Terror Byte

by Park, J. R.

  ‘Oh Norton,’ PC Watts said, his hands held up in a plea, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Norton grabbed Watts by the scruff of the neck and lifted him up with one of his big, oversized hands. He pulled the collar tight around the PC’s neck. Watts began to splutter and choked out his words.

  ‘I didn’t mean it, I wasn’t thinking,’ Watts begged the big man to let him down.

  Norton did not speak, but held his victim, studying him with a grimace. His eyes narrowed and his face screwed tighter with each passing moment. Everyone else stood back, unsure what was going to happen but knowing that something would.

  ‘Norton!’ a shout came from down the end of the corridor. ‘Back down Norton and leave Watts alone!’

  The stern, gruff voice was matched by an even sterner looking man marching down the corridor towards the crowd. His hands were tightly balled into fists and he wore a frown that had made many lasting creases across his face. His eyes gave the immediate look that he did not tolerate bullshit from anyone and those eyes were intently fixed on Norton and Watts.

  Andrews sensed a stiffening in everybody’s posture and the air seemed to thin as the man made his approach. Andrews made an educated guess that this must be Chief Inspector Hart.

  Detective Norton was well known throughout the policing world as a great detective. He had an astounding arrest rate and the criminal world feared him, but handling him wasn’t an easy job. That job was given to Chief Inspector Hart, or No Heart, as he was nicknamed (naturally behind his back). His was an even bigger legend and the stories of him single handedly taking out crime cartels had been talked of and passed down for so long, and by so many people, that it was impossible to pull the fact from fiction.

  Andrews began to sweat uncontrollably with fear as Chief Inspector Hart approached. His presence held more authority and respect than any man Andrews had ever come across.

  As the Chief Inspector marched ever closer Norton freed PC Watts from his chokehold and turned to face his superior.

  Hart walked right up to him and, in front of everyone, let him have it.

  ‘What do you think you are doing? This is no time to be fighting amongst ourselves! We have a mass homicide discovered in the Areas building, thirty dead, with no leads and no motive. The data is currently being processed in the lab but whilst that is going on I suggest you do what you do best; get out on the street, have a poke around and find out what you can. I suggest you detect, Detective!’

  Hart stood still, nose to nose with Norton, without flinching or showing any intimidation despite the rotund subordinate being a good five to six stone bigger. Norton held his gaze in silent confrontation; eye to eye they were locked in a stand off, stretching each second into an event heavy with threat and anticipation. Then suddenly, without changing his expression Norton broke his intense stare, turned and walked out the station.

  Everybody held their breath, unsure what to say or do. The only sounds were the rain against the window and the door swinging shut.

  Hart turned and his eyes met Andrews’ gaze. Once he had clocked the new recruit the stern features of confrontation melted into a pleasant and welcoming smile better suited to that of a first class airline cabin crew member than a gnarled Chief Inspector.

  ‘PC Andrews I presume,’ Hart took Andrews’ hand and shook it gently but firmly, his other hand clutching at Andrews’ elbow in a friendly gesture. ‘Welcome to our police station, I’m sorry about Norton, he’s one of the good guys really but he’s had a tough time recently. You’ll get up to speed soon enough and learn how we work, I’ve no doubt.’

  He walked away, back to his office.

  Everyone stood still and silent, frozen into position until Hart was completely out of sight.

  ‘Tough time?’ Andrews asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sergeant Robinson answered, her voice edged with sorrow, ‘three weeks ago we get a call about some nut job that had run into a supermarket with a shotgun. Apparently he was going off his head screaming about how they were all after him. Real whacko. This guy grabs a hostage so back up is called for whilst the armed response arrive. Norton answers the call and arrives down there only to find the hostage is his girlfriend, Mel. Right in front of his eyes he watched this whacko off Mel point blank to the head with a shotgun, followed by himself. Real nasty like. Poor bastard, Norton couldn’t even get his revenge.’

  ‘Oh god,’ Andrews responded sympathetically, ‘should he be on duty?’

