The Book That THEY Do Not Want You To Read, Part 1

by Andy Ritchie

  As I did that, Tukaal was watching a car that had followed us into the car park, a green 05-registered Peugeot 206. It reverse-parked close by and a middle-aged woman got out, locked the car and then walked off in the direction of the supermarket entrance.

  He took the NY cap, popped it on his head and said:

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Tukaal jumped out of the car and grabbed his metal case off the back seat. I already had my duffel bag and now had a Nike cap on my head.

  He hurried over to the driver’s side of the Peugeot, ducked down out of sight for a moment or two before there was a welcoming click of the car’s central locking and we were able to get inside.

  ‘If we steal a car from here, we could have as much as twenty minutes or so before she realises it’s stolen.’

  ‘Or as little as two if she’s just gone in for a pint of milk and a loaf,’ I muttered under my breath.

  If Tukaal did hear my comment, he chose to ignore it. Instead, from the pocket of his jacket he produced a small capsule, about the size of an aspirin. He then crushed it on the steering column, close to the ignition. When he pulled his finger away, there was what looked to me like a large drop of liquid, metallic in colour...and moving!

  I looked across at Tukaal. His face was expressionless, as if he was lost in deep concentration. I looked back at the stuff from the capsule...and all on its own it flowed, like mercury, into the ignition slot.

  A second later, the car spluttered into life.

  I could have said something about that being amazing, but I’d seen so much in the preceding 48 hours that a drop of remote-controlled mercury starting a car didn’t really seem to warrant a gasp of amazement.

  I’m assuming he used the same stuff on the door locks.

  ‘I take it we need to park up somewhere close to Manchester City Centre. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tukaal confirmed. ‘Do you know how to get there?’

  I confirmed that I knew how to get to the car parks near Manchester Victoria, and that that was close enough. I’d parked there a couple of times when I’d gone to concerts at the MEN Arena.

  Then a thought hit me.

  ‘Do you know how to drive?’

  He simply grinned at me, put the car in first, and moved smoothly out of the car park.

  I guess that meant that he did.

  *

  The journey to Manchester city centre took a little over an hour. Tukaal suggested that we stayed off the motorways, conscious of the cameras and also of the possibility of getting stuck in a traffic jam, which could have left us extremely exposed, not to mention late!

  Progress along roads such as the A666 and the A6 was slow but steady now that most of the rush-hour traffic had passed and, just before 11.30, we had turned into Corporation Street and then right into the entrance to Victoria Station Car Park.

  ‘Just a second,’ Tukaal said, stopping just inside the turning off Corporation Street and looking around. I knew that he was looking for security and CCTV cameras, and that he would want to park in a space which was as hidden from them as possible.

  ‘I’ll park behind here,’ Tukaal suggested after a few seconds, indicating a space to our right which was immediately behind a row of three large billboards.

  ‘It’s a pay and display,’ I said as he manoeuvred the car into the space. ‘How long do you want to stay for?’

  Tukaal thought for a moment as the engine abruptly stopped. I’d momentarily forgotten that he didn’t actually have an ignition key!

  ‘I think we should get a ticket for 24 hours, just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’ I asked suspiciously.

  He turned to me and smiled.

  ‘I’ve no idea. But something may come up that we have not anticipated and I would hate for this vehicle to come to the notice of the authorities for the sake of a couple of pounds.’

  He was right, of course. It would be stupid to get a ticket for only a couple of hours when we had no idea what lay ahead of us.

  ‘What about the bags? Are we taking those?’

  Tukaal shook his head.

  ‘I think it would be better if we left them in the boot of the car. Again, I’m not sure what we may encounter in the next few hours and I’d hate for us to have heavy bags hampering us.’

  I thought about asking him what we may end up doing where the bags would be such a hindrance, but I decided against it. I knew I would only get a cryptic response anyway.

