by James Damm
The pride and joy of the room was a desktop computer, three screens with a neon trim. Juliet knew little about computers, she mostly stuck to her phone, but the computer looked like one Leo had built himself. There was even an elaborate gaming chair for use with it.
The wall of Leo’s room looked much like Juliet’s. Newspaper cut-outs of many John Fitzgerald news stories lined the walls. Yet dozens seemed unrelated. Leo had plastered alternative stories about business acquisitions and middle-page stories alongside. Most of the business stories concerned weapon purchases, which countries were investing, and from whom.
“You and John never crossed paths much,” Leo stated, noticing that Juliet was admiring his wall. “Why do you think that was?”
“If you’d asked me six months ago, I’d have told you it was because how busy we were both kept. An ability doesn’t allow for much of a private life. Plus, he was the golden boy, I was always the footnote in any article.”
“And if I asked you now?”
“I think he didn’t want me in his head, close enough to read his thoughts,” Juliet acknowledged.
“I bet you hear all kinds of gossip,” Leo responded eagerly.
“You’d think so,” Juliet replied. “But what’s gossip if you don’t know the people involved? Workplace drama, spousal arguments or anxiety at home are ninety percent of what occupies the mind.”
The answer seemed to burst Leo’s bubble somewhat, and he turned his back to Juliet as he became immersed in his triple-screen set up.
“All very safe,” he commentated aloud. “I have used the Tor browser.”
“Is that a VPN?”
“With VPNs there can still be data leaks, where encrypted data gets transmitted. That includes IP leaks, and DNS leaks. The Tor browser, or the onion router, sends my data through several anonymous servers. In doing so, it becomes considerably more difficult to identify what I’m doing online. It originally came out of research done for use by US intelligence. They had an obvious need for secure online communications.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Juliet laughed, the language alien to her. “But thank you. As I said on the phone, keeping this search secure is crucial.”
“So what is it you’ve found?” Leo enquired eagerly.
“I heard from a reliable source that John had a house in a place called Rothbury, Northumberland.”
“Interesting,” Leo mulled aloud. “We always knew the flat in London was nonsense, but Rothbury never came up. As far as we ever heard, he never returned to the North East. Have you learnt anything else?”
Leo had his uses. But he also struck Juliet as the person who’d be prone to blab any gossip he heard right onto his message boards. It was a risk, Juliet being there, but a calculated one.
As Juliet waited on the edge of Leo’s bed her eyes drifted to a recent newspaper cutting on the wall. The face of Marco accompanied the story, one that had captivated recent column inches.
Juliet never knew Marco Rossi well. His employment with British intelligence put him more on the John Fitzgerald side of things than any of Juliet’s investigations. Reputation-wise, she knew enough. Hard, efficient and uncharismatic, he was a soldier with his ability to manipulate fire as an extension of his skills. Alongside John Fitzgerald, his work and missions saved many lives.
Juliet’s last encounter with Marco ended without an exchange of words. A solid stare and a fixed lack of emotion, Marco showed no warmth or recognition towards Juliet as she entered the room. Present for photos, scripted statements and interviews, the whole event only a public relations exercise.
Marco’s appetite for violence had hit the headlines in recent days, but at the time only a rumour. They sealed details of his missions. There were only ever tales and rumours. Juliet heard stories of brutality, excessive burns to criminals, and a flagrant disregard for the damage his powers could cause. Officially, publicly or any substantial proof? Not a murmur.
Earlier that week Marco had died in an altercation in his home of Bologna. News stories revealed a dozen police call-outs for domestic abuse, battery, assaults and beatings with the same pattern. A neighbour or his fiancée would call; they’d throw him in the drunk-tank and then wouldn’t press charges. Fights, brawls and altercations were common misdemeanours the authorities turned a blind eye to. Marco worked in a culture of violence, his private life showing that same nature too.
