Extracted Trilogy (Book 2): Executed

by R. R. Haywood

  ‘Derek Collins, middle initial T. Date of birth, 20 June 1988,’ Emily says from the glimpse of his driving licence she gained while Harry created a distraction.

  ‘Did you know Emily is gay?’ Ben asks Safa.

  ‘Yep,’ Safa says. ‘We should go back and get her. I don’t like him.’

  ‘Did you know?’ Ben asks Miri.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Ben tells Emily.

  ‘Should you then?’ Emily asks.

  ‘Eh? No! I mean . . . No, I never, you know . . . I didn’t . . .’

  ‘It’s fine, I’m playing. Yes, I am gay, but I also like men.’

  ‘Bi-sexual?’

  ‘Ah,’ Emily says, ‘they labelled it all back then, didn’t they?’

  ‘Er, so they don’t in your time?’

  ‘We should go back. He had beady eyes. I don’t like beady eyes.’

  ‘He was fine, Safa,’ Ben says.

  ‘No, they don’t,’ Emily says to Ben. ‘Not like they did in your time.’

  ‘And he looked shifty,’ Safa says.

  ‘He did not,’ Emily says. ‘Good-looking boy. And he was polite.’

  ‘Yeah, until he wants something, then he won’t be polite,’ Safa says.

  ‘Not all men are like that,’ Emily says.

  ‘Fucking are.’

  ‘Is Ben?’ Emily asks.

  ‘. . . all men other than Ben are fuckers.’

  ‘Ahem.’

  ‘And Harry.’

  ‘Got him,’ Miri says. ‘DMV has Mr Collins registered at one zero four nine Tenth Avenue, Milwaukee.’

  ‘I still don’t think we should be doing this,’ Ben says.

  ‘World ends, Mr Ryder. We’ll do what it takes.’

  ‘How does the world ending have anything to do with Ria?’

  ‘How do we know it doesn’t?’ Miri counters.

  ‘How can you justify placing her under observation on the basis of an incident that takes place a hundred years in the future from this time?’

  ‘How can you justify not taking all necessary steps to ensure the safety of our team?’

  Ben narrows his eyes. ‘Low blow.’

  ‘Effective response.’

  ‘Cheap shot.’

  ‘Cheap shots are still shots, Mr Ryder.’

  Safa, Emily and Harry look at Ben.

  ‘Fine, you win,’ he says.

  ‘I always do,’ Miri says.

  ‘He still looked like a creep,’ Safa says.

  ‘He did not look like a creep,’ Emily says. ‘He looked like a very nice young man.’

  ‘That’s what they said about Jack the Ripper,’ Safa says. ‘Very nice young man. Then look what happened. Hey, we should go back and find him.’

  ‘Who?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘Yeah, we can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? Who says we haven’t already done it? Maybe we already do it and it’s done, so therefore we can do it . . .’

  ‘But . . .’ Ben says.

  ‘And they never found out who he was,’ Safa cuts in.

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’ Ben says.

  ‘So there,’ Safa says. ‘We’re gonna get Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘We’re not.’

  ‘We already did.’

  ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘Social networks,’ Miri says, handing the tablet to Emily.

  ‘Pardon?’ Emily says.

  ‘Mr Collins. Social networks. Check him.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Emily says. ‘Er . . . so . . . we’re in 2010, so . . . Facebook? Christ, this is ancient . . . There’s no 3D or . . . What operating system is this? It’s so slow . . . and this screen is just awful. It’s not intuitive or . . . Where’s the catch-all program?’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ Miri says.

  ‘How do I do it then?’ Emily asks.

  ‘Still a Two,’ Safa coughs into her hand.

  ‘No,’ Emily protests. ‘This is, like, years behind my time.’

  ‘Want me to do it?’ Ben asks.

  ‘I was still a Two because all the Ones were taken.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Ben says, taking the tablet from her.

  ‘It takes years to be a One.’

  ‘I’ll log in with my old account,’ Ben says with a sudden jolt. ‘Oh shit, I remember this . . . I had to reset my password. They said someone in America logged in.’ He laughs at the thought, shaking his head. ‘This is fucked up.’ He double-taps the Facebook icon, then taps into the username field and starts to write his old email address. He tabs over to the password. StephMyers2015. It feels wrong to write her name. The application opens to his Facebook page as of 2010.

