The Hack

by Will Patching

  If he had been a bigger man, a stronger man, the better man he so often wished he was, he would have killed the game show host right there and then.

  Instead Sir Jeremy uttered just two words.

  ‘Get out!’

  ***

  Charles Tandy and his number one reporter were working on the Thursday edition of The Crusader and the two of them were delighted with what they had so far.

  They sat, shoulder-to-shoulder, trying different formats and photo layouts for the front page and the five subsequent sheets inside, two double page spreads and another page for a thundering leader article.

  ‘What do you think this’ll do to their share price, boss?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Gus. You short any shares in SimmpleTravel the Stock Exchange Commission will be up your arse so fast, you’ll think a Ferrari’s racing round your bowels. It’s called insider dealing. Remember?’

  The irony in Tandy’s voice referred to a little problem he had suffered a few years before. His newspaper’s top tipsters were recommending shares they had purchased prior to dumping them as the priced peaked on the frenzy of buying prompted by their own good advice. They had lost their jobs for that and Charles now preferred to steer well clear.

  ‘Yeah. I remember, boss. Y’know, we could ruin this guy by the weekend.’

  ‘Life’s tough son. Now, what d’ya think?’

  Their daily rag had its second exclusive in two days. Gary Knight and SimmpleTravel featured heavily. His photograph adorned the front page. The picture showed Gary in shorts posing on his boat, smiling at the camera, champagne in hand, arms around two busty fake-tan blondes squeezed either side of him, topless. Charles had almost wet himself when he first saw it. ‘It’s fuckin perfect,’ he’d shouted.

  In banner headlines above the photo was the question, ‘What does he know?’ Beneath the picture were the words, ‘Exclusive – SINNFULTRAVEL BOSS? Is he involved? See pages 2,3,4,5&6.’

  ‘Have we got hold of her yet?’ Charles tapped the picture of the girl on Knight’s left, not his girlfriend, but her friend.

  ‘I’ll find out.’ Gus leapt up and bounced out of the office, returning moments later, punching the air. ‘We’ve got her, boss! And I was right!’

  The young beauty in question, like Gary Knight’s own girlfriend, was a ‘glamour’ model. She was currently with Gus’s colleague-cum-assistant, who was interviewing her. They wanted her kiss’n’tell before she got her kit off for some saucy photos for pages two and three. She would leave Tandy’s office that night thirty thousand pounds richer, with the prospect of more to come.

  Charles grinned and then turned his attention to the more important copy on pages four and five – the interview.

  ‘Does this guy have any idea what he’s done, Gus?’

  ‘Nope. Had him eatin out of my hand. Gave us the exclusive. The muppet refused to speak to any other press today after we published the scandal. Some of them spoke to him yesterday when Simm was just another revered business guru who’d died tragically. They’ve all missed the boat. Again.’

  ‘He’s their Marketing Director, isn’t he? Didn’t he ask to see your copy? Demand a pre-pub agreement?’ Charles would expect any marketing professional to request the opportunity to at least read what they planned to print before the presses rolled. ‘Didn’t say anything, even when you said farewell?’

  ‘Asked to see it, but I told him we wouldn’t have the final proof till 2am and that we wouldn’t allow any changes anyway. Promised I’d be fair, then scooted out of there so fast he didn’t have a chance to demand any off the record. Too late anyway. I promise you, boss, this guy’s got waterfalls behind his ears.’

  ‘This is magic! Let’s review what we’ve got.’ Charles put some points on the flip chart as he spoke. ‘First off, he says George is innocent. So what’s he hiding? Is a kiddie porn site part of their business? Surely he must’ve known, he’s Simm’s right hand man... Okay, Gus?’

  ‘Sounds good, boss. How about, ‘We demand the police investigate’ for the Crusader Speaks on page six?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so... Knight didn’t talk once about the kid involved, did he?’

  ‘No boss, steered him well clear the moment he wandered into that sort of territory. We’ve got him, the callous, uncaring, heartless yuppie. Plans to abandon ship and set up in competition. Doesn’t need his mentor Simm, pretty much ran the company himself. That lot should get the other SimmpleTravel Board members ripping his throat out!’