Two weeks after the last call, an argument had broken out in a bar, witnesses describing Marco as the instigator as a fellow patron of the bar bumped into him. A war of words ensued. A fight spilled outside. Marco burnt the opponent, but a punch levelled him and his head hit the curb. By the time paramedic arrived Marco had died, a daughter and fiancée left behind.
The case involved no major use of powers, but something had brewed in the media. The riots, foreign policy debates dominated headlines, a death penalty referendum discussed, and a Prime Minister looking weak in a time of crisis. But questions were beginning to be asked. What happens if the next person with powers isn’t like John Fitzgerald? What happens if they’re a villain?
Momentarily Juliet’s mind flicked back to early in the investigation, the story from the barmaid in John’s block of flats. Alone, drunk and muttering nonsensical words. Was John really who the world thought he was? Then there was the name, the damned name he’d been thinking about. “Does the name Alice ring any bells?” Juliet quizzed, praying for help out of the dead-end.
“Doesn’t ring a bell, context might help?”
“Unfortunately, I have nothing more on the name. He just said it not long before he died in a moment of distress.”
“Shame,” Leo said as he turned and began typing. “I’ll look into the Rothbury lead.”
From Juliet’s position on the edge of the bed, she couldn’t really see what Leo was doing on his screen. All she could describe was a rapid pace, clicking, typing and pulling up various windows at an impressive speed. The longer he spent, the more he grunted and showed signs of discontent. In his mind, an internal monologue had begun. What he was seeing was odd, and he looped in other people in his network.
Apprehensive to interrupt Leo while he was in full-flow, Juliet listened to his thoughts. Using electoral registers, the land registry, satellite images and online maps, he’d mapped the town. Yet when he overlaid historic images, something strange occurred. Several local Northumberland maps from over the decades varied from what was now showing online, and Leo set to work carving out the difference between the versions. His attention focused on any gatherings of buildings or lanes that vanished. The process time-consuming, thorough, and arduous, a series of places appeared to vanish from existence in the recent decades.
“Here,” Leo stated finally, with conviction. “If John had a house in Rothbury, it’s right here.”
“You’re certain?” Juliet remarked, shocked. “Can you talk me through it?”
Leo pointed and clicked through a series of maps, building a complex picture. A road, clear on maps in the eighties, had disappeared. Previously a house lay nearby, but now only showed as a farmer’s field. The sketches showed a drainage system underneath where the house had previously sat. On street view, the only roads that weren’t covered were those that would have a potential view of the property, and zooming in too close from the satellite image was also banned.
“On and on I can go,” Leo stated. “But that house right there… That is a house that somebody has tried very hard to bury.”
Rothbury remained infamous in modern times for a 2010 police manhunt. Raoul Moat shot an ex-girlfriend, killed her new boyfriend, and blinded a police officer. A lockdown and siege of the rural community followed, with ex-footballer Gazza rocked up in a dressing gown with a finishing rod, beers and chicken to try and defuse the situation. Police declined the offer, and the situation ended in a standoff and Moat’s suicide.
Every major news event across the last decade involved John Fitzgerald. Murders, manhunts, terror attacks involved a per
sonal involvement. Yet as Juliet examined Rothbury, its recent history and read about the Raoul Moat manhunt, John Fitzgerald’s name remained absent. A multi-day search, and no reasonable explanation online for his absence. The only explanation that made sense was that a headline had come to John’s front doorstep, and he was forced to stay away. Rothbury proved to be a perfect missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle.
Rothbury was home to a population of two thousand people, its distance from London making it challenging to reach. Online became Juliet’s only real avenue. Doing so without alerting suspicion proved even more difficult.
Juliet bought her train tickets at the station the next day up to the Rothbury, and booked a local pub with rooms. Everything was last minute, minimising the time any intelligence agency could track her movements or contain any breakthrough in the case. The riot situation having calmed, the leave of absence for a long weekend did not appear unusual and received approval with no fuss. The journey began with a four-hour train ride to a town called Morpeth, a nerve-wracking experience where Juliet never settled. At each stop Juliet pictured agents or police jumping aboard and arresting her. But stop after stop, with a ducked head and averted eyes, no such event occurred.