  ‘Is that Stephanie?’ Emily asks, glimpsing the profile picture of a smiling woman.

  ‘Er, yeah. Yeah, it is,’ Ben says. ‘I couldn’t have pictures of me . . . You know . . . the whole Calshott Ryder thing. I, er . . . I only put hers there to . . .’ He glances at Safa’s frozen face staring at the screen in his hands. ‘I only put it there so I had a picture . . . People ask questions otherwise . . .’

  ‘Ooh,’ Emily says, glancing at Safa’s face. ‘Not awkward at all.’

  ‘Whore,’ Safa mutters.

  ‘What?’ Emily asks.

  ‘Her, not you,’ Safa says, turning away from the screen with a look of utter distaste. ‘Can we just get the fuck on now?’

  ‘Er, Derek Collins,’ Ben says, typing the name in. ‘Common name . . . Loads of . . .’

  ‘That’s him,’ Emily says, leaning over and pointing.

  ‘Got him,’ Ben says, opening the profile to see the smiling young man from the bar. ‘Pictures . . . Parties, sports . . . family . . . He’s anti-drugs,’ Ben adds, seeing the shared posts. ‘Pro-police, pro-military . . . Tons of stuff on the Marines . . . Seems okay,’ he says with nod. ‘Nothing that bad here.’

  Miri takes the tablet back, ends the current screen and opens a new program. She thumbs the screen, pursing her lips with focus. ‘Where did you put it?’

  ‘Collar, back of the neck,’ Emily says.

  Miri presses the screen and waits while the connection is made. The speakers hiss, background noise, the sound of glasses or bottles clinking.

  ‘. . . rry? Er, yes, he is a soldier, but in England.’

  ‘Who was the other guy?’

  ‘Ben, but I don’t want to talk about them. Tell me about the Marines again . . . Do you want another beer?’

  ‘Y’all like beer a lot.’ Derek’s voice, laughing.

  ‘Do you have beer at your house?’

  ‘My house?’

  ‘The place you live. Your flat.’

  ‘Apartment. Sure, I got beer there.’

  ‘We should go. I’d love to see it.’

  ‘Ma’am, you said you wanted to have sex . . . I want you to know my momma raised me good and . . .’

  ‘Stop gabbling. I hate gabbling.’

  They all look at Safa, who shrugs.

  ‘. . . go to your flat, apartment . . . Whatever, let’s go there.’

  ‘She’s throwing herself at him,’ Ben mutters.

  ‘. . . come on, do you want to? I want to.’

  ‘But, ma’am, Ria . . . listen . . . I . . .’

  ‘We’ll just go back for a beer, then I’ll go home.’

  ‘Christ,’ Ben tuts.

  ‘. . . sure, we can do that,’ Derek says, his voice showing a level of uncertainty.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Emily says, seeing the look of worry on Ben’s and Harry’s faces. ‘This is quite normal for my time.’

  ‘You want another beer here?’ Derek asks.

  ‘Nope, we’ll have it at yours. Come on. How far is it?’

  ‘Not far.’

  Ria and Derek walk from the bar to a deserted parking lot. Ria looks over to the van at the far edge and round with the sensation of being watched that she shrugs off as she reaches for his hand.

  Derek leads the way. Hand in hand and feeling co
nfused, flattered, horny, concerned and full of testosterone all at the same time.

  ‘You sure you wanna come back?’ he asks, his voice muted now they’re out of the bar. ‘We could meet up tomorrow, catch a movie . . . pizza . . .’

  ‘I want to come back,’ she says, squeezing his hand. She needs this. She needs this contact, this comfort, this warmth of another human being. She flits between needing to cry and needing to laugh. Between feeling warm inside from the beer and feeling homesick for the bunker and for her old house. She wants to take Derek to the island and sit on the rocks to stare out over the moonlit sea. She wants sex. She wants to be held, to be loved, to be at home and to see her mother. She wants everything and nothing and to be away from the perfection of Safa and Emily, and the worried looks Ben and Harry always have. ‘So,’ she says, snapping out of her sudden introspection. ‘Are you looking forward to it?’

  ‘Sex?’ Derek blurts.

  ‘No! The Marines,’ Ria chuckles. A sound behind them. Like a snort of laughter snapping off. She turns to look, but sees nothing, only empty sidewalks.

  ‘Drunks,’ Derek says, not seeing anything either.

  ‘I’M TWENTY-TWO . . .’ she shouts back at them.