  Charles lit a cigar. His job was such fun. ‘Over promoted, incompetent college dropout costing shareholders millions, overseeing collapse of the company. We’ve got plenty.’

  ‘I should think that lot and the story of his threesome should do it. I wonder if he really was involved in Simm’s paedophile activity?’

  ‘I hope so, Gus. Not that it matters tonight! With what we’ve got for now, we don’t need any more!’ Charles Tandy rubbed his hands at the prospect of the extra copies he would sell tomorrow.

  ***

  He released Kylie’s bonds as the game show host frantically dressed without a word. Sir Jeremy rarely watched TV, and having registered the man was familiar, focused his attention on Kylie – not looking in his direction at all.

  Although Jeremy didn’t know it, the pervert was convinced the ‘famous’ judge was related to Kylie and was rescuing her from her life of prostitution. The other man had wondered what the impact of George Simm’s demise would be, had considered not keeping his sordid date today, but was unable to resist. He had his answer – the arrival of the judge.

  Guilt would get the better of him later that day. He overdosed on alcohol and cocaine, fell into his swimming pool and drowned, making him the second person to leave George Simm’s select club that week.

  Sir Jeremy was never aware of this extraordinary event even after it made the news that evening. In fact, right now, he did not even notice the man leave Kylie’s apartment, his concern was with the young girl.

  ‘Kylie, are you alright?’ His feeble words were not sufficient to express what he really wanted to say.

  As he released the gag she coughed and said, ‘Of course. What are you doing here? It’s not Friday!’

  Sir Jeremy helped her sit up and started to massage her wrist. Kylie pulled her hand away, started picking wax off her breasts.

  ‘Why are you here? It’s not your day!’

  Her words rather than her apparent indignation rocked Sir Jeremy. Not his day? ‘Kylie, I thought it was only myself and George who came here.’

  ‘Yeah, Georgie said to say nuffin. He’s dead y’know!’ Kylie’s chemical intake was obviously wearing off.

  ‘George said to say nothing? So... so, how many men come here?’

  ‘Well him,’ she flicked a ball of wax at the door, ‘Georgie, you and three others.’

  Sir Jeremy was finally beginning to understand the extent of George’s evil.

  Kylie tugged the silk sheets up to cover herself, fluffed her hair and looked at him with her Lolita smile and said, ‘You might as well get in, now you’re here!’ She tapped the bed beside her.

  ‘No. No. No. I need answers, Kylie, not sex. Tell me, what did George actually say?’

  She looked, he thought, genuinely disappointed. Hurt almost.

  Kylie pouted at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, I brought you here. George came... it was his apartment and – ’

  ‘It’s my apartment!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Georgie gave it to me!’

  Sir Jeremy’s confusion peaked, and it showed, but he could see she was frightened that he might somehow take the apartment away, now George was dead.

  She raised her voice, not quite shouting but firm, determined. ‘It’s the deal. In three years, on my eighteenth birthday I get the apartment and I don’t have to see any of you again.’

  Sir Jeremy knew then, knew what George was. What must have happened to the others. When they were
too old for Sir Jeremy... and his fellow perverts. ‘Kylie. Do you have any idea how much money this apartment is worth?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s mine!’ She burst into tears and started banging her hands on the mattress either side of her, emphasising, shouting now, ‘MINE, MINE, MINE!’

  Sir Jeremy was struggling. This was his first real conversation with the young girl since he had found her, smuggled her here, almost raped her that first night. Actually had raped her... She had told him she had just turned fifteen.

  He had never wanted to discuss anything with her before. Did not want to know much about her. It was enough he had ‘rescued’ her.

  Like George had rescued the others before her. And brought them here, and almost certainly promised them the apartment when they were older, too.

  This apartment.

  Sir Jeremy shuddered, felt as if their ghosts were in the apartment now. ‘Surely to God not,’ he muttered.

  Kylie, misunderstanding, thinking he was talking about her deal with the Devil Simm, started slapping him, hitting him, bunched fists pummelling him. ‘MINE! MINE! MINE!’

  Sir Jeremy sat, Kylie’s feeble blows tumbling down on him. In his head the verdict was being announced.