  So, I went and got the ticket and, once it was placed in the windscreen, we put our bags in the boot (I got my waterproof jacket out, because it had started to rain) and Tukaal locked the car just by using his brain, which was quite cool.

  ‘When we get to Debenhams, I’ll need you to stay out of sight,’ Tukaal said as we walked out of the car park onto Corporation Street, heading for Balloon Street, caps pulled low over our faces to conceal our features.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. I was not keen on the idea of us being separated...no, I was not keen on the idea of ending up alone!

  ‘Judging by how the Researcher sounded in our conversation, I’m worried that the presence of anyone else may spook him. Simply better not to run the risk.’

  There was certainly logic to his argument. The reason for us being in Manchester was to meet up with the Researcher and discover what it was that he had seen which had peaked the interest of THEM. It would be foolish to jeopardise that.

  Nonetheless, I was uncomfortable with the idea of us going our separate ways and I was even more uncomfortable at being left alone to face a world of intrigue and espionage about which I knew nothing. Eventually, though, I conceded that he was right and I nodded in grudging agreement.

  It took us about ten minutes to walk the few hundred yards up Balloon Street and along High Street, following the Metrolink tracks into the more pedestrianised part of the city centre, alive with the bustle of shoppers, office workers and the like.

  When we got to Debenhams, we did not enter it immediately. There was still a good twenty minutes before the Researcher was due to show, so Tukaal suggested that we use the time to ‘scope out’ the building.

  There were three entrances, one on Market Street, one on the corner of Market Street and High Street and one on the corner of Market Street and Tib Street.

  As well as an emergency exit on High Street, there was one further up Tib Street and, interestingly, one on an alleyway called Bridgewater Place. There were certainly plenty of ways out of the building if a speedy escape was required.

  With five minutes to go, as we were stood on the opposite side of Market Street at the corner of Fountain Street, just outside the entrance to Primark, Tukaal took one more look around and said:

  ‘I suggest you wait around here, keep your eyes open for anything suspicious.’

  ‘And if I see anything suspicious, what do I do? It’s not like I have a mobile to ring you on, unless one of those gizmos of yours will do the trick?’

  I was hoping he would give me some sort of super-communicator that would fit into my ear, like they do in all the spy films. No such luck.

  Instead, he leant forward and whispered into my ear.

  ‘Third floor. He wants to meet in the Restaurant. If THEY come, you need to come and warn us.’

  And with that, he walked across the tracks of the Metrolink and disappeared inside Debenhams, leaving me to hang around outside, trying desperately not to look or act suspicious in my hoodie and my cap.

  I quickly decided that loitering with intent was certainly not the thing to do, so I wandered a little way up towards Piccadilly Gardens and nipped into Cafe Nero for a latte. After all, it seemed likely that the conversation between Tukaal and the Researcher would take some time and I could do with some refreshments.

  I decided that it was important for me to be able to watch all three entrances, so I took a dry chair from under the canopy and sat so that I had a good view up and down Market Street and Tib Street. It did mean that I was exposed to the dr
izzle that was falling a little more heavily from the leaden sky, but at least it meant that I was away from the unpleasant second-hand smoke that swirled around under the canopy cover.

  I took a couple of sips of my latte and glanced at my watch. It was 12.07. I began to wonder whether I should have got a piece of cake as well.

  Suddenly...and I know this sounds a little freaky... but I swear I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, as if there was a sudden tension in the air.

  It was almost as if, even though I couldn’t see them, I knew that THEY were here.

  All of a sudden, my heart was racing inside my chest and my mouth was dry. I’d lost any appetite for a cake, and I only sipped my coffee out of nervousness as I desperately tried to remain calm.

  Another couple of sips and my eyes furiously scanned the crowds around the Debenhams main entrance for something, anything that would confirm my initial suspicions...and then...yes...there...just to the left of the entrance, two men, both wearing, almost comically, the archetypal dark suit, dark shoes and dark glasses of men up to no good...one of them had his left wrist to his mouth and was talking agitatedly whilst the other scanned the crowd...I could see the tell-tale curly wire leading to an earphone in their right ears.

