‘Hi!’ I say cheerfully, giving him a sweet smile. ‘I’m Sandra,’ I tell him, walking over to his desk and sticking my hand out.
‘Er, hi. Chris.’ He shakes my hand, looking down to scan my visitor pass, then looking over at Dom who is still hovering in the doorway.
‘Come in, Daddy,’ I order him gently, my eyes dazzling him, and I close the door as he obeys. ‘Why don’t you sit down for a while, over there, close your eyes, while I talk to Chris?’ He’s very confused, but his resistance to me is very weak now. He nods agreement and goes to sit in the chair I indicated. The office has several desks, with lots of computers and electronics. Also pizza boxes and mugs of half-drunk coffee.
‘I’d love a coffee, Chris.’
He hesitates, still wanting to tell me that I shouldn’t be here talking to him, but then there’s a hint of humour in his eyes as he gets up and walks over to the kettle in the corner. ‘We don’t have any milk.’ The kettle roars in a way that suggests it was boiled recently.
‘No milk is perfect. Four sugars, please.’ While he measures the coffee, I undo a couple of buttons of my white school shirt, not enough to expose my breasts, but enough to make him stare at the opening when he turns round to look at me. I pretend not to notice, studying the pictures on the walls, most of which are print-outs of humorous drawings with captions that I don’t really understand. One drawing is a girl sleeping in a double bed, next to her in bed is a laptop computer. I check on Dom. He’s fast asleep. It’s been a long day for him, what with guard duty, an evening in the pub, and me messing with his head for the past couple of hours.
‘Thanks,’ I say as Chris hands me a mug of scaldingly hot sweet black coffee. I breathe in the aroma. ‘Mmm.’ I give him a speculative look. He blushes a little. ‘Well, Chris, I’m doing a school project on security systems and techniques for making software systems more resilient.’
‘That sounds awfully advanced for school.’
‘I guess, but my dad works here, and I like computers. I’d be really grateful if you could help me understand a little about how it works here.’
‘I’m not supposed to talk about that stuff.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble, but surely it won’t hurt to show me some basic stuff.’
‘I guess not,’ he says after a few seconds. He sits down at his computer and taps the keyboard to wake it up, and I see he’s using a Mac Pro although the two displays aren’t Apple displays. I have an iMac at home which I’ve got to know rather well over the past two years. I’m reminded of the time I made love to my Maths professor surrounded by whirring tape drives and a humming 7000 series IBM computer back in the sixties.
I pull up a chair, close so that Chris and I are almost touching. ‘Tell me about the cameras. Is everything recorded?’
‘Yes. We keep everything for seven days, then it gets run through a filter which deletes all the boring bits, and written to DVDs.’
‘Boring bits? Like a camera watching an empty room all day?’
‘Yes. It’s not always easy because light levels are changing all the time, and the position of the sun also, so the filters need to be quite intelligent. We also have filters that can cope with random movements caused by the wind. The important thing is to make sure that movements of people aren’t accidentally deleted.’
‘If someone wanted to destroy all camera recordings made tonight, could they do it?’
‘No.’
‘Could you do it?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘How?’
He thinks for a moment then opens a terminal window, establishes a secure shell connection to a remote computer, and lists the filesystems. ‘Each of these lines,’ he says, pointing, ‘is an external hard drive used for storing camera feeds. If you wiped these then it would destroy the recordings from tonight.’
‘That seems rather too easy. Isn’t there an off-site back-up?’
‘Yes. We synchronise twice a day, at six o’clock, morning and evening, with the servers downtown. So tonight’s recordings won’t be backed up yet, but if you wanted to destroy last night’s recordings you would need to access the back-up servers as well, which I can’t.’
‘But you can access the server here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wouldn’t you need root access to do any real damage?’
‘Modern systems don’t have a root user, as such, but I’m an administrator so I can do what I like.’
I frown. ‘How does that work?’
He shows me, using the ‘sudo’ command to get a harmless listing of a hidden directory. He has to type his password to do this. If I’m lucky, and this has been a very lucky day for me, the system won’t ask for his password again for another five minutes.