  ‘Shush,’ Derek says quickly. ‘This ain’t the place to draw attention.’

  Ria walks on. They wouldn’t follow her, would they? She glances behind again, but still sees nothing. No. No, they wouldn’t. That would be too much. What do they care anyway? They came to look for her, satisfied themselves and now they’ve gone back to eat popcorn and watch holos. They’re fit and clean and healthy and perfect, and they have each other. She doesn’t have anyone. They didn’t come for her anyway. They came for Bertie. Bloody Bertie. It’s always about Bertie. My son is a genius. My son got three Master’s degrees when he was bloody fourteen . . . thirteen . . . whatever. Bloody Bertie.

  ‘What?’ she asks, blinking at Derek.

  ‘I won’t miss here,’ Derek says wistfully. ‘Can’t wait to go.’

  ‘Don’t wish it away,’ she says, the sadness creeping back into her voice and eyes.

  ‘Hey, so maybe I should walk you home.’

  ‘No,’ she says, forcing a beaming grin and moving closer into his side. ‘I want to see your flat.’

  ‘Apartment.’

  ‘Flat,’ she giggles, pressing her boobs into his arm. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘You said your momma died.’

  ‘Don’t want to talk about that. Tell me about the Marines. Tell me about nice things and, and . . .’

  ‘They got grief counsellors in England?’

  ‘What the fuck? I’m fine. Are you excited about the Marines? Where do you go to train? What are those other guys called? Seals or something?’

  ‘Navy Seals. Special Forces.’

  ‘You should do that,’ she gushes, clinging to his arm. ‘You’d be so good.’

  ‘Hooyah,’ he says, smiling, worried, confused, turned on.

  ‘Hooyah,’ she laughs.

  ‘My place,’ he says, nodding at the door over the road. ‘Listen, Ria . . .’ He stops walking to stand on the sidewalk. ‘Maybe I’ll walk you home, huh?’

  ‘Do you want to?’ she asks, dropping her voice to a low murmur, closing the gap between them. ‘I mean . . . if you don’t want me to come back . . .’ She trails off, seeing his eyes flick down to her chest, now inches from him. She reaches out for his hands, taking them in hers, smiling at him, fluttering eyes, demure and sexy. He swallows, blinks and tries to steel himself to say no, to say he will walk her home. She senses the rejection coming and moves in to press her mouth on his. He stiffens. Unsure. The worry increasing, but she’s warm and soft and she smells so good. He thinks to pull back, but her hand comes up to snake round the back of his head, pulling him in. She doesn’t push it, but kisses softly, easing her lips against his, feeling his heart thumping, feeling his hard body. ‘I’m leaving soon,’ she whispers, pulling her lips back from his. ‘One night.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Don’t you want me?’

  ‘Sure, you’re . . .’

  ‘Do you think I’m pretty?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, very damn pretty.’

  ‘Let’s go inside. I want to go inside.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They cross the road, pushing into each other, arms round waists, shoulders, kissing, touching, and through the door to climb the stairs to his apartment.

  ‘She needs to come home,’ Safa says.

  ‘She’s an adult,’ Ben whispers back.

  ‘She’s drunk. She’s going to do something she’ll regret. I’m bringing her back . . .’

  ‘No,’ Emily says. ‘She’s fine. You heard him – he’s being really nice.’

  ‘She’s upset. She shouldn’t be doing anything,’ Safa says.

  ‘Her choice,’ Miri says. ‘We’re here to ensure protection. Not to guide her life.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Emily says.

  ‘Young lady should come home,’ Harry says, upset at seeing the girl needing affection so badly she’s throwing herself at the lad.

  ‘She is fine,’ Emily whispers firmly. ‘If this is how she copes, then let her. It’s her life. Her mistakes.’

  ‘Oh god, I am so horny . . .’ Ria’s voice continues.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, turn it off,’ Safa snaps.

  ‘You sure, Ria? You sure you wanna . . .’

  ‘Stop asking me! Yes. Yes, I am sure . . . Where’s your room? Oh my god, you are so fit.’

  ‘Turn it off now,’ Safa says, her voice rising.

  Miri shakes her head. ‘No. If it is uncomfortable for you, Miss Patel, then go stand over there.’

  ‘We are not fucking listening to her having sex.’

  ‘We are listening to ensure she does not say anything about the Blue.’