The train forced Juliet into the company of hundreds of members of the public. Gone were private helicopters and chauffeur-driven cars and in their place noisy thoughts, feelings and anxieties. The crying kids proved the worst. Even their own thoughts made little sense to them, and they wore their emotions permanently at the forefront. Her headphones blaring loud music, Juliet drowned out the voices as much as possible. During her busy journey, Juliet’s heart never stopped beating a mile a minute.
Morpeth Station soon emptied as dozens both exited and boarded the train. No coffee shop, no waiting area, only a car park waited before Juliet. Renting a car required identification, a paper trail, and electronic transactions. A bundle of cash in her purse, withdrawn gradually over the previous weeks, Juliet rang a local taxi firm and made the final forty-minute part of the journey to Rothbury by car.
The driver found the pub in the centre, rooms plentiful in the off-peak season. Older couples appeared to be the main demographic, staying there, walking boots and warm clothing covering radiators and neatly paired together in the hallways. The receptionist seemed accepting enough of Juliet’s story that her family had moved in nearby and lacked a spare room. Excuse laid and money paid. The room on the second floor became hers for the long weekend.
Exhausted from the journey, Juliet held back from an immediate start to her search. Ditching her light overnight bag, she headed out into the town itself for a coffee and some food, finding a place that fit the bill. The soup of the day was homemade mushroom, the walls and lighting were bright, modern yet cosy all the same. Lining the walls were images of the Northumberland countryside. Miles upon miles of lush green hills, the town felt like another world away from the hustle and bustle of London.
Later, after a pint in a pub that evening, with no sense she was being watched, Juliet planned to walk the few miles between all the properties early the next day. Sipping the last of her beer, Juliet left a tip for the barman and departed for her room. The bar was deserted, excluding two local men deep in a discussion. They’d spied her from across the way, but seemed too involved in a discussion regarding local gossip.
Coming along the corridor, Juliet sensed somebody inside her room before she opened the door, her hand on the handle hesitating. The person inside was working, writing emails and considering phrasing. Debating what to do, Juliet spied the two men from the bar coming from either direction down the corridor. Like a poor scene in a movie, Juliet knew there was little she could do to evade the strangers, but she remained undisturbed. There was only one organisation that was interested in her and it was her employer.
As Juliet entered the room, a middle-aged woman sat waiting patiently on the chair working. Her blonde hair in a bob, in her forties and with a permanent, suspicious frown plastered across her face, Helen Becton was technically her boss. Juliet held the door for the approaching men who had followed her there. When everyone was inside, and without turning away from her laptop, Helen started to speak.
“Your credit cards belong to us, and even though you paid by cash, we saw the withdrawal near the station. That tripped a signal that you were on the move.” Her voice came with no hint of ego, as if the thinking were so elementary it would be nothing to be proud of. “Your phone has its own inbuilt software to pick up phrases and searches. Even a VPN, proxies or other masking processes aren’t fool-proof. Rothbury, John Fitzgerald. The first two searches alone gave the game away. That’s not even including the reality that we’ve watched Leo intently since the murder from a distance. One of our work experience interns could have found you.”
Juliet stood humbled by an individual that wouldn’t even look her in the eye. Helen Becton was arguably the most powerful unelected figure in British politics. She was making notes on a parliamentary white paper, while just this morning had been speaking on the telephone with the Prime Minister. Juliet somewhat marvelled at the ease she was picking thoughts out from her head, but it was almost too easy, deliberate.
“Do you speak?” Helen asked as she put the laptop to one side and started speed-reading and highlighting papers. “All this noise you’ve been making, yet here you stand silent.”
“We’ve met a few times before,” Juliet said. “You know I speak.”
