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

by Andy Ritchie

  By the time I had finished my latte, a good five minutes had passed, and I was

  starting to worry that, once away from the hypnotic tones of Tukaal’s persuasive voice, the six young men had lost their bottle and scuttled off back to Rochdale with their tails between their legs, leaving us no closer to getting our bags than we had been half an hour ago.

  Tukaal, however, seemed unconcerned by the slow passage of time.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, noting that my coffee cup was empty.

  I nodded, but it was a tired nod.

  ‘Good.’

  And with that, he seemed content to let the conversation between us end. I, however, was not:

  ‘What happened in Debenhams, with your meeting with the Researcher? Did you learn anything useful?’

  It was only then, as I asked the question, that I suddenly realised that I hadn’t told him about what had happened to the Researcher.

  ‘You do know he’s dead, by the way, your Researcher. He was running away and...’

  ‘...he got hit by a bus, yes, I know, Mendelssohn told me.’

  There was sadness in his voice.

  ‘We hardly got chance to speak,’ Tukaal continued, ‘He was very nervous and it took me a few minutes to find him. Then it took us another few minutes to get our tea and coffee and our sandwiches and cakes and find a seat. In the end, all I managed to do was ask him how he was and where he had been staying before you turned up and it all, as you would say, ‘kicked off.’

  ‘So you didn’t get to find out anything from him?’

  Tukaal shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid not. When you took him down the emergency exit, I tackled the two men who had come out of the lift. Once I had dealt with them, I followed you and emerged into the street just in time to see several more men leading the Researcher away. I crashed into the whole group, dealt with three or four of them, I think, but then one of them shot me with some kind of electroshock weapon which made it difficult for me to move. The others then, presumably, all jumped on me and bound my hands behind my back and placed a black bag over my head.’

  ‘And did they inject you with something to knock you out?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Maybe they knew that their normal anaesthesia drugs would not be effective on me.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ I responded, ‘I’ve been injected twice today, and neither of them was a very pleasant experience.’

  ‘Twice?’ Tukaal queried, his features distorting into a frown.

  ‘Yeah, I got jabbed by those goons who took me away to be tortured, but that was after I got jabbed by your friend the Researcher, right here, behind my left ear. That fucking hurt, I can tell you...’

  Tukaal was already moving round to where I was sat, his eyes suddenly intensely alive with anticipation.

  ‘Where, Jeth, show me exactly where you were ‘jabbed’ by the Researcher.’

  ‘Here,’ I said, pointing to the area of my neck. My fingers could just feel the rough sensation of a small scab on the skin.

  ‘Come out here,’ Tukaal said, hauling me to my feet and pulling me closer to one of the nearby lights, ‘Out into the light. I need to see it.’

  And there we stood, somewhat incongruously, me with my head tilted forward and to one side, Tukaal staring intently at a small puncture wound on my neck.

  ‘This is interesting,’ Tukaal said, ‘very, very interesting!’

  I was just about to ask why when we heard the sound of several people running into the covered mall, complaining loudly about the rain that had recently decided to fall with renewed vigour.

  Our young men had returned and, to my surprise and joy, they had both my blue duffel bag and Tukaal’s case.

  They came to a breathless halt and offered both of the bags to Tukaal. They looked like a pack of dogs offering up a couple of retrieved sticks to their master.

  ‘There you go, mister, two bags, safely delivered.’ Short-arse loud mouth looked pleased as Punch.

  ‘Any trouble? Anyone come after you?’ Tukaal asked as he took the proffered bags from and gave the duffel bag to me. I instinctively opened it and started to check that everything was still there.

  ‘We ‘aven’t looked inside, mister, honest. You told us not to look inside and we ‘aven’t, ‘ave we, lads?’

  There was a chorus of strong denials from the other five men.

  ‘We didn’t see no-one, either. It’s quite quiet tonight, because of the fucking rain, I reckon. We did get stopped on the way to the car park by some guys in a big, fuck-off Range Rover, asking if we’d seen two men. We guessed they were looking for you, so we said we’d seen you over at Piccadilly, just outside Primark.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the one called Danny added, ‘They seemed well happy when we told them what you were wearing, shot off like fuck, they did, tyres screeching and shit.’

