The Hack

by Will Patching

  ‘Okay, I’ll get it.’ As Kate bent to her bag the nausea kicked in again so she rushed to the loo instead.

  He called to her, ‘I guess I’ll have to get it then.’

  Kate’s retching echoed from his bathroom as Johnny rigged up the tablet to his pc. He was whistling under his breath. Just as he finished transferring his precious files Kate emerged like a bedraggled cat. She lay back on his bed and closed her eyes. The room spun.

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You’re never gonna nag me about drinking again, are you?’

  Kate groaned. ‘No. Promise.’

  ‘And promise me you won’t let success go to your head. I like you the way you are.’

  She sat up, and almost toppled back. Then hiccupped as she said, ‘Johnny, I’m a bit drunk. But I’m not changing. Okay?’

  ‘Sure, Sis. Now which passport we using?’

  ‘O’Sullivan, of course.’

  ‘Cool. In that case, I’m ready.’ Johnny shoved both in his pocket. Just in case.

  ***

  ‘Thank you, Sir Benjamin. I appreciate the call. Too many of George’s friends have evaporated, as if he never existed. I look forward to seeing you at 5.30pm. Goodbye.’

  Gary Knight had been surprised by the call. At least this non-executive Director was no shopping trolley. He really was George’s friend.

  Gary’s secretary popped her head round his door. ‘That reporter’s here, Gary. You want him in now?’

  ‘Oh yes. Indeed I do. Thanks.’

  Gary’s dealings with the press had always been amicable. Year after year of good news, fantastic financial results and George’s Midas touch had tinted Gary’s view of the tawdry world of hack journalism.

  SimmpleTravel was an established company and had made a profit from year one, a very good profit, and soon became a stock market darling. Hence Gary wondered what it was like to deal with a hostile press but was certain he could handle it.

  He stood, shook hands with Gus and waved him toward the sofas in the corner of his office. ‘Let’s sit here, it’s more comfortable.’

  Gary waited for the journalist to sit on the spongy low seat, pulled a hard chair over, spun it round and sat on it, his legs spread either side of the back.

  He really knew his body language. He’d established control in his own territory, was dominating the other man with his height and signalled his complete confidence, even aggression, with his pose. He was spoiling for a fight.

  Gus took out his mini recorder, smiled his Latin smile and said, ‘Do you mind? I like to record things, so there’s no confusion.’

  ‘That’s fine, but I want to get some things right, straight off. First, George Simm was no child molester.’ He thrust his head forward and held Gus’s gaze, ready to go into battle.

  But Gus said something that put Gary off his prepared speech. ‘You may well be right.’ Gus gave him a frank half-smile and shrugged, fingering his tufted chin.

  Gary had not known what to expect, but it certainly was not this.

  Gus continued, apparently ingenuous. ‘We have a duty to our readers, the general public, to let them have all the facts. You now have a chance to put the record straight about George Simm. It’s why I’m here, Gary.’

  Gary spent the next twenty minutes regaling his boss, expounding on the greatness of the company and its achievements, the capriciousness of shareholders and the disappearance of the people George considered his friends. ‘They’re all shit-scared some dirt will stick to them.’

  All the while Gus sympathetically prodded and probed to keep Gary on track. ‘So, how about some background on you, Gary? What’s your story?’ And Gus listened for another ten minutes.

  Gary finally dried up and decided to ask a question of his own – the one he had planned to ask at the outset. ‘Who is this Kate O’Sullivan?’

  ‘Just a freelance hack. Why?’

  ‘The name’s familiar, that’s all. I wondered why she’s got it in for us.’

  ‘Can’t say I know her.’ Gus picked up his mini recorder, fiddling with it, as if concerned it was not running. ‘Apparently, she was due to interview George next week. She’s got her hooks right into him, eh Gary? She’s even gone off to Thailand, researching more on the story. She’s booked into the same hotel where he died. It’s a bit ghoulish if you ask me.’ Gus’s face was a mask of piety.

  ‘Jesus, the man’s dead. What more does that bitch want? To suck his blood?’ Gary frowned. The world was so unfair.

