CONNECTED

by Denman, Simon

  The door opened and in came Doug followed by four new customers. Taking the drinks back to their table she watched affectionately as he took a large swig of beer. He was a loveable great thing really. Not exactly her usual type, but the well muscled body, together with that rugged boyish charm, had made the task of seduction quite enjoyable, albeit not particularly challenging. At first she had taken him for one of those shallow sporting types - full of chauvinistic machismo and therefore easy to exploit with a clear conscience, but the better she had got to know him, the fonder she had grown. For some reason, she felt a powerful urge to blurt out the truth, although, thinking rationally, she could see no useful outcome in doing so. He would be justifiably livid, she would most likely feel terrible, and Dream-Zone would still be in the hands of the Chinese, thousands of miles away from anything they could do about it. Even if Sergei's deal with Wong had yet to be concluded, the chances of being able to influence it now were next to zero. In his present frame of mind, he would probably just as soon beat her up as look at her, and there was no way hypnosis would work again, now that he was ready for it. The pub was starting to fill, and she felt a sudden desire to be elsewhere - away from people who could judge or accuse her. She finished the second spritzer and looked up. Doug was half way through the pint, and appeared to be writing a text on his mobile.

  During his smoke, Doug had been thinking hard about the possible consequences of Dream-Zone. Like the act of smoking itself, he knew it might ultimately have the potential to damage his health, but he still felt compelled to continue. What puzzled him was that so far, the effects of Dream-Zone, while often bizarre, had been overwhelmingly pleasurable. Even the combo file created by Kal and Martin, they had described only in extremely positive terms. It was clearly an enjoyable experience. But then, by all accounts, so was intoxication by drugs. Perhaps, over time, as with drugs, Kal and Martin had craved ever larger doses of Dream-Zone in order to satisfy their addiction. But that still didn't explain why they had committed suicide. So what if they found themselves watching and listening to these videos over and over again? It wouldn't do much for one's social life, but he couldn't see how it would make anyone leap from a window. That would just put an end to the very thing that was giving so much enjoyment. Using his mobile phone to connect to the internet, he was checking to see if there had been any email response from Peter. There was nothing yet, so he put the device away and looked up. “Sorry, have you been waiting for me?” he said, seeing her empty glass and downing the rest of the pint in one.

  “Do you mind if we get out of here?” she asked, looking fidgety.

  “Of course, anywhere you want.”

  “I was ... erm ... wondering whether you fancied coming back to my place tonight?“ she said hesitantly.

  Doug's face lit up. “Really? What, you mean the whole night? You mean I'm finally going to see where this beautiful femme fatale actually lives?”

  She nodded, frowning at his choice of words, but looking at him with something close to vulnerability.

  “Does this mean we're...you know...?”

  “It means I want to try and make it up to you for last week,” she said, leaning over and kissing him. “I'm sorry. I had some things going on that I needed to work through - things I promise to tell you about sometime - when the time's right.”

  “Okay!” said Doug, too excited to really care what things had been going on, just so long as they were together again.

  Nadia had no idea why she had suddenly decided to risk taking Doug back to the apartment. She knew she had to get away from all those people, and yet she didn't want to be alone. A suspenseful, yet comfortable silence filled the car as they drove through the early evening dusk towards the lights of town. What was happening to her? For someone who had always fought so hard for independence, and with an almost pathological fear of vulnerability, all she wanted now was to curl up in a strong pair of arms.

  The Porsche came to a stop in front of an expensive-looking apartment building. Cindy reached into the glove box and pulled out a remote. The garage door rolled up, revealing a gentle slope down to a dozen brightly lit subterranean parking spaces. The Porsche slid neatly into the last space at the back, next to a dark green Lexus.

  “Well, here we are!” she said finally, with a humble shrug of the shoulders.

  Cindy's apartment was on the top floor, and looked to Doug like something from an interior design magazine. It was also huge. The living room was at least twenty five feet long, with cream leather furniture and a dark blue rug covering about a third of the teak wood floor space. Full length sliding glass panels covered one wall, beyond which a narrow balcony looked out over the flood-lit grounds of Colchester castle.

  “This is amazing!” he said, looking around in awe. Cindy was standing in the kitchen, a predominantly black, white and stainless steel affair, separated from the living room by a black granite bar and dining table.

  “Beer or wine?” she asked.

  Doug would normally have stuck with beer, but in these surroundings, wine seemed somehow more appropriate.

  “Red wine would be great if you have it,” he said.