  Accessory to murder.

  Guilty.

  ***

  The Cromwellian Club, where Sir Jeremy had dined earlier, was proud of its military heritage. The entire staff complement consisted exclusively of veterans. This assured security, discretion and an appropriate degree of respect for the members, as well as the provision of extraordinary services for those with extraordinary requirements.

  George Simm, a member originally introduced by Sir Jeremy, often had exceptional needs, such as the disappearance and disposal of what he called either livestock or merchandise. Today, another member needed these special services.

  He was tying up loose ends.

  ‘What? Every apartment, sir?’ The man who arranged the special services was shocked. Not by the nature of the work, which most servicemen would consider a violation of their training and standards, but by the scale and immediacy of the task.

  Although the man’s position at the club was merely a humble commissionaire, his true vocation in life was to supply mercenaries to tackle the grubby jobs set by the ruthless men who frequented the club. He fixed anything for them, from industrial espionage, protection details, kidnapping and, for the appropriate fee, even murder – services certainly not appearing on the club’s extensive list of extras. But for those in the know, this man, the Fixer, was the person to talk to. Until he had grown too old, too slow, too soft, he had personally provided similar services himself.

  Sir Benjamin eyeballed him. ‘Yes, all of them. Tomorrow if possible. Friday at the latest.’

  ‘It’s dirty work, Sir Benjamin. Only two or three of the boys are prepared to do it…’

  ‘I know that!’ The urgency of the matter made Sir Benjamin splutter the words at him. ‘That’s why you get paid so well. Six items of livestock removed and disposed of by the weekend. It surely cannot be that difficult. They are, after all, only young.’

  ‘It is a problem, sir. Precisely because of their ages.’

  Sir Benjamin nodded, recognising even in the world of the mercenary soldier a sense of squeamishness is involved when it comes to murdering children.

  The Fixer continued, ‘I may have to deal with it personally if I can’t get anyone else at such short notice.’

  ‘Ah.’ Sir Benjamin had suspected the man was merely pushing for more money for the job, making excuses, but now understood the problem. Of course, he would be prepared to pay extra, if necessary.

  The Fixer continued, ‘Normally, we have some notice. Mr Simm needed our services four or maybe, at the most, five times a year, and then only to dispose of one or two individuals on each occasion. This, sir, is different.’

  ‘I see.’ Sir Benjamin was used to getting his own way, and held the man’s gaze. ‘Can you do it? I’ll pay a bonus of a hundred.’

  One hundred thousand pounds.

  ‘That sir, should do nicely. Some of my colleagues become less fussy if the price is right.’

  Sir Benjamin intended to continue with the Pervert’s Palace, but wanted to make sure there was nothing lingering that might confirm what he knew, and the world now suspected, about George Simm. A fortune – his fortune – was riding on it.

  There would be time, after the furore died down, to re-establish things. And he was keen to do so. Sir Benjamin was a frequent visitor to the Palace and was now the senior member of the Young Boy Network. Three rent boys were there, like Kylie, under the misapprehension that money and property were their reward for their period of servitude.

  There were also two other young boys held captive, but they were under no such illusions.

  Loose ends.

  All just loose ends.

  ‘Now to another problem. A much more agreeable task for your comrades, I think. It’s in Asia. Thailand.’

  ‘I can have two guys there by morning.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He went on to describe what he needed in Thailand. Something Gary Knight had said earlier could provide the solution to the thorny issue Sir Jeremy raised over lunch.

  Sir Benjamin had thought of a way to confirm what the CIA and FBI had on George, as well as locate the missing files – if they still existed.

  ***

  Sir Jeremy had spent much of his life refusing to inspect the hideous facet of his nature that drove him to unnatural acts, sexual intercourse with minors.

  He was a judge. His mind was trained in critical thinking.

  Analyse, weigh up. Make judgements.

  This last forty-eight hours had finally allowed a breakthrough. The harsh light, the laser beam of his mind, was dissecting that part of him he had kept hidden for so long.

  ‘Jerry? Are you okay?’ Kylie was calmer. She had finished her tantrum, her sobbing.