  ‘I really don’t know mate, it’s sad, huh? Her brother’s with her, seems he’s the genius that stole that report. She says he hacked into the CIA and claims he can get into just about any computer, anywhere. I’m not so sure. Wouldn’t be surprised if they concocted the whole thing. Who knows?’

  Gus was Gary’s friend now. He seemed such a sympathetic ear, had even shared confidential information, cementing their newfound relationship. He smiled.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find it was all a mistake.’

  ‘I think so too. And when we do, you can be sure we’ll publish the truth about George.’ Gus placed the mini-recorder back on the table, apparently satisfied. ‘Last question, Gary. What if it turns out not to be a mistake, what will you do?’

  The question was one that Gary had not considered, had refused to contemplate, but his new friendship prompted him to give it a moment’s credence. ‘If – and that’s a big if – if it turned out George was what they say, then I’d have to leave the company. There’s too much of George here. I think I’d set up on my own and start again. Build a new company, create a whole new brand.’

  ‘What? In competition? You could do that without George?’

  ‘Of course. I’d have to. I’m more than capable of it.’ Gary sat up straight as he spoke.

  ‘I’m sure you are, Gary.’ Gus winked. ‘Thank you for your time. It’s been a pleasure.’

  ***

  As Gus left he could barely stop himself running to the taxi. He would have skipped out of there if he had been six years old.

  He could not believe his luck.

  He called Tandy as soon as he was out of the building, told him he was on his way back and started bouncing out ideas for the front page for tonight’s print run.

  ***

  ‘This is the life! I could get used to this!’ Johnny’s voice cut through the genteel surroundings as he sat on a black leather sofa, a glass-topped table beneath his crossed ankles. He and Kate were waiting to board their flight in the Club Class Lounge at Heathrow, and the scowl from the hostess who served him his complimentary Bud did not even penetrate his consciousness.

  Kate, whose nausea had gone, only to be replaced by a dull thumping pain in her head as the alcohol worked its way through her system, was sipping water in the hope she might rehydrate in time for the flight.

  ‘Keep it down,’ she said in a quiet voice, as much for herself as the other flyers.

  Johnny was attempting to stem another alien invasion on Kate’s tablet, and he was close to his record. ‘What are we gonna do when we get there? We aren’t gonna work too hard I hope. It’s my birthday on Friday!’

  ‘Charles is pulling some strings for me, wants me to interview the police chief who wrote the report on Simm. Background stuff, progress on the hunt for the killer...’

  ‘Is that it? Jesus, you’ve sure hit the jackpot with this. One interview! You could’ve done that on the phone. We don’t need to go to Thailand for that! I’m not complaining though.’ He swigged a mouthful of his free Bud, crunched a handful of nuts, and sat there in his jeans and black tee-shirt with a death metal logo, his grubby trainers spoiling the pristine table top, totally out of place, yet totally at home.

  Kate said, as patiently as she could, ‘Johnny. It’s a bit more than that. I need to research the child sex thing, maybe do some other stuff on street kids.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to going to some of these famous nightclubs.’ He frowned. ‘Do you mind Sis, yo
u know, if I go to a show? Maybe find a girl.’

  Kate, who was sitting with eyes closed, resting her head, asked him, ‘What? You want to see a show with naked women, a striptease? I don’t mind at all. You’re old enough now. And I am not your mother.’ She leaned her head forward and winked at his worried face. ‘I might even come!’ As she put her head back, eyes shutting again, she shocked him with her next comment. ‘You’re still a virgin, aren’t you? If you go with a girl there, be careful. They say it’s the AIDS capital of Asia.’

  Johnny, whose face was pink as he checked to see if anyone had overheard her, was entering new territory. He and his big sister rarely ever talked about sex and, although he fapped regularly, he actually thought the buzz he got from his computer was much more fun.

  He also knew that an orgasm was supposed to be better with a woman and had been thinking about it since his sister first mentioned the possibility of a trip to the fleshy delights of Thailand. Secretly he had decided he didn’t want to be a virgin when he turned eighteen.