  Cindy pondered a moment, her hand hovering over the twenty or so bottles, whose necks peeked out invitingly from the rack at one end of the bar, before pulling out a Burgundy. She handed him a corkscrew and produced a couple of large-bowl glasses. “Do you like Thai food?” she asked suddenly. “There's a really excellent takeaway I discovered - and they deliver.”

  “I like everything,” said Doug, opening the wine and pouring a little into the glasses.

  “Here, take a look, and see what you fancy,” she said, passing him a pink leaflet and bending over to open a cupboard under the counter.

  “I can already see what I fancy without even looking at this menu,” said Doug in a low voice.

  “Are you staring at my bum?” she asked playfully, resurfacing with a large packet of crisps.

  It felt surprisingly good to have Doug here in her home. It actually wasn't very often that she had brought men back to her place, and on the few occasions when she had, there had always been an awkwardness, which tonight was pleasantly absent. She had sensed his eyes on her ever since entering the apartment, and while this was nothing new in itself, there was something different about the way it made her feel tonight. Something that made her want to relinquish control. She took him by the hands and led him slowly into the bedroom. Standing silently by the bed, she raised her arms above her head, and looked at him expectantly. He understood immediately, removing her jumper, and began to undress her, tenderly kissing each part of her body as it was revealed. She then lay on the bed, propped up on one elbow and gestured for him to strip. She watched intently as he slowly removed each item of clothing, then she stretched out on her back, hands behind her head and shut her eyes. She felt the mattress depress next to her, followed by the sensation of lips and stubble on her face and mouth. With a sudden intake of breath, she arched her back, letting out a plaintive moan as the sensation descended down her neck and towards her breasts. A hand was now on her thigh and she slid her legs apart, while his tongue flicked lightly across the surface of her nipple. The femme fatale had been temporarily banished, her powers of seduction, manipulation and control, locked away in a drawer. In her place was a lonely, vulnerable girl, who wanted nothing but to submit to the young man above her. Instead of simply granting the illusion of power, this time it was his to take. Yet rather than fear and anxiety, this concession brought feelings of comfort and safety. Waves of conflicting emotion began to assail her from all sides and she screamed as days, weeks, maybe even years of suppressed tension flooded from her body like the tears running down her cheeks.

  It had been different this time, thought Doug, as he dressed in preparation for receiving the takeaway. In one way, it had been less sexy, not of course, that he had had any trouble getting aroused, but it had been somehow more natural, more real. The predatory self assurance she had shown before had played t
o his fantasies, and that experience had been more intense, but this time, he had felt a closeness to her that was as unfamiliar as it was pleasant. He had lain holding her for at least ten minutes, while she had cried softly into his shoulder. He hadn't even had to ask if anything was wrong. The way she clutched him told him everything he wanted to know, that for this brief moment at least, she needed him.

  As soft contented humming rose above the gentle patter of the shower, Doug paid for the takeaway using the twenty she had insisted he take. It smelt delicious. He popped the containers in the oven with a couple of plates, and turned it to a low heat. He then set the table with a pair of mats, the wineglasses, and some knives and forks he had found in the top drawer. He looked around wondering if she had any chop sticks. He tried the other drawers one by one. A variety of knives, various kitchen utensils, and tea towels presented themselves, but no chopsticks. The bottom drawer contained mostly odds and ends: light bulbs, batteries, jumbo matches, and a box of candles. Oh well, he thought, a little candlelight will help set the scene. But as he reached into the drawer and started to remove them, he noticed something else. At the back, and partly hidden behind a second box of candles, was a small black leather case. He took it out, and to his surprise, discovered inside, what looked to be a brand new iPhone. Why would someone continue using a clunky old Nokia when they had a chic new iPhone at the bottom of a drawer? he wondered. Doug had been immensely jealous when Kal had first shown him his, just a few weeks before, and had wanted one ever since. Perhaps it was faulty, he thought to himself, depressing the power button. The sleek black rectangle sprang to life immediately, its bright colour display showing no sign of damage and asking instead for a pass code. He tried the standard default four zeros, but it objected angrily with a beep. He felt some kind of engraving on the back, and flipped it over wondering if the device might be a generous present for someone. Then his whole sense of reality performed a somersault. Engraved neatly into the shiny stainless steel backplate were the words 'Kal Gupta.'

  Nadia stepped out of the shower and wrapped the soft warm towel tightly around her body. She looked into the mirror and realised she was still grinning like a lovesick teenager. She felt happier than she had in years – maybe even since before the death of her parents. She had heard the doorbell ring and was starting to feel quite peckish. Slipping on some leggings and a T-shirt, she went to join Doug in the living room. As she saw the lighted candles and heard the fan of the oven warming the plates, she suddenly felt like crying again. Then she looked at Doug. In place of that unconditional adoration he did so well, was a look of anger and betrayal. In his hand was the iPhone she had found on the grass some yards from the Golf Cabriolet on that first fateful morning.