  ‘He’s a good cop. One of the best,’ Sergeant Robinson explained. She glanced down the corridor making sure Chief Inspector Hart was in his office and out of earshot. ‘Detective Norton is one of the few people I know that lives for his job, and right now it’s all he has. CI Hart made the call to let him come back to work early. I guess he figured if he didn’t Norton would probably kill himself.’

  It’s like killing yourself. A slow suicide.

  Norton’s thoughts were morbid whilst he swirled the last remaining mouthfuls of lager round the glass and contemplated the effects of alcohol on the liver.

  He knew he shouldn’t have lost his temper like he did back at the station; the Chief Inspector was right to have thrown him out. However he hadn’t gone back to work but instead decided to seek comfort in a drink. He had made his way to the Black Ship Inn and found himself an isolated table to pick over his inner torments.

  The pub was quiet with only three other patrons enjoying a drink. Enjoying a drink or escaping? They didn’t look like they’d stopped off in their lunch break; in fact they didn’t look like they’d been to work in a long while.

  The carpet of the pub was mainly an off red, but with brown and yellow plant-like motifs weaving throughout. It was the kind of carpet seen in most pubs that hadn’t been redecorated since the 1970s. Despite it only being a few hours into the afternoon the carpet was already grubby and clung to Norton’s feet as he had moved from the bar to his seat. It probably wasn’t due for its monthly clean for a while yet as he could still make out the plant-like pattern; an ingenious choice by the decorator so it could cleverly hide pools of vomit, and most probably did.

  Norton had lost count of the time he’d been sat there and used the four empty pint glasses on his table as a marker to suggest it had been two hours. His mind kept rolling back to the same recent events that had troubled him for weeks and his face tightened like a screwed up piece of paper.

  Why couldn’t he have saved her?

  Poor Mel.

  Pretty Mel.

  His mind cast back to those terrible events that blew his world apart and changed everything forever.

  The supermarket had been sealed off. No one was getting in or out. It was him, Mel and the fucking loon.

  He shouldn’t have been in there, he should have been holding the perimeter and waiting for armed response. But the moment he saw Mel held helpless in her captor’s arms he had no choice but enter the building. To try and reason with him.

  Try and reason with him?!

  Norton was not a reasonable man. He had never reasoned with anyone in his life. His fists made sure he got his own way most of the time when he was younger, and when he grew up his size and job made him more than intimidating enough to substitute fights. Mel was the only one that got one over on Norton, and she used to do that regularly. But size or authority mattered little to the man holding a shotgun to the head of his loved one whilst screaming inane, paranoid babble.

  Norton had never been that close to losing something so precious, and when he was faced with it, when it mattered, he blew it.

  At first, he remembered, he tried speaking to the man, asking him what he wanted. Edging closer and closer to the aggressor and hostage. But his words did not seem to sink in.

  He tried again but the crazed man did not listen and just shouted back I’ll never be safe, you can’t stop them, they’re after me! His rant did not let up. Nothing Norton said made any impact in stemming his delusions. Reason was beyond lost.

  At tha
t moment, realising nothing could be done, Norton had never felt so helpless. Tears of frustration had built up quietly behind his eyes and his breathing became laboured like there was an enormous pressure on his chest.

  And then…

  Then it all went into a blur.

  He lost control.

  Lost control and lost everything.

  A matter of seconds is all it took to erase a life planned out between them.

  His patience snapped as his frustration boiled over. Norton reached out to grab the man. If he could take his gun he could take away the threat. Then man-to-man he would take this lunatic down. But as he grabbed for the firearm the man stepped to the side and swung with the butt of his weapon. It was a lucky strike, but a strike none-the-less, and the contact to the side of Norton’s head knocked him to the ground.

  Still dazed, and with his cheek bleeding from the impact, he turned back to face them.

  And then, as close as if he had pulled the trigger himself, he watched her die.