  ‘I’ve found an ace chat up line on the net. It’s just so cool!’

  Kate groaned, but didn’t answer as he chattered on, the prospect of hot sex loosening his tongue.

  ‘Question: Do you practise safe sex?’ Johnny looked furtively at the hostess, who fortunately was out of earshot of his whisper. ‘Answer: Yes. Response: So do I! Let’s go find someplace to practise together!’ Johnny giggled as he checked, but no one else seemed to have heard.

  And despite her aching head, Kate found herself laughing aloud with the genius nerd that was her naive little brother.

  ***

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Gary. You know George and I were great friends?’ Sir Benjamin mopped mock tears from his eyes. ‘You must miss him terribly.’

  ‘Yes, George was my friend and mentor as well as a boss.’

  Gary had never much cared for Sir Benjamin, but he knew George had. He had been instrumental in the company flotation, helped George raise the capital to build the company. His place on the board was the result, and he had always been supportive and complimentary. Generally, he had little else to say, but went off to lunch with George regularly.

  Gary always suspected he was not that bright, a relic from another era, but George had just laughed when he had told him, said Sir Benjamin was his friend.

  ‘Dreadful business. I’m sure it’ll all come right in the end. We must take whatever steps are necessary to clear George’s name.’

  Gary, whose emotions had been seesawing for two days, warmed to Sir Benjamin, the aristocrat’s empathy and charm worming their way deep.

  ‘The Board meeting’s on Friday, the attorney’s coming to tell us what we can do.’

  ‘I’ll be there. I’m so terribly sorry I couldn’t come today. I gather they gave you rather a hard time. Apologies. If I’d been here... but in my job the unexpected crops up with frightening regularity. Speaking of the unexpected, are you planning to do anything about that tabloid drivel in The Crusader?’

  ‘I’ve had a meeting with their top reporter, and it went very well indeed. He thinks it was all a mistake too, even promised to publish a full account of the truth to clear George’s name. The bloody woman who wrote the story is just a freelance. Doesn’t even work for the paper.’

  ‘Oh, really? Did your reporter chappie say where she got the information?’

  ‘Apparently, this O’Sullivan woman’s brother is supposed to be some sort of computer wizard. She says he hacked into the CIA’s database and got the police report along with the CIA’s assessment. I think it’s all bullshit. I know a bit about computers.’ Gary threw a thumb at his own chest and smiled. ‘The internet is, after all, my business! And I don’t believe for one minute it’s possible to hack into their systems.’

  Sir Benjamin was not so sure about that, after all, George had done it to the FBI some years before and managed to wipe their files. Admittedly with a bit of inside help from Sir Jeremy who, at the time, was involved in the selection of the most serious offenders for arrest.

  ‘I do hope you’re right. I expect that’s the last we’ll hear of this woman and her wretched brother.’

  ‘I don’t think so, they’ve gone to Thailand to try and rake up yet more lies to sell to the highest bidder. It’s unbelievable! They’re even staying in the hotel where George was murdered! Why can’t they just let him rest in peace now he’s dead?’ Gary’s voice quavered. ‘Gloria’s having his body flown back to Boston this weekend.’

  ‘Gary, Gary.’ Sir Benjamin touched the younger man’s arm, a gesture meant to comfort and reassure him. ‘This must be absolutely awful for you. If I can be of some help...’

  ‘No, but thank you. You’re very busy. I’m fine.’ He obviously was not.

  ‘Perhaps I could go through George’s personal effects and return them to Gloria. I would imagine it might be a little difficult for you. In his office, too many memories right now?’

  ‘That’s really kind, Sir Benjamin. Perhaps on Friday, as you’ll be here for the Board meeting?’

  ‘Certainly, I’d be delighted to help. Although if I can find some time I’ll come back tomorrow and do it then. I’ve a busy schedule,’ he looked at Gary as if he carried the whole of the UK economy on his back, ‘but I think you need all the support you can get at the moment.’