  THEY were here.

  How the hell had they managed to do that?

  How had they managed to track us here, after all the precautions we had taken?

  Then again, what precautions had we really taken? We’d managed to disable their tailing Range Rover. We’d swapped cars at Sainsburys. We’d kept off the motorway in our stolen car. We’d worn caps.

  With hindsight, I guess it would not have been too much of a challenge to find us, even by conventional means.

  I noticed movement up Tib Street, to the right of the Debenhams building from where I was sat. A large grey van had appeared. I could see that its back doors were opening...and I could see four...six...eight men, all dressed in the same dark coloured suits and dark glasses, like a bunch of up-to-no-good clones. In a way, they reminded me of Hugo Weaving’s character, Mr Smith, in The Matrix.

  ‘Shit!’ I hissed under my breath.

  I wasn’t absolutely sure what to do. I know Tukaal had told me to come and tell him straight away if THEY turned up, but I thought it would be important to know what they were doing, where their men were deploying themselves...so I waited for about thirty seconds, watching as one of the men went to the emergency exit near the van and two other men ran off, presumably to cover the emergency exits on High Street and Bridgewater Place. That left the rest of them to start walking down towards the Market Street/Tib Street entrance from where, I assumed, they would fan out into the store.

  And all the time, the two men dressed in suits stood outside the middle entrance, one constantly talking into his wrist, the other watching the crowd, looking at every face...

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I hissed again. It was like watching a mouse-trap being sprung in super-slo-mo, the mouse so intent on getting the cheese that it’s oblivious to the metal bar that is flying over to snap its little neck.

  Inside my head, all I could see was Tukaal and the Researcher, sitting down in the Restaurant with their tea and their sandwiches, just about to get down to business, when all of a sudden a host of dark-suited villains descend on them without warning and take them away, never to be seen again...

  And it was just that thought, the thought of Tukaal and the Researcher disappearing, which made me hesitate. Would it not be better, a dark voice in my head whispered, if Tukaal and the Researcher were captured? Was there not a chance that, with their major prizes bagged, stuffed and mounted, THEY may lose interest in the small-fry that was Jethro Postlethwaite and allow him to return to the quiet, insignificant, uncomplicated life he was leading before?

  It was a truly tempting thought.

  All I had to do was walk away...in fact, I didn’t need to do that, I could simply continue to sit outside Cafe Nero, sipping my latte, pretending to be just like every other person in the city, utterly immersed in the petty tribulations of so-called ‘modern life’, utterly ignorant of the enormity of the true complexities of the Universe and how insignificant our pointless little lives were made by its sheer scale.

  I’m ashamed to say that the idea of leaving Tukaal and the Researcher to their fate was not instantly dismissed. The argument for inaction was compelling.

  My old life back...

  ...but at what cost?

  My soul?

  How would I be able to look at myself in the mirror every morning, knowing what I had done?

  How would I be able to live with the fact that I had betrayed another’s trust?

  What would be easier — to walk away now but face a possible lifetime of self-recrimination and self-loathing, or to dispel all thoughts of betrayal and do what it was that I had promised to do?

  The answer was almost instantaneous.

  There were already enough things to make it difficult for me to face my reflection, enough reasons for me to loathe myself. I simply could not cope with any more.

  With a last swig of my latte, I rose from my chair and walked back along Market Street towards High Street. The raised platform of the Market Street Metrolink station afforded me excellent cover from the watching eyes of the dark-suited men as I hurried towards the same entrance which Tukaal had used, an entrance which, for now, was unguarded.

  Just as I was about to enter, I saw the two men who had hurried away from the van emerge onto High Street from Blakewater Place and begin to move towards where I stood. At the far entrance at the corner of Market Street and Tib Street, I could also make out four, maybe five of them entering the store. The noose was being tightened and I had to move quickly.