  Her head seemed to explode into fragments like a glass vase hitting the ground from a great height. Her skull obliterated into red, fleshy pieces and her blood showered both of them.

  Norton went numb, whether it was the deafening sound of the shotgun blast he could not say but everything seemed to stop. The stillness did not last and when the shotgun was pointed at him he found strength, picked himself up and ran for cover. Why was it then he found the strength? Only then he found the courage; the courage to run away.

  Norton ducked into a shopping aisle, trying to use the shelving unit as shelter. As he ran for cover a shotgun blast grazed his shoulder. The wounded detective lay on the ground in pain, clutching his shoulder and trying to catch his breath. Another shot rang out followed by a horrifying thud. Trying to stay hidden he crawled on his front and peaked round the corner of the aisle. At first he saw nothing then he looked at the ground to see the man’s body crumpled to the floor, a huge hole in his head oozing with blood. Both Mel and the lunatic lay dead; their corpses slumped together like faceless piles of lifeless flesh.

  Norton stared out the window of the Black Ship Inn at the passing traffic as tears began to silently inch down the tough skin of his cheeks. He held his hand over his mouth so as to prevent any sound from escaping and felt himself getting angry that he was beginning to cry. Not here, not now, not Norton.

  ‘Excuse me friend, do you mind if I take a seat here?’

  Norton was momentarily taken away from his misery by a man in a grey suit. His dark hair was well groomed and recently cut; he placed a hand on the detective’s shoulder as he sat down next to him.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ the man said, ‘I’m Alex. I’ve just been for an interview and, lucky me, it finished just before the footy started. Are you a Wolves fan?’

  Alex gave the grin of a salesman and had the confident patter to match.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Norton, turning his big frame towards this unwelcome companion, ‘I want to be alone.’

  ‘Oh,’ the salesman said and looked around the pub, ‘the thing is I really want to see this game and this is the only seat left to view the screen.’

  Turning around himself Norton noted that the pub had indeed begun to fill whilst he had been lost in his internal meditations. Supporters from both sides had gathered, eager to watch the game.

  ‘Unusual it’s on today, I’ll admit that,’ said Alex, ‘but you get a waterlogged pitch on the weekend then you have to take the re-plays when they come.’

  Norton gripped his pint glass and squeezed, trying to contain his anger, ‘I just want to-’

  ‘Should be a close game though,’ Alex cut in, ignoring Norton, ‘both are vying for top positions in the league and both with new managers, well, there’s a lot to prove. I don’t know if you’ve been following either side recently but both have produced outstanding football, just a shame about the weather. But then England wouldn’t be England without a bit of rain. You can’t have a green and pleasant land without any water to keep the land green and pleasant, you know what I mean? Crisp?’

  He held his open packet to Norton offering him the contents but was immediately thrown off the chair by a punch from the disgruntled detective.

  Alex rose to his feet from across the pub, where he had landed, and stroked his jaw.

  ‘You got one hell of punch there,’ he said, ‘but that was uncalled for you mean old bastard. Anyone ever put you down before?’

  ‘They’ve tried,’ replied Norton.

  Alex swung a right hook hitting Norton squarely on the cheek. The connection was good and took Norton off his feet. He fell backwards and landed on the table knocking the empty glasses to the floor with a dramatic crash. Norton was surprised by the power of the blow; the suit Alex wore hid a lot of strength.

  Climbing off the table he got to his feet again but was greeted with a left, right to his stomach. Norton doubled up with the pain, and in doing so allowed Alex to take hold of his head. Alex pulled at his hair to get a better grip and Norton could see the intention was to ram him headfirst into the window. Reaching up and behind, Norton wildly grabbed, catching hold of Alex’s shirt; he yanked suddenly, pulling Alex backward. Alex loosened his grip as he stumbled on his heels looking for balance. Norton continued his movement and grabbed the man’s back with his other hand, picking Alex clean off the ground. With a huge effort Norton threw Alex against the bar, patrons dove out the way so as not to be hit by the human projectile as he crashed into the solid wood. Defeated, Alex groaned as he lay on the floor, his hand held up for the dual purpose of both protection and submission.