  Sir Benjamin, like Gus an hour or two before, had got everything he wanted from the meeting, and more. Something Gary had said put his seemingly dim, but extremely sly mind to work.

  He hurried away to his club. The idea forming.

  ***

  Sir Jeremy was a wealthy man. His London home would fetch several million pounds if his wife would ever allow him to sell it. He also had investments, stocks and shares, generous pension provision, and a cottage in the Cotswolds.

  All told Sir Jeremy was officially worth the thick end of twelve million pounds. He considered himself capital rich but poor in income – a truly laughable concept since his salary had averaged well over three hundred thousand a year over the last ten years. He could have made more, with consultant’s fees and speeches, but he did not think of himself as greedy or driven, certainly not in the sense of his comrade, Sir Benjamin.

  Compared with him, he was something of a pauper on both counts, capital and income. George on the other hand was in a different league altogether. He had sneered at Sir Jeremy’s paltry income, told him it was literally pocket money for his children, the ‘pampered brats’ he had called them, as he gloated over his vast fortune to the beggar at his feet.

  As Sir Jeremy arrived at the apartment concealing the sordid secret that was propelling him to a very sticky end, he was mulling over how he had ever got drawn into this mess, with friends like Sir Benjamin and George Simm.

  Money was at the heart of it.

  And sex of course.

  He pushed open the street entrance contemplating how much George had really paid for these apartments, just a stone’s throw from Oxford Street in the heart of the most expensive real estate in London.

  George actually owned the whole block and told him he had paid much more than Sir Jeremy’s not insubstantial net worth for the building, over ten years prior. He also claimed it had cost another two million to re-furbish and furnish the six very special, sound proofed apartments.

  With typical American frankness he called it his Pervert’s Palace.

  He had redesigned the entrances and corridors to ensure maximum discretion for the dignitaries who constituted his ‘club.’ George also set up a timetable for their illicit visits. He had been most insistent on that, to ensure that the select band of paedophiles, sadists and assorted deviants never ever had to acknowledge each other’s existence.

  Or their closeted skeletons, the ones still covered with warm young flesh.

  As Sir Jeremy put his key into the apartment door he was breaking George’s golden rule, and the creeping guilt that rippled his spine to the nape of his neck confirmed what a coward he was. He was de
fying George but kept reassuring himself that George was dead, and only they had keys to Kylie’s flat.

  Or so Sir Jeremy thought until he pushed open her bedroom door.

  If a police officer, a lawyer or even a judge, like Sir Jeremy himself, had asked him what he felt for the young girls he had abused, for this young girl he had abused, he could not have replied coherently. All he knew was he felt something in his heart, perverse though he knew it to be.

  In the early part of his career, direct from university with a shiny new degree in law, he joined the police as a normal bobby. His plan, which he fulfilled in spades, had been laudable; to spend a year or two on the beat and then complete his legal training, eventually aiming for the Bar. He wanted to understand all aspects of the law, the reality of work at the sharp end so to speak.

  Nothing in his time as a policeman prepared him for what he saw as he opened that door.

  Kylie was tied, spread-eagled on the bed, naked. The man kneeling between her legs was familiar to Sir Jeremy, although the strappy leather outfit he wore was something the game show host had never been seen wearing on his popular family TV programme.

  But the man and the outfit barely registered in Sir Jeremy’s head as his eyes were riveted on Kylie’s bald pudendum. Two fat candles had been inserted into her tender young orifices. The game show host, whose cheeky grin and catchphrase were known in almost every home in the country, was holding a third candle, this one alight, and was clearly concentrating hard as he dripped hot wax between Kylie’s thighs, directing it to her most sensitive parts.

  Kylie, apparently under the influence of mind dulling chemicals, but clearly able to feel some pain, was writhing and moaning. Her mouth had been gagged with what looked like a billiard ball attached to straps, fastened behind her head, the thongs matching the man’s outfit.

  Sir Jeremy, who had Dr Jones and the medication he had been prescribed that morning to thank for the fact his heart did not cease pumping at that precise moment, felt a surge of guilt and affection, a locomotive of emotion riding his backbone and crashing into his brain.