  “I can explain,” she said, as the tears finally came.

  He looked at her and then averted his eyes immediately. “Please do,” he said nastily.

  She sat at the table, holding her head in her hands, and closed her eyes. “I'm so sorry.” she sobbed. “I never wanted to hurt you I promise!”

  “And Kal?”

  “I had nothing to do with that, I have no idea why he killed himself, I swear!”

  “But Markov...”

  “He hired me to get hold of Dream-Zone from you - but I had no choice, you have to believe me.”

  “What - he put a gun to your head?” he asked sarcastically.

  “He had this tape. A video tape showing me dancing – stripping...and...well...other stuff.”

  Doug looked her in the eyes again, the anger subsiding a little.

  “At first, I was happy enough to work for him. A little creative accounting here and there – first for him and then for his associates. It was mostly money laundering at the start. I had a respectable position with a firm of accountants in the city, but he kept giving me work that paid so much better. I cut my hours at the firm so I was only working part time, but Sergei wanted more. One day he showed me the tape and threatened to have it posted on YouTube with links to my boss and all the people I worked with. I would have been ruined. I resigned instead and started working almost full time for him and his Mafia friends.”

  “So you're a bean counter for the Mafia. How does that involve sleeping with university students? You're a whore is what you are!”

  The word cut deep, and she scowled at him.

  He stood up and walked to the window. “I loved you, Cindy!” he said, looking out into the darkness.

  She followed him, hesitated a moment, then gently laid a hand on his shoulder. “Actually, it's Nadia!” she said sheepishly.

  He spun round, his eyes red and puffy. “Just stay away from me whoever you are.” His voice full of loathing. “You got what you wanted. Now leave me alone.” And with that he stormed out of the apartment.

  “You have reached the voice message system for... Inspector Bullock... Please leave your message after the tone.”

  “Inspector! This is Doug Richards, from the University of Essex. I have information regarding Sergei Markov. You can reach me on my mobile.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The breakfast things had been cleared away, a freshly filtered mug of Columbian coffee sat on the lamp table to his right, the unsullied sheets of the Sunday Times lay across his lap, and most importantly, Abigail and her insufferable friends were elsewhere – presumably trying to shop their way to a more fulfilling existence. Peter sipped the coffee and opened the paper, savouring this rare and precious moment of quietude.

  “Daddy? What's it like in heaven?” came the inquisitive little voice of his daughter, her impish face suddenly appearing between the newsprint and his knees.

  He folded away the paper and pulled her up onto his lap. “Oh Kate, my dear, you're not still worried about your uncle Martin are you?”

  “No,” she said happily, “Mummy told me that uncle Martin was ill and so it doesn't count – so he is in heaven and we will see him again.”

  “That's right. That's good isn't it,” said Peter, relieved to have been spared that one.

  “But what's it like?” she persisted.

  “Well, I don't know - no one can really ever know until the time comes.”

  “Mrs. Allgood, my R-E teacher says it's the most beautiful place in the whole wide world and we can have anything we want and we never get told off and people are never mean and there's beautiful music all the time.”

  “Well that sounds wonderful,” said Peter, taking another sip of coffee and looking longingly down at the Sunday Times.

  “But I don't think I like the same things as Mrs. Allgood,” said Kate, with a worried frown. “She likes everything yellow and pink and flowery and she likes music that's old and churchy and boring.”

  “Well maybe it's a different experience for everybody,” he said, stepping onto the slippery slope of consolatory fabrication, “but like I said, nobody really knows.”

  “Mrs. Allgood says we know, because Jesus told us. It says so in the Bible.”

  Peter couldn't recall ever meeting this Mrs. Allgood, but he was already beginning to dislike her.

  “Yes, well a lot of people believe what it says in the Bible, but lots of other people have their own different kind of Bible, which says a lot of different things.”

  “So which is the right one?” asked the little girl, clearly unsatisfied with this apparent ambiguity.

  “I don't know. Maybe none of them, or maybe they each have little bits which are right, and other bits which are not right.”

  Kate stared into space for a while, as if trying to incorporate this radical new concept into her understanding of the cosmos, and then the impish grin returned to her face. “Can I have some chocolate cake?”

  Peter laughed. “I'll do you a deal: if I make you some hot chocolate, and let you each have a small piece of cake, will you and Sam leave me alone for half an hour while I read this paper?”