I unbutton my shirt, revealing my naked breasts. ‘I told you I love computers,’ I say. ‘I’m getting seriously hot.’
He looks at me like a cornered mouse, and glances nervously over at the sleeping figure in the corner.
‘He won’t wake up if we’re quiet,’ I say. ‘Put your hands on my breasts, Christopher.’ When he still doesn’t move, I take his left hand and fold it around my right breast, and when I let go it stays there. I slide his thumb across my nipple, and sigh with pleasure. Chris moves his chair round a bit so that he’s facing me, and takes one of my breasts in each hand, playing with my nipples, which are getting very hard. ‘Look at me, Christopher. Yes, like that. Keep looking. I want you to concentrate on my breasts with your hands, their soft weight, the smooth skin, the sensation of my nipples brushing your fingertips, but keep your eyes, your beautiful eyes, looking deep, deep, into my eyes, yes. Nothing else matters, just my breasts, my perfect breasts, yours and yours alone, perfect... now, just relax, yes, sit back, close your eyes...’
He’s lost. I pull the keyboard over to me quickly and use sudo to start a shell with admin rights. A quick exploration confirms that the remote server is running Linux, although it’s some variant I’m not familiar with. It has been a few years since I was last playing seriously with computers. I write a shell script which will, I hope, stop the secure shell server, unmount the external hard drives, and erase all the data using a handy little command called shred. Finally I set the script to run at five a.m., exit the admin shell and close the terminal window. I wipe the keyboard and my coffee mug to get rid of any finger prints.
I put Chris’s hands back into position and wake him up so that he’s unaware that his attentions were interrupted. ‘You know,’ I whisper, ‘I’m not wearing any knickers. Why don’t you get on your knees and take a look?’
He grins excitedly, and it’s not long before I’m also grinning excitedly.
Swings And Roundabouts (Friday)
Four o’clock in the morning and I’m back outside Alex’s place, again wearing the black running suit, hood up, and some thin, black leather gloves, but no bird seed today. The night is still clear and I can see quite clearly. Unfortunately the cameras can also see quite clearly. I’m just going to have to move quickly and hope no one is watching. I climb up onto the wall and walk round to the gate, jump down on to the path outside the guard hut and step inside even as the guard, the one who looks like Bruce Willis, is reaching for his radio. I kick this out of his hands and he leaps at me. We crash to the ground with him on top of me, trying to lock me in position, but not before I manage to jab my K95 taser in his side and send electricity shocking through his system. He’s still conscious, but he’s twitching, not really in control and I am able to escape from underneath him.
The radio is quiet, and there aren’t any lights that look like warning lights, so I guess I haven’t been seen. I tie Bruce Willis up with handcuffs, blindfold and a ball gag from a bondage shop in the city, rifling through his pockets, finding his ID, a second chipped card that must be the duty card, and a couple of sets of keys, one of which is carefully labelled. One key says ‘Front Door (Outer)’ and another says ‘Front Door (Inner)’ and a third one that says ‘Gate’, which do
esn’t make sense, unless it means the guard hut rather than the gate itself.
I let myself in through Alex’s front door, closing it behind me. There’s a computer display in the entryway showing floor plans of the whole house in green, except for the front door which is blinking green-amber-red. To the right of the display is a card reader with a number pad, with a small screen that says ‘Insert ID’. I insert Dominic Wright’s ID and enter his daughter’s birthday. Next the screen says ‘Insert Duty Card’, which I do, and the front door stops flashing on the floor plans.
All systems green. So far so good.
I open the inner door, and that starts blinking. I insert Dom’s ID again, but immediately the door turns red on the display and half the rest of the house turns amber. Somewhere an alarm trills. Damn. I race for the stairs and up, the guard’s radio in my pocket squawking ‘Greg? What the hell’s happening out there? Greg?’
The bedroom is on the first floor at the front of the house. I was able to guess the location by watching the lights in the house last Saturday. Besides, it’s a nice south-facing view, and the room has large windows to make the most of it. The house is only about twenty years old and the design and decor have a modern elegance. It’s a shame I’m in too much of a hurry to enjoy it.