  ‘Bet we did you a bit of a fucking favour,’ short-arse loud mouth added, ‘sending them off towards Piccadilly Station.’

  There was a murmur of agreement from his mates.

  ‘Then I am extremely grateful to you for all your efforts,’ said Tukaal, ‘and as agreed, here is the thousand pounds we agreed on, plus five hundred for doing the job so quickly, and another five hundred for sending the guys in the Range Rover off in the wrong direction. I think two thousand pounds should be enough for you all to really celebrate Jonno’s birthday.’

  Tukaal placed two thousand pounds into short-arse, loud mouth’s hand, which was literally shaking with excitement.

  ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, two fuckin’ grand!’

  There were stifled cries of ‘Yeah’ and ‘Fuckin’ brilliant!’ from the other lads.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Tukaal said as the young men gathered around shirt-arse, loud mouth and the two grand he was holding, ‘If the men in the Range Rover, or anyone else for that matter, turns up asking about us, you haven’t seen us since Piccadilly, right?’

  ‘No fucking worries, mister, no worries at all.’

  ‘Then enjoy the rest of your night, lads, and Jonno...happy birthday!’

  There was a chorus of ‘Thanks, mister’ and Jonno gave Tukaal a big thumbs up, before the whole group headed off towards the Shudehill exit and no doubt the delights of The Birdcage.

  As Tukaal watched them leave, he said:

  ‘Is everything there?’

  It was.

  ‘We need to get out of the city. We need to get somewhere remote, away from any electricity systems. But I don’t want to head north, back towards Bolton and Darwen.’

  ‘We could head east,’ I suggested, ‘Out into the Peak District. There’s plenty of car parks and woodland and stuff there, certainly to hide out for a night.’

  Tukaal had opened his case and had taken out some nanite pods.’

  ‘Always carry spares,’ he said when he noticed me watching him put them into his pockets. ‘First thing’s first. We need another car.’

  With the comforting knowledge that THEY were probably focusing all their attentions on Piccadilly Station, we quickly made our way across Corporation Street and past Manchester Cathedral to the Exchange Station car park just off Victoria Street.

  Using one of his new nanite capsules, it took Tukaal only a moment to acquire for us a rather nice gun-metal grey Vauxhall Insignia, 09 reg, which he proceeded to manoeuvre out of the car park and onto the main road.

  Something else I hadn’t really considered since our escape but which now entered my mind was the fact that Tukaal could drive.

  ‘I suppose you can fly a helicopter as well,’ I remarked as we turned onto the A56.

  ‘Actually, I can operate most things,’ Tukaal replied, ‘not just transportation equipment, but communication equipment, computer systems, that sort of thing.

  ‘Thought as much,’ I said. ‘All down to that neural net thing of yours, I guess.’

  Tukaal nodded, but he was not smiling.

  ‘A neural net that I am going to have to lose as quickly as possible. As I said at
the cash machine, Mendelssohn and his people have been tracking the net’s power cells ever since I arrived here. That’s how they knew I was at your house, at Sainsbury’s, at the cash machine itself.’

  ‘But how the hell can they do that, track you through electricity wires and cables?’

  ‘A very good question indeed, but one I suggest we leave for tomorrow. For now, let’s just accept that they can.’

  I was too tired to argue, just as I was too tired to ask him about why the fact that I’d been injected by his Researcher friend was ‘interesting’. It certainly didn’t feel ’interesting’ at the time, and the dull, slightly cold ache that persisted in the back of my neck and my left shoulder still didn’t feel ‘interesting’ now!

  After about another 30 minutes, during which time I can’t really remember if I managed to grab a few minutes sleep or not, we arrived in the town of Glossop, now ghostly quiet due to the late hour.