  Norton relaxed from his fighting stance and saw the crowd stood around watching in disbelief.

  ‘Sorry,’ Norton said as he understood the spectacle he had just created.

  ‘Fer Christ’s sake Norton,’ the barman complained, clearly annoyed as he began straightening up the furniture that had been knocked over during the fight, ‘what the hell are you doing? You’re a cop! Get out of here before I call one of your own.’

  Yes I am a cop, thought Norton as he left the Black Ship, the rain washing him sober like a cold shower. What the hell was he doing getting into barroom brawls? This is not what Mel would have wanted. He was a cop, a bloody good one too, and she would not have wanted to see him end his days a brawling drunk. He nursed his cheek as he walked with purpose along the wet streets.

  That punch got him good. Five years ago he was taking down punks like that without breaking a sweat. He was getting older and slower. It wouldn’t be long before he was bested in a fight and if it got out of hand that could be the end of him. If you aren’t in control a fight could very quickly escalate into death, accidental or not the outcome is still the same. Norton shuddered at the sights he had scene patrolling the brawl filled streets on a Saturday night.

  The evening was beginning to draw in as Norton came to the Areas building. He was a cop all right and he had a purpose. Thirty dead: no witnesses, no motives, and no suspects. He looked up at the windows of the sixth floor to see the lights were on whilst he rubbed his throbbing head. He had a case to solve and a lot of coffee to drink.

  It had only been ten hours ago that the building was crawling with police and every passage way blocked by crime scene tape. All that was gone when Norton entered the shiny marbled hallway of the Areas building foyer, sipping a recently purchased coffee from across the road. The only hint of the tragedy that had occurred was an LED light display over one of the lift doors flashing Out Of Order. He made his way to the sixth floor and was astonished to see a clean, brightly lit office. He checked the floor number on the wall to make sure he had got off on the correct floor, and was alarmed to see it did read as Floor 6. It was the same floor; the clean up operation had been fast.

  He walked through the entrance of the office to see an irritated man with a wispy beard, thin wire glasses and wearing a faded Rammstein T-shirt.

  ‘Who are you?’ the bearded man asked with anger, his arms
overloaded with keyboards, mice and other computer related pieces. Wires dangled dangerously from his load and threatened to trip him up.

  ‘I’m Detective Norton,’ replied Norton, showing him his credentials. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Ah you’re a cop. I thought you’d have all finished with this place by now. I’m George; I’m the IT guy. Well I should be the IT guy, but I seem to have spent the last half of the day cleaning dried blood from between buttons of keyboards. Not in my job description!’ he protested indignantly. ‘Still it’s good money.’

  ‘People will do almost anything for money,’ Norton dryly remarked. ‘So you work here? But you weren’t around when the incident happened?’ he questioned.

  ‘Good God no. I stay away from here as much as I can. Work from home mostly,’ informed George. ‘Most of the actual issues can all be resolved over the network. I have complete access to everything from home. It’s only when I need to do any hardware changes I have to come in. That’s usually once or twice a month if I can help it. I’m not much of a people person really.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ said Norton, almost sympathetically. ‘There’s still a lot of investigation that needs to be done. If I can just take down your address and contact details, I may need to speak with you again.’

  George sighed at the thought of being held up in leaving for the day, but knew it was useless to comment or fight and so gave his details to the detective.

  ‘Can I go now?’ barked George after Norton had the details he requested. ‘I have had a very long and unusual day. I just want to get home.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Norton stepping aside to let him past.

  George stomped by, heading to a storage cupboard to offload his armfuls before heading out into the night.

  ‘You dropped something,’ said Norton bending down to pick up the item.

  George stopped and looked back, ‘Oh that’s just a flash drive, they are ten a penny round here. You can keep it.’

  ‘No thanks,’ replied Norton, ‘I don’t like the name on it.’