  ‘No Kylie. I’m not okay.’ Sir Jeremy lay back on the bed, fully clothed. In the mirror above he saw, as well as felt, Kylie’s warm naked body move to his. She snuggled.

  The ageing judge, acquaintance of the Prime Minister, talked to his teenage ‘paramour’. Talked in a way he had never talked to anyone before.

  ‘Kylie, I want to tell you why I like young girls.’ He needed to explain. Justify. Pour out his heart.

  ‘I know why.’ She snorted. ‘You like us bald!’

  Sir Jeremy was startled. He was looking at her in the mirror. Was it really that obvious? That simple? The laser beam sliced. It was. He pressed on with his explanation. ‘Yes. I was about eleven or twelve when I first saw a girl’s... Well, her – ’

  ‘Pussy?’ Kylie’s tone was intrigued. Not dismissive. Not sarcastic. Matter of fact.

  ‘Yes.’ Sir Jeremy sighed. ‘My neighbour, Alison, we were in the garden shed and we – ’

  ‘Showed each uvver? Yeah? I did that first with me uncle.’

  Oh good God! ‘Uncle?’

  ‘Not really me uncle, silly.’ She gave him a little slap. ‘You know I’ve never had a chat in bed with a man before.’ She pressed closer, the silk sheet wrapped round her shoulders. ‘Me mum, the Bitch I call her, had boyfriends round as long as I can remember. Uncle Joe, Uncle Fred and that. Loads of them.’

  ‘And they showed you their privates?’

  Kylie started laughing at him – it was clearly too much for her.

  ‘Do wot? You don’t half talk funny. Their cocks! Made me suck ’em sometimes an all.’

  Sir Jeremy wanted to know more, but then again did not; he was simultaneously intrigued and repelled. He put the thought aside. He would ask her later, he needed to continue. ‘Well, I showed my cock to Alison and she showed me her... between her legs. She was a couple of years younger than me.’

  ‘So she had no short and curlies? So what?’ Kylie propped her head on her elbow, staring at him, eyes questioning.

  ‘When I was young, we didn’t know much. About sex I mean, not
like people nowadays.’

  ‘Didn’t you do stuff at school? With the girls?’ Kylie hadn’t gone to school much, and not at all since she had met Sir Jeremy, but all the girls and boys at her school knew about cocks and fannies, had seen plenty.

  ‘No. I was at a private school for boys. I was a virgin when I married.’

  ‘Yeah? Blimey. You still married?’

  ‘Yes. And on our first night, well I was expecting something different. My wife wasn’t like Alison...’

  Kylie was in fits now. Not quite the response, the listening ear Sir Jeremy wanted.

  ‘She was aairy!’ Kylie rolled away, kicking her heels as she laughed and gurgled like a drain.

  Sir Jeremy started to snigger. Laughed a little too. With Kylie. At himself. What a naive pathetic fool he had been.

  As Kylie recovered she rolled back to her position, pressing against him, innocently. She said, ‘You wanker!’ and giggled.

  ‘Yes. I am. I was. I’d wanked and dreamt for ten years of...’

  ‘Alison’s bald cunt! You fuckin idiot!’ She was burbling and spluttering, her disbelief total.

  ‘Yes. I am a total fucking idiot. You’re so right.’

  ‘Didn’t you say nuffink?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To wossername. Your missus?’

  ‘In those days it was, er, difficult.’ It hadn’t even occurred to him to talk to Pat. Would never have occurred to him.

  ‘So wot?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Difficult’s difficult. Easy’s easy. Impossible, well that’s fuckin impossible. Me granddad said that.’ She nodded sagely. ‘I loved my granddad.’

  Out of the mouths of babes. ‘Your granddad was a philosopher, Kylie.’

  ‘No he weren’t. He was a dustman.’ No argument, of course she was right.

  ‘Anyway,’ Sir Jeremy was not ready to get into an explanation, ‘he was a clever man.’

  ‘Nah. Me gran always called him a stupid twat.’

  Case closed.

  Sir Jeremy went on. ‘I needed sex.’

  ‘With a bald cunt?’

  ‘I’d rather not put it quite like that, but yes.’

  ‘Wot about your missus? Don’t you screw her?’