I barrel off the wall at the top of the staircase and bounce into the bedroom just in time to see a naked leg disappearing into the wardrobe. I race after the leg, through a curtain of white shirts, and slam cheek-first into a heavy steel door. It stops me dead, but the door wasn’t fully closed and the impact sends Alex sprawling across the floor inside his secret chamber. I push the door open and search for a light switch, which turns out to be in the obvious place. Alex scrambles to his feet. He is dressed in blue boxer shorts and a white Ibiza T-shirt, and he looks terrified.
The room is quite plain, just a leather chair, some bottled water, a desk with a telephone, and a Dodgeson computer display showing CCTV images and floor plans flashing red. There’s also a briefcase and a metal security box.
‘You’re not what I expected,’ he says.
‘I’m not what anyone expects,’ I reply. ‘Tell me, Alex, do you remember Jessie?’ He shakes his head, but he’s lying. ‘Oh, you must remember her. Tall, long blonde hair, pretty dress with large daisy print, tattoo of a butterfly on her left arm?’ He shakes his head again, and moves to put the chair between us. He keeps glancing at the display. ‘Don’t lie to me, Alex. Tell me about the night you raped her. Did you have fun? Did her screams excite you?’
‘It wasn’t me,’ he whispers.
‘Tell me where she is, Alex.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ he repeats.
‘Alex, Alex. You know, and I know, that a helicopter will be here in five minutes, maybe sooner, and I don’t plan on waiting around for it. Which gives you one minute exactly to tell me where she is.’
Alex shoves the chair at me and makes a run for it. He thinks I’m only a girl. I jump over the flying chair and grab hold of him, and once again the taser comes in handy, although it’s less effective with this second use. He crumples to the floor, and I straddle him, pinning his wrists to the floor while I take my hunting knife from its ankle holster.
‘Goodbye, Alex,’ I say, and he screams briefly as I cut deep into his neck. Bright, beautiful arterial blood fountains into the room and Alex convulses furiously beneath me, but he is quickly unconscious. I dive down to drink the life-rich fluid, feeding for the first time in days, and this deep blood is the finest. I take a few mouthfuls, enough to satisfy, not enough to be missed by the people who will be examining him soon. My face and hair and clothing are streaked and stained. No doubt I look like a monster. I am a monster.
I pick up the briefcase and security box. I have no idea what’s in them, but I’m certainly curious. Back in the bedroom I smash a window and throw my treasure onto the lawn below, before dropping down after them, and a few seconds later I’m throwing them over the wall and following. I can hear the distant chopping of the approaching helicopter, but there’s just enough time for me to reach the Mini, strip out of my gloves, shoes and running suit, and bundle everything into plastic bin bags in the boot. I drive off, dressed in my grey Nike tracksuit and an old pair of trainers, and head away from the city, following the river upstream, lights dark, until I’m far enough away that I’m sure the helicopter won’t spot me. It’s as good a place as any to stop for a few minutes and clean the blood from my face and hair in the river.
*
After a long, cleansing shower at home, I head out again, dressed in jeans and a hilarious Bloodsucking Girl tank top, and still in my old trainers, taking my blood-stained clothing to the household waste centre, where I make sure it gets compacted. Then I leave the box and briefcase with Alia, and head into town for my weekly waxing and pampering session, hair and nails, manicure, pedicure, at Francesca’s, stopping on the way to buy a new hunting knife and holster, having thrown out this morning’s murder weapon with the bloody clothes. I emerge from the salon at lunchtime looking not unlike Penelope Cruz. Francesca has a real talent for copying celebrity hairstyles.
I’m not far from Covent Garden, so decide to visit Burberry’s, which is always a dangerous thing to do, and afterwards, fully and elegantly clothed in my new purchases, relax for an hour in Dalla Terra with a glass of the Sagrantino Di Montefalco.
I remember to text Cleo. ‘Be outside at 6.30. Bring comfortable shoes.’