Without skipping a beat, Helen replied, “You’re in a room with the individual who has been tracking you. In a room with the person who has been your boss your entire career. A person with a wealth of answers to everything you’ve been seeking, and you aren’t asking questions?”
The woman flustered Juliet. Frosty in her speech, body language and mind, she saw Juliet as a mere crumb on the cake of everything she sought. So why bother at all?
“Ask a question,” came a somewhat irritated request.
“Why are you here?”
“We gave you direct instructions to drop the case, yet you did not do so. I am here to make you stop being an irritation and tie up the loose ends. Speaking to your former partner Tom, you are unlikely to go down without a fight so I thought it best to come personally.”
Juliet looked to the two men in the room, both relaxed in their stance and thoughts. Neither struck Juliet as hired hitmen and if she was to be mean, they looked more like men responsible for the paperwork than anything more physical.
“I want to find out the truth about John Fitzgerald,” Juliet said as she tried to control the situation.
“Well, I gathered that sweetheart,” Helen said as she finally peered up. “You are in the arse-end of nowhere. What I want to know is why?”
Juliet again found herself at a loss for words. To find the truth was the answer she wanted to give, but was it enough?
“I’ve dug into you. There’s nothing personal tying you to the case and from a morality point of view, you don’t seem to want to tarnish John’s reputation. I want to know what it will take to make you go home and stay there. What is your motivation?”
“Curiosity,” was the only word Juliet could muster. “I have nobody to tell, nothing to gain by knowing and no personal vendetta. I want a resolution from all of this.”
“So ask away,” was Helen’s simple response as she put her phone down. Meanwhile, she waved the men away. “Signal’s terrible anyway.”
“Just like that?” Juliet replied, stumped by the forthright nature of the response. When Helen gave no response, Juliet had no choice but to ask.
“What happened to John after he left Bellington? Why hide the fact he was gay?”
“That’s a sensible place to start,” Helen answered. “John moved to Leeds and became a cleaner for a time, and around that period he started sleeping around, eventually concluding he was gay. Life fell apart a little after that – he moved between shitty jobs, and took harder and harder drugs. He hit our radar when he escaped a pair of handcuffs
, phased right through them. The CCTV picked it up, and we closed that avenue down as quickly as we could. It was only a possession charge, and we made it go away. John worked for us.”
“So why lie about a military record? Why bother with such a story?” Juliet retorted.
“Well, Cherwell had us chasing ourselves quickly,” Helen admitted. “We never planned for any of you to go public, and then John was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was furious he intervened. But he did, and we had to react. When announcing to the public that there was a man with superpowers who could, and had, taken down an entire army without a single casualty, putting them at ease is a priority. As you will see in the news at the moment, people do not trust abilities, they consider them dangerous. They certainly wouldn’t have trusted them in the hands of a working-class boy from the North East. John came from a broken home, held no qualifications, and had a minimum wage employment history. Need I go on? The world, even now, is not ready for a homosexual superhero. Imagine the situation abroad with John in third-world nations, harbouring far more conservative opinions. There are countries John was being sent to that would execute men of his sexuality. We created a backstory that allowed John to continue his excellent work without terrifying Middle England. A straight, ex-soldier nobody needed to fear.”
“And he was okay with all that?”
“Coming out as the world’s first superhero presented enough anxieties. John had no wish to come out a second time. The deal we made let John live his life privately, however he wished, and we covered up as and when it was needed. The heroin was part of that. Rehab, therapy and all manner of treatments did not sort out the fact the man was a broken individual, so we left him to it. The one thing that kept him sane and happy was saving lives. If he shoved a needle in his arm or took men to bed, it didn’t stop either side from getting what they wanted.”
“What about the other cover-ups?” Juliet quizzed, still in awe she was getting all the answers on a plate. “The tattoo, the scars on his body, and how on earth his ability could have been switched-off.”