  Once inside the store, I quickly got my bearings. I could see an escalator a little way inside the store and that seemed the logical place to head for, so I started making my way quickly (and relatively calmly) through the perfume department. That was when I saw the sign for the lifts.

  I think I would probably have taken the escalator had it not been for the fact that, just as I got close to both, the doors of one of the lifts opened and a pretty young girl (probably no more than 17) emerged pushing a double buggy and loudly bemoaning the price of children’s clothes to her equally young, and very pregnant friend.

  As the teenage mum and teenage mum-to-be moved past me, I dashed forward and pressed the up button, just as the lift doors started to close. Obligingly, they re-opened and I hurried in, pressing the third floor button with typical, but always ineffectual impatience.

  Just as the doors began to close, I saw one of THEM...and, more scarily, he saw me!

  Even with his dark glasses on, I saw a look of recognition flash across his face and almost immediately he was talking hurriedly into his wrist.

  I held my breath as the doors continued to close with aching slowness, half-expecting to see one of THEM appear in the gap and dreading what would happen if he did.

  But, a little to my surprise, and certainly to my relief, the doors came together with a soft clunk and the lift began to move.

  I breathed again, a juddering, frightened breath.

  But already I was thinking about what to do next, trying to think of what THEY would now be doing. Almost certainly they’d be using the second lift. I suspected they’d also be watching the escalators.

  Quicker than I had expected, the lift reached the third floor and the doors opened.

  I did half-expect there to be a welcoming committee of dark-suits and dark sunglasses, but fortunately there was only an old couple who smiled genially at me as I hurried past them.

  A sign helpfully pointed me to the right towards the restaurant and I hurried past the various food and beverages on offer to the seating area, where I immediately spotted Tukaal and the Researcher.

  He was not what I expected. For some reason, I had built up the stereotypical mental image of a short man, slightly balding, wearing glasses, perhaps with a short mo
ustache and the dress-sense of a kipper.

  Instead, Tukaal was sat across from a...well...I could only describe him as plain and unassuming...in fact, even now I have difficulty in remembering any of his distinguishing features...

  I remember he had relatively short hair, parting on the right (I think)...? And he was wearing a plain blue sweater...was he?

  And I guess that that’s the point, isn’t it. The Confederation’s Researchers are designed to go unnoticed, to be totally ordinary, to simply blend in. This guy did that to the point that even remembering what he actually looks like and describing it is virtually impossible!

  Anyway, having spotted Tukaal, I couldn’t resist, in spite of the situation I was in, using a good movie cliché to attract their attention.

  ‘Tukaal!’ I shouted, ‘We’ve got company!’

  Tukaal’s face immediately became serious and he leapt to his feet. Across from him, the Researcher looked fearful, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Tukaal asked.

  I explained to him the situation. Dark-suited men, at least ten of them, some possibly waiting outside, some certainly inside. I told him how one of them had recognised me as the lift doors had closed and we both understood that it wouldn’t take a genius to work out that we were on the third floor.

  ‘How have they found us so quickly?’ Tukaal mused, echoing my thought of earlier.

  I did not answer, deciding that the question must be rhetorical and that Tukaal was not looking for a debate right at this moment. Instead, I hurried out of the Restaurant to the top of the down escalator...and immediately saw two of THEM, stood at the bottom, waiting.

  ‘Shit,’ I hissed again for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes, dashing to my right so I could get a view of the two lifts...and there, emerging from one of them were two more dark-suits, their heads turning slowly as they scanned the floor for our presence, their movements ominously calm and assured...and, for the briefest of moments, the image of Yul Brynner in his role as the indefatigable, relentless killer robot in Westworld popped into my head.

  Funny, isn’t it, how that happens!

  With a short, angry shake of my head, the image of Yul disappeared, but not before the two dark-suits had finished their sweep of the childrenswear department and their gaze had fallen upon me.