  ‘I won’t listen to this shit,’ Safa says, striding off.

  ‘Aye,’ Harry says, following her.

  ‘Tango Two? Want to leave?’

  ‘My name is Emily,’ Emily says quietly. ‘And I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Sanderson.’

  Miri glares with cold grey eyes.

  ‘Apologies,’ Emily says.

  ‘Fucking hell . . . your willy is huge . . .’

  ‘Yeah, okay, I don’t want to listen,’ Emily says, walking off.

  Noises. Thumps. Bangs. Grunts. A hiss of static. Background voices. A television or stereo. Music playing softly. A commercial advert. Heavy petting. Clothes being taken off. Zippers.

  ‘STOP . . . STOP, PLEASE . . . NO!’

  Safa, Harry and Emily burst to life. Sprinting down the alley as Ben waves his hands at them.

  ‘It’s a movie . . . Just a movie,’ he says urgently as a tinny American voice pleading for someone to put the gun down comes from the tablet.

  Miri changes the tablet to the lowest volume setting, but listens intently. Loose lips sink ships, and a word uttered in passion has overthrown governments before. She knows. She’s done it.

  Ben reaches out to touch Safa. She pulls away from him with pure fury pouring off her. She hates it. She hates that Ria is doing this. She should have more pride in herself, but Safa also feels something else. A weird jealousy. A sense of someone having the emotional freedom and sexual maturity to simply know what they want and to have it. She walks further into the shadows. She wants to go and not listen, but what if Ria gets in trouble? Ben stares at the ground. Miri is right. The potential risks are too great and they don’t know Ria. They don’t know Emily either, but it’s different.

  ‘Can’t listen,’ Harry says, walking off further down the alley. Safa goes with him. The two side by side until they get enough distance not to hear anything.

  A sound of a sob. Emily goes to move again, aiming towards the mouth of the alley towards the direction of Derek’s apartment. Ben stops her. Shaking his head.

  Ria cries. The heavy breathing and rhythmic sounds of the bed ending suddenly.

  ‘Keep going . . . please . . .’ Ri
a says.

  ‘I can’t listen,’ Emily says. ‘Sorry, I’m not an agent anymore.’

  ‘I’ll stop . . . You’re crying . . .’

  ‘No! Please, I’m fine.’

  ‘Ria, listen . . .’

  ‘Just fuck me, please.’

  Miri locks eyes on Ben, as though daring him to turn and go with the others. This is what it takes. To work at this level means doing this. To listen to everything. To hear everything. To know all the pieces of the game. Ben refuses to be cowed. That he is sickened at what he hears shows on his face, and he gives thanks that Miri finally portrays the essence of a human being and closes her eyes in distaste, but then he immediately suspects that very reaction was just a show too.

  It’s over quickly. A build-up. A grunt. Silence.

  ‘You okay, Ria?’

  A sniffle, a quiet sob. ‘I want to go home.’

  Ben stares across the road at the building.

  ‘Sure, can I call someone? You wanna drink? Coffee?’

  ‘I miss my mum.’

  ‘What happened? You want to talk?’

  ‘Christ, he’s a nice lad,’ Ben whispers, looking away.

  ‘She died . . . I . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, you can cry . . .’

  ‘I just . . . I . . . I can’t see her again . . . never . . . She’s gone and . . .’ The words come between sobs. Derek’s soft tones giving comfort. The bed creaks. Ben visualises the lad moving closer to her.

  ‘It’s hard, sure it is,’ Derek says. ‘Your momma loved you though. What about your daddy?’

  ‘He was a cunt,’ Ria sobs with a half-choked laugh. ‘I didn’t mean that . . . Oh god, I didn’t mean that . . .’

  ‘Hey, it’s fine, sure it is. Those people? In the bar? They good?’

  ‘Yeah . . . busy . . . Everyone’s so busy . . .’

  ‘They talk to you?’

  ‘Try, but . . . I don’t know them . . . My brother is, like . . . He’s this genius and . . . Oh fuck, it hurts, Derek. It hurts so much . . .’

  ‘Hey, it gets better. My daddy died. It gets better . . .’

  Silence for a second. Ben can visualise Ria looking up at him. ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Iraq. Ten years ago.’

  ‘He was a soldier?’

  ‘US Marine.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see . . . Oh, that’s so sad.’

  ‘He died serving his country. It hurts. Sure it does, but it gets better.’