Later, at home, I check the internet for news about this morning’s activities. There isn’t much. ‘Local business man Mr Alex Graham was assaulted and killed in his home shortly after 4 pm this morning. The attacker is believed to be a young woman acting alone,’ and so on. There’s even a picture of me, a dark, slender hooded figure, taken from one of the security cameras, grainy, and black and white, but it doesn’t show my face clearly. If that’s really the best they’ve got, then my sabotage of the Dodgeson computer servers must have worked. I imagine there is still evidence that could lead the police to me if they search thoroughly, but I’m probably safe enough.
At six thirty I’m in my Mini, outside Cleo’s house, wearing my red dragon corset, a short black salsa skirt with a black thong underneath, and my Tributes. My lips are a fantastic Hollywood Red, thank you Bobbi Brown. In all it’s a strange blend of styles, but it’s sexy as hell. Cleo appears wearing a short Desigual dress, white with lilies at the front and stripes at the back. She’s still not fully at ease walking in her Meteoritas, but damn she looks good.
She slides into the passenger seat, filling the car with raspberries and patchouli, delicious, Elle by Yves Saint Laurent, and whatever she was about to say or do is forgotten. ‘You look dangerous,’ she says after studying me.
‘In what way?’
‘I don’t know. It’s like you stepped out of a magazine. I’m afraid to touch you.’
I laugh. ‘Did you bring some shoes for dancing?’
‘Will the Truffles be okay?’ she asks, indicating her bag.
‘They’ll be okay. Come on, close your door.’
I pop in the CD soundtrack to Curdled, and forward to Danza Macabra to get us in the mood for the evening, and kiss Cleo hungrily before driving off. This song always makes me want to grab a knife and dance around the house like Gabriella. One of the advantages of living alone is that I can do exactly that.
I love Colombian dance. Every summer I go to the Feria de Cali, the great Salsa festival, and in February this year I went to the Carnaval de Barranquilla, full of brilliantly coloured costumes and thousands of people enjoying music and dancing. Even better, since sexual attitudes in Colombia are quite progressive, and there’s even a chance that gay marriages will be legal next year, it’s easy for me to find gorgeous Colombian girls to dance Cumbia with.
The couple who teach the Friday evening Salsa class are both from Colombia, Alejandro from Cali, Isabel from Medellín. They’re in their thirties and teach professional dance classes during the week, and are often entering Latin dan
ce competitions. I help them work on new routines, and have always kept the relationship professional. I love dancing with them too much to risk complicating things.
‘Suzie chica!’ Alejandro says when we arrive. ‘We missed you last week!’
‘Sorry, but look what I found,’ I reply with a grin, hugging Cleo to me tightly. ‘Cleo, this is Alejandro, and over there is his beautiful wife Isabel.’ I wave across the hall at Isabel, who grins and waves back.
The first two hours of the class is just basic steps, but it’s fun dancing with Cleo, teaching her the rhythms and moves, holding her close and stealing kisses from time to time. Later as the class gets more advanced, she takes a seat and lets me mix with the more experienced dancers in my unofficial role as the third teacher of this class. I love the energetic footwork of Salsa Caliente. At eleven o’clock, the class finishes and soon the hall is empty except for Alejandro, Isabel, Cleo and myself, none of us in a hurry to leave.
We crack open a bottle of wine, switch the CD, Armando Hernandez, dim the lights, and spend a couple of hours Cumbia dancing, so much sexier than Salsa, swapping partners from time to time, until Cleo, exhausted, starts tripping over her feet.
*
There’s a parking spot free just outside my flat, which is rare but I’m certainly not complaining. I walk round to support Cleo, who is sleepy and rather unwisely back in her heels.
My attention is caught by a car passing by slowly, unusually slow, something that always makes me a little nervous, and I turn in time to see the passenger window rolling down. The face is half-familiar, and the eyes are fixed on me with intensity. My instincts are shrieking danger, screaming at me to run, and the silencer that is suddenly aimed at me isn’t a surprise, just the logical development of the moment. But I can’t move, or, to be specific, I can’t move out of the path of the bullet, because behind me is Cleo, oblivious and innocent, and my need to protect her overwhelms the urge to leap for cover.
Suzie and the Monsters Page 6