  ‘I’m going to switch cars again,’ Tukaal said as we pulled off the A57 road onto Arundel Street and then onto Edward Street where we parked up behind a VW Passat. With an efficiency that was becoming a little disturbing, Tukaal opened up the Passat, got the engine going and, within less than a minute of stopping the Vauxhall, we were driving away in the Passat.

  It’s hard to believe that in less than 24 hours I had turned into a habitual car thief with four car thefts to my name. Then again, a lot of weird shit had happened in the last 24 hours!

  As we drove out of Glossop on the A57 heading up into the Peak District, Tukaal unexpectedly revisited the subject of the Researcher.

  ‘In the short time I was with the Researcher,’ he said, ‘I was not able to get any information from him. And yet, understanding what it was that the Researcher saw is key to understanding why THEY were after him, and therefore why THEY are now after us.’

  ‘But he’s dead...and anyway, I guess THEY have all his notes by now.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Tukaal replied.

  ‘Meaning?’

  I was suddenly intrigued, in spite of how tired I felt.

  ‘Mendelssohn was prepared to let me go and then see if I led him to the Researcher’s notes. Perhaps now we won’t even need to try to find his notes.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘I can’t be sure, Jeth, but I think what we need to know may now be inside you!’

  *

  That was the reason I can’t sleep, that statement:

  ‘What we need to know may now be inside you!’

  That’s why it’s dawn and I’m still typing, because of what Tukaal said, and because of the cold aching feeling I have in my neck and shoulder...and because I’m frightened, so very fucking frightened.

  And I’m still really fucking cold!

  -----

  Diary Entry 13

  [Collator’s Note: In all the different notes which JP has written, I could find no explanation of how Tukaal managed to make his escape from his cell and, thus, effect the escape of JP and their subsequent dash to safety in Manchester. This could be just an oversight on JP’s account, a piece of the jigsaw which has become lost, or maybe it was something that, because it was all recorded on Tukaal’s neural net and subsequently copied onto DVD, JP did not feel the need to explain it. I believe that its absence leaves a hole in the narrative of this diary and a number of unanswered questions, so I have taken the liberty of looking through the footage on the DVDs downloaded from Tukaal’s neural net, and have described below what happened.]

  After Mendelssohn leaves with the promise of tea and biscuits, Tukaal spends a little bit of time looking around the cell he finds himself in.

  As JP confirmed in his account, there is a heavy door with its clunking electronic locks, and a single shaded light bulb above. There is a security camera over the door. Tukaal’s head is not restrained in the same way as JP’s (as mentioned at the beginning of the transcript of the conversation with Mendelssohn), so he is able to look around more freely.

  Apart from what I have mentioned, Tukaal sees nothing else in the room — there are just grey concrete walls and a grey concrete floor.

  [Collator's Note: As previously mentioned, there is a peculiar side-display that accompanies the video downloaded from Tukaal’s neural net. Whilst I do not know what the majority of constantly-changing symbols represent, I’m pretty sure that one of them indicates sound because, after about five minutes of relative silence, this part of the display erupts into life, and this coincides with the sound of approaching footsteps and the clunk of dis-engaging locks.]

  As the door swings open, a guard comes into the room, carrying a tray that has on it a large mug and a saucer of biscuits.

  The door closes behind him.

  ‘Ah, my tea,’ Tukaal says. ‘Is it Earl Grey, Lapsang Souchong, Assam...?’

  The guard looks at him quizzically.

  ‘Er...no,’ he replies hesitantly, ‘It’s just PG.’

  ‘Not too worry,’ Tukaal responds, his tone friendly and jovial, ‘I guess it gives me the opportunity to sample the more...basic form of tea...and the biscuits, what sort of biscuits have we got?’

  [Collator's Note: Even at this stage you can tell that Tukaal is trying to engage with the guard, trying to build up a rapport with him.]

  ‘McVities Chocolate Digestives,’ the guard replied.

  ‘Excellent. Something new to try. So far it’s been mostly Hob-Nobs and Boasters. Are they milk chocolate or dark chocolate?’

  The guard is placing the tray on the floor, and again his response is awkward. It is clear that he is trying not to talk to Tukaal — after all, he is under orders not to engage with him — but in spite of himself he finds he is compelled to answer.

