. One succeeds, we all succeed.’
‘What do we get out of this?’
‘We all help each other. We all use whatever contacts we have to make things happen for one another. We look after each other, if someone screws up. That’s how these things work.’
‘And this will help get us women?’
‘Of course it will.
‘Good, that’s what I want. Sluts. Bring them on!’
‘Keep your voice down, Neil. There’s a simple rule to getting any woman you want.’
‘What is that then?’
‘I’ll tell you, Paul. Three easy letters to remember. I-I-P.’
‘And that means what exactly?’
‘I’ll tell you if you let me finish a sentence. I-I-P. Isolate. Inebriate. Penetrate.’
‘I’ll drink to that!’
They had been successful and become more powerful than they could have ever expected. On their campus they became legendary. They were young and clever, able to make the university turn a blind eye to anything disreputable using their family’s influence.
Sam had thought it would be a way to make connections, to solidify his position in life, but it became more than just a way to meet people who could help him get to where he wanted to be. Their club quickly became notorious for its alcohol-fuelled incidents and its members’ desperation to fuck anything that moved.
They knew they were better than everyone else there. They were wealthy, smart, good looking, and knew how to get on in life. They were bred for this. They would all be successful, they would all get whatever they wanted.
Sam knew that if people perceived them to be powerful, to be worthy of admiration, then they were. It was as easy as that. People were easily controlled in that way.
A dress code was implemented. Suits were worn on a daily basis, and none of that store-bought rubbish. Tailored suits had to be worn at all times. There was a difference in the standard, of course, but even the least expensively dressed amongst them looked better than what anyone else on campus. Sam had the best, which was expected. A Savile Row special for most days. Immaculately pressed and worn.
That was how they got respect. That was how a reputation was earned. If each member looked as if they were a somebody, half the job was done.
Membership numbers grew. More rules were implemented. Keeping fit was one of them. They would go the gym on an almost daily basis, to keep up the look properly. They had to look the part, that was vital.
‘It’s easy. It’s seventy per cent what you look like, twenty per cent how you say something, ten per cent what you actually say.’
‘And who said that?’
‘I
don’t know, do I? Someone important, let’s leave it at that.’
‘So, you’re saying if George Clooney came out and said something racist or the like, some people would forgive him based purely on what he looked like?’
‘Pretty much. If Mel Gibson had said what he said earlier in his life, people would still watch his movies.’
‘I think they still do . . .’
‘Yeah, because those religious ones he makes now are being watched by normal people.’
Another rule governed the way they interacted with people outside of the group. Male non-members were tolerated – especially if they were useful in some way – but they were still considered inferior.
Women . . . they were a different story.
‘So, what’s an alpha?’
‘It’s what we have to learn to be. Right now, you’re all pretty much gammas.’
‘I have no idea what the fuck you’re on about.’
‘Think about it. Men do things because they think they’ll impress girls. Men demean themselves to be noticed. Men place women on pedestals and think they’re everything that is needed for a good life.’
‘Too right . . .’
‘Don’t interrupt. Put that in the rules as well. We’re proper men. We’re different from the rest of the brutes out there, so let’s have some decorum.’
‘Sorry, carry on.’
‘Gammas are bitter, unattractive, unusual. They simultaneously despise and worship women.’
‘What’s an alpha then? And how do we become one?’
‘Most can’t. An alpha male is the tall, attractive man.’
‘That rules out short arse over here then . . .’
‘Fuck you . . .’
‘Stop. Remember, men, decorum. You’re forgetting about perception again. Just because he’s four foot nothing . . .’
‘Five nine, thank you.’
‘If you’re five nine, I’m eight foot one . . .’
‘Last warning, don’t interrupt again. As I was saying, just because he’s short doesn’t mean he can’t be perceived to be anything he wants to be. He just has to live that life. An alpha is the life and soul of any party. It’s who everyone looks up to. He’s the smart, successful man with a beautiful wife. He’s the captain of the rugby team, with no scars or marks destroying his looks. He’s athletic, he’s fit. Men want to be him, women want to be with him.’
‘How do women play into this?’
‘An alpha sees women for what they are. That they exist only for our needs to be met. Physically and socially. That is all. Alphas don’t care about women any more than that. Betas, they like women a little more. It’s totally fine whichever you feel you fit in. Any lower than an alpha and you’re not fit for this thing of ours. However, I would much prefer you were all sigmas, but that probably won’t be possible. I will not be in a group with a bunch of gammas though.’
‘What’s a sigma?’
‘They’re almost the pinnacle of male dominance. They get the most women, the most respect. They’re hated by alphas, as they don’t understand how they work the game. They don’t respect an alpha’s dominance, as they understand that they are better than they are.’
‘This is more confusing than the socio-economic history of the Middle East.’
‘It’ll all become clear, don’t worry.’
‘So, we dress better, look after ourselves, create the perception that we’re people that need to be noticed, and women will come running?’
‘Don’t believe me?’
‘No, it’s not that. I just want to make sure I’m understanding.’
‘You watch. You think anyone else around here has planned like we have? No. Of course they haven’t. They’ll be out there now, those men who think all they need to do to take a girl home is flash a smile and buy a drink, but think about it. They won’t have the necessary tools to make those sluts disappear once they’re done with them. We will. We’ll use and abuse.’
‘I-I-P?’
‘I-I-P, indeed.’
* * *
They had to stand out. They had to be more than they were.
They didn’t realise that this was the beginning of their end.
That soon, they would all be something else. Something they had never intended to be.
* * *
By the final year of studies, things had changed immeasurably. They had the respect and attention they had always deserved. The original eight had become seven for a short period, before the mature student who had departed was replaced. A student who had better connections, better prospects.
Sam was the creator, but the others had done more than their fair share.
They were kings. The grandmasters. The club was now numerous in members, but they were the originals.
Everyone wanted to be them.
In the meantime, they were still third year university students, wanting to go out and have a good time every week. Which they did, easily and with abandon. Their parties had become legendary – taking place in various private establishments in the city, paid for by pooling their money together and using their influence to get what they wanted.
That was where she presented herself. The girl who would change everything. Who would sully everything they had worked so hard to create.
The bitch who tried to ruin all that they had created.
The party had been planned well in advance by the committee of the Abercromby Boys Club. It was to be the party to end all others. Only the right kind of people were invited: the rich, the good looking, the ones who might be useful to them. That was their modus operandi, which had worked well in the past.
They had booked the VIP area of one of the top clubs in Liverpool, one usually reserved for whichever footballer or celebrity was in the city that weekend. The committee had taken over the entire floor. Guest list only.
Sam noticed her first. That was always the way. He would zero in on one girl, making her his sole goal for the night.
‘She doesn’t look right.’
‘She looks fucking amazing, what are you talking about?’
‘Look at her. She’s too young. She shouldn’t be here. Who brought her?’
‘Why do I care? I want her. I can have her. That’s the way things work around here.’
‘Be careful. She looks about fourteen, for fuck’s sake. Don’t fuck this up.’
‘She looks ripe for picking. I just hope there’s not much grass on the pitch, if you know what I mean . . .’
‘That’s disgusting, Sam, you dirty bastard.’
‘Why are you laughing then?’
That was the way Sam was, always looking for the freshest face, the easiest fruit to pick. A low-hanging branch he could bend to his will.
Eventually, Sam had grown bored of her, catching the eye of an even younger-looking girl. Tim was still interested, though. James and Paul had watched him move towards the girl and lean in so she could hear him over the loud, pumping music. He placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled, moving her across the room to the bar and ordering her a drink.
They watched as he waited for her to turn away so he could slip something into her glass.
‘I don’t know why he doesn’t just use Rohypnol. Would be much easier.’
‘He prefers them to be alert. He’s not some dirty rapist or anything. Ecstasy works better.’
‘Still, seems like a whole load of hassle that could be done better.’
‘Maybe you want to show him how it’s done instead?’
The women who came to their parties were nothing but things to be conquered.
They watched in a kind of admiration as the girl’s behaviour began to change as the drug started to take effect. She pawed at him, dancing up against him as he stood rigid, looking down at her. A little open-mouthed.
He looked like a wolf. She was little Red Riding Hood and he wanted to devour her.
They loved to watch it happen.
They had watched it unfold this way many times before. Even do
ne it themselves.
The wolf had his prey and wanted to share it with them. They all wanted a taste of that fresh meat. Blonde hair cascading down her back, flawless features, the glimpse of curve beneath a short, tight skirt which could have doubled as a belt.
They wanted to be a part of it.
They wanted to be as one.
With that, they all took their piece. They all took what they believed they deserved. They had their fun and set themselves on a course which would irrevocably alter the future of their lives.
She was nothing to them. A slut who was asking for it. That’s all she was.
They were wrong.
PART TWO
PRESENT DAY
You
Murder takes planning. That’s if you want to get away with it for long enough. You could snap and kill someone at any point, if you really wanted to. You would be caught straight away, but you could still do it.
You think about that as you’re standing on the platform. The rumble as a train gets closer. You shut your eyes and imagine pushing the man standing too close to the edge into its path. Feel that man’s blood and brain matter splatter your face as he is wiped away. All it would take is one quick shove in the back and it’s done.
That’s all that is separating all of us.
To get away with it, though, you need to plan for hours on end. Researching techniques and thinking about what could possibly be discovered from what was left behind.
You can’t be caught yet.
There had been a moment when you thought it would matter more. That doing what needed to be done would resonate and mean the beginning of the end. In reality, it was an end of the beginning. Things would never be the same.
Psychopathy was something that had only existed as words on a page for you. Now, it means more. You have a recognition of it, a realisation that the elements have always been there under the surface but not fully existent. Now, they’re out in the open. There for anyone to see. Everything and nothing has changed. It was a true dichotomy of mind.