  ‘Milk, I think. By the way, I’ve not put any sugar in your tea. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Have you put some milk in?’

  The guard nods.

  ‘Then that will be just fine...’

  As he is speaking, Tukaal’s vision focuses in on the swipe card that is clipped to the guard’s belt. The guard’s picture is visible, albeit with slightly longer hair, as is the name:

  Robert Sandford.

  ‘...Robert...or do you prefer Rob, or Bob, or Bobby?’

  The guard is a little taken aback by the fact that Tukaal knows his name. Tukaal moves swiftly to re-assure him.

  ‘Your name is on your swipe-card. I just thought it was more...convivial if I knew your name...after all, trying to hold a conversation with someone when you have no idea of their name is always a little awkward, don’t you think?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ is all Sandford says.

  ‘I’m assuming you’re going to undo my wrists, Robert. After all, it’s going to be extremely difficult to enjoy this fine cup of tea if I can’t actually lift the cup to my lips...unless, of course, you’ve brought a long straw for me to use.’

  ‘The Boss said I could undo one wrist strap. Which would you prefer, left or right?’

  ‘Right, I think.’

  Sandford moves forward and quickly unbuckles the leather strap holding Tukaal’s right wrist.

  ‘Thank you, young man,’ Tukaal says. ‘Now, if you could pass me my tea...’

  Sandford does as Tukaal asks, and there is a noisy slurp as Tukaal takes a swig of the tea. He nods his head, presumably in appreciation.

  ‘Could you pass me a biscuit, please,’ Tukaal asks as he re-positions himself, rather awkwardly, so he can put the mug of tea between his legs on the seat. The arm of the chair is too narrow to place it there.

  The guard balances the plate of biscuits on Tukaal's right knee, his eyes watching Tukaal’s free right hand like a hawk.

  ‘So, what shall we talk about, Robert, while we wait for Mr Mendelssohn to return? Is there a local football team you support...’

  ‘I’ve been ordered not to talk to you,’ Sandford interrupts. ‘The Boss says that you can be...persuasive, so I’d rather you didn’t talk to me.’

  And with that, San
dford makes a point of looking away from Tukaal as he stands next to the door.

  Tukaal takes one of the biscuits and starts eating it.

  There then follows a short period of near silence and relative inactivity. The only sounds are the crunch of Chocolate Digestives and the slurp of tea. The only movement is Tukaal’s right hand, reaching for biscuits or the mug of tea.

  Sandford continues to stand at the door, trying not to look at Tukaal.

  [Collator's Note: It’s impossible to know for sure what Tukaal is thinking, but it is possible to surmise some of his thoughts from what he is looking at and from his subsequent actions. I think he knows that, unless he can either persuade Sandford to undo the straps or immobilise Sandford and do it himself with his free hand, he (and JP for that matter) are in serious trouble. Clearly, his initial efforts to use his SVPT have failed. Somehow he needs to get Sandford close to him, and based on what happens next, it is apparent that Tukaal concludes that the best way to do that is to provoke him. And then there is the camera, watching everything that happens in the cell. Tukaal stares at that on several occasions.]

  With two biscuits and half a mug of tea remaining, Tukaal begins to stare at Sandford, and continues to do this, unblinkingly, for a minute or so.

  The guard clearly finds Tukaal’s intense gaze off-putting, because he starts to fidget uncomfortably.

  For a moment, Tukaal’s gaze falls on the gold band on the wedding finger of Sandford’s left hand.

  ‘Are you married, Robert?’

  The question comes so suddenly, you can see Sandford jump.

  Like the young men in Manchester whom Tukaal convinced to get the bags from the Peugeot at Victoria Station, Sandford finds himself answering before he realises it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Children?’

  Again, the answer has leapt from Sandford’s mouth before he could stop it.

  ‘Yes, one of each.’

  ‘They’ll still be quite young, won’t they?’

  Sandford’s eyes narrowed a little and this time he doesn’t answer Tukaal’s question, saying instead: