Your Deepest Fear

by David Jackson

  Cody sighs. Why give him keys to locks he can’t even find?

  He trudges back up the stairs. When he passes through his apartment doorway, he makes sure to lock the door and set the alarm.

  Sometimes he loves the peace and solitude that being the only occupant of a massive Georgian building brings him. Other times he hates it. Hates being way up here, unaware of what foul deeds might be taking place below.

  But he knows that he can’t move into other accommodation. Waldo has found him here. Waldo will come seeking him again.

  And so here he waits.

  *

  Sara Prior contemplates violence.

  There was a time when she looked at it very differently. It was just a part of the job. What she was doing to restore peace and law and order often necessitated extreme force.

  She thought she had put all that behind her.

  Alone in her house now, she wonders whether she went too far in that pool hall. Did she overstep the mark?

  But all she wants is answers. They could have tried to help her out. They could have said something like, ‘Mr Metro isn’t here right now, but let us arrange an appointment for you.’ They didn’t have to lie. They didn’t need to put more obstacles in her way.

  But what about my own actions? she thinks.

  Did I need to inflict such damage, not only on possessions, but also on flesh and bone?

  And yet what choice do I have? Accept their lies and walk away? Where will that get me?

  My husband has had six-inch nails driven through his body. From beyond the grave he has told me that the man called Metro was somehow involved in that. If he didn’t do it himself, he knows who did.

  That’s what I have to remember. That’s why I can’t feel sympathy for anyone trying to protect Metro.

  And it’s why I can’t stop now.

  *

  Metro Mackenzie surveys the damage.

  The glass has been cleared away, but the rips in the cloth covering the pool tables gape open like massive wounds. Mike, the bartender, has gone for emergency treatment on his teeth. Andy is wearing enough white cloth around his dented skull to fashion a turban. And Phil – well, he looks nervous enough to start throwing up.

  ‘What happened?’ Metro asks.

  ‘She . . . she asked about you,’ says Phil.

  ‘Me? She used my name?’

  ‘Yes. Of course, I told her I didn’t know anyone with that name.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘She said she wanted to play a game of pool. She paid for a table, and then she started smashing the place up.’

  Metro nods. He wanders over to Andy. Looks into his bewildered eyes.

  ‘So what happened to you?’

  Andy shrugs. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. She was so fast.’

  ‘A woman. You and Mike were both beaten up by a woman.’

  Andy shrugs again.

  Metro shakes his head. This is getting beyond a joke.

  He turns to Phil again. ‘Did she give you any reasons for all this?’

  ‘She asked me to give you a message. Said she wants to meet you at Antarctica tonight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Did you ask her?’

  Phil doesn’t respond, but Metro has already guessed the answer. The man was too shit-scared to question the woman.

  ‘There’s video.’ This from Ozone, standing over by the bar.

  ‘Show me.’ Metro heads through the door for staff, closely followed by Ozone. Once in the back office, Ozone replays the security video of the earlier drama.

  Metro studies it carefully. This woman is good. Really good. Strong, fearless and skilled. He’d have her in his crew before any of the spineless idiots out there in the pool room.

  But, of course, that’s not what she wants. She wants vengeance. She wants answers.

  He can’t let her have those things.

  She’s not the type to give up easily, though. She has made that very clear.

  And so she’s going to end up getting hurt.

  A shame, but there you are. Go around biting people, and sooner or later you’re going to have to be put down.

  34

  It has been a while since she went clubbing.

  Matthew was never into it. She tried to convince him on numerous occasions, but he would always give her a list of why he hated it so much. The noise, the closeness of others, the way everyone was out to impress. Plus, he hated dancing. He was too self-conscious. On the infrequent occasions he permitted himself to indulge, he simply shuffled from side to side, his arms out in front of him like he was carrying an invisible tray.

  But then the slow songs would come on, and she would come to him, and they would embrace. And then his movement was more natural, his fear less palpable.

  There will be no dances like that tonight.

  The sign couldn’t be any less like the one that was above the pool hall. It is lit up in a dazzling white, zappy font. It reads, ‘Antarctica – the coolest place in town’.

  She can hear the music from here. Or, rather, she can hear the beat. Feel it, even. A dull throb that carries along the pavement and up through her legs.

  She has dressed for the part. A short black leather skirt and tight white top. Matthew wouldn’t have approved. Not in the company of so many drunken, lecherous young males.

  But she needs to blend in. Needs not to fall at the first hurdle: getting through the door.

  The bouncer doesn’t appear to think twice. ‘On your own, love?’

  ‘I’m meeting some friends inside,’ she says.

  He nods her in. He’s more concerned about gangs of rowdy lads. An attractive, sober female isn’t going to cause any trouble.

  Or so he thinks.

  She goes in. The music batters her, drowns her senses. She takes in the scene for a short while. Observes the mobs of lads, the gaggles of girls. Watches how they come together, drift apart, rejoin. Sees how they drink, how they laugh. How they make the most of their freedom, their youth, their energy.

  At any other time, she would smile. She would get down on that dance floor and become lost in the moment. She wouldn’t be looking for long-term company. She would just live.

  But this is a different time. This is business. This is where she is in the state of mind she might have adopted in Afghanistan. Wary, alert. Ready for trouble.

  She makes a beeline for the bar. No pot-bellied rugby-shirted types among the staff here. They look like students, all dressed in identical ice-white T-shirts with a small logo of a dancing penguin. One of them is showing off his skills at juggling bottles of spirits while he mixes a cocktail.

  Sara catches the eye of one of the female bartenders, who hurries over.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asks in an Irish accent.

  ‘Hi,’ says Sara. ‘Is your manager here, please?’

  ‘The manager? Hold on a sec.’

  She goes to a door behind the bar, opens it, sticks her head inside.

  A few seconds later, she comes back.

  ‘He’ll be out in a couple of minutes, okay? Can I get you a drink?’

  Sara thinks about her desire to blend in. ‘Do you do any non-alcoholic cocktails?’

  ‘Sure. We do a fantastic Peach Bellini Mocktail. Believe me, you’ll love it.’

  ‘Okay. Sounds great.’

  She waits while the drink is mixed. The Irish girl doesn’t toss the bottles in the air like some of the others, but she clearly knows what she’s doing.

  When the cocktail arrives, accompanied by a beautiful smile, Sara tells the girl to keep the change from the money she hands over. The poor thing probably has no idea of the scum who run this place.

  Sara sips her drink through a straw. It’s as delicious as it looks. She keeps her eyes on the door, with frequent glances in the mirror at anyone approaching from behind.

  When she has half-drained the glass, she signals the Irish lass to come over again.
/>   ‘I’m sorry, but could you just check if the manager is on his way? It’s been at least ten minutes.’

  ‘Right. Hold on.’

  She goes to the same door. Pops her head in again. This time she jumps back as though she’s just been yelled at. She scuttles back to her customers, her cheeks reddening.

  Sara decides it’s time for more drastic action. But before she can hop over the bar, the door opens again and a man comes out. He has red hair and a full beard, and his whole face shouts anger. He looks towards the Irish barmaid, and she nods towards Sara.

  The man stands in front of Sara, rests his hands on the counter. ‘Can I help you?’

  Sara decides he needs to go on a customer relations refresher course. She looks at the name badge pinned to his white shirt. It says, ‘Iain.’

  ‘I hope so, Iain,’ she says. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  Iain gestures helplessly towards the crowd behind her. ‘Good luck with that. There’s a lot of people here tonight.’

  ‘I think you’ll know him. His name is Metro.’

  Iain pretends he hasn’t heard her over the music. ‘It’s what?’

  ‘Metro. As in the underground railway.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Never heard of him. What’s his real name?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s supposed to be meeting me here.’

  Iain fills his cheeks with air and blows it out. ‘Not sure I can help you there. Sorry.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong, Iain. I think you can help me.’

  He stares at her. ‘Look, as you can see, we’re very busy. You’re welcome to stay, have a few drinks, a dance. But I hope you’ll understand if I get back to work now.’

  ‘Are you on your own back there?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m up to my eyeballs in it. Now if you don’t mind—’

  ‘Make some phone calls.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Call your boss. Your boss’s boss. Go as high as you can.’

  ‘Why the hell would I do that?’

  ‘Because hell is what will happen if you don’t do that.’

  He studies her intently. Tries to work out how serious this is.

  ‘I can have you thrown out right now. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I also know that you’ll be in big trouble if you do.’ She lets that sink in, then adds, ‘Look, what’s the harm? A phone call. If they tell you to get rid of me, I’ll leave.’

  Iain mulls it over. ‘What do I say to them?’

  ‘Tell them Metro has an appointment with me, and that I’m waiting.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Tell them I’m the one who was at The Tar Barrel and the pool hall. Tell them I’m not going away until they talk to me.’

  Iain strokes his beard, shaping it to a point. ‘Wait there,’ he says.

  ‘Just what I was planning to do,’ she answers.

  He disappears into the back room. While she waits, Sara catches a couple of inquisitive glances from the Irish girl.

  Five minutes later, Iain comes back.

  ‘You get your wish,’ he tells her.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You get your meeting.’

  ‘Who’s coming? Metro?’

  ‘You get your wish, okay? That’s all I’ve been told to say. It could be a while, though, so do you mind?’ He points back at the door.

  Sara raises her glass. ‘Knock yourself out, Iain.’

  She smiles at the Irish girl. Says, ‘Same again.’

  35

  Cody drifts in and out of consciousness. His mind is too occupied with thoughts of the two keys and the messages attached to them. It starts to conjure up all kinds of fanciful theories as to their meaning, and what they might unlock. He pictures safes, doors, cupboards, cabinets, vehicles and padlocks. He gets into deep philosophical discussions with himself about life, freedom and other grandiose concepts.

  None of it helps.

  But then his phone rings.

  It’s the middle of the night. One o’clock, to be precise. He knows who this will be, and his pulse begins to race at the thought.

  He picks up the receiver. Presses the call answer button.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Cody.’ That deep synthesised voice again. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’

  ‘Actually, I was dreaming. I had my hands around the neck of a clown. It was the best dream I’ve had in ages.’

  ‘Then I apologise for interrupting.’

  ‘No problem. Sometime soon, I’ll pick up where I left off.’

  ‘Did you get the present I left for you on your car?’

  ‘I did, and it’s not even my birthday. Have to say, I’ve had better gifts, though.’

  ‘No, Cody. You really haven’t. For you, this will be the best gift ever. You will appreciate this one more than anything you’ve ever had before.’

  ‘Really? Because so far I’m not feeling very appreciative.’

  ‘I take it you haven’t figured out what the keys are for, then?’

  ‘No. But then isn’t that what you wanted? I’m sure you didn’t set out to make this easy for me.’

  ‘You’re right. I didn’t. But I think it will get a lot easier with the next key.’

  ‘There’s another one? How many of these damn things are there?’

  ‘Just one more. But you know what you have to do to get it.’

  Cody sighs. ‘I’m seeing my shrink again in the morning. I’ve got all the psychobabble I need right now.’

  ‘Sorry, Cody, but that’s the deal. Are you ready?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Waldo pauses. Then: ‘Have you ever heard of the trolley problem?’

  ‘The what? The trolley problem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure. It’s when you get the one with the wonky wheel at Sainsbury’s.’

  ‘Very droll, Cody. The trolley problem is a thought experiment in morality. It makes you think about how you would behave in a particular set of life or death circumstances. Want to hear more?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m all ears.’

  ‘Good. We’re talking about a railway trolley here. What our American cousins might also refer to as a streetcar. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then picture this. The trolley breaks free of its moorings. It’s running down the hill, gathering speed. It’s getting faster and faster, building up momentum. It’s becoming a missile.’

  ‘I can see it now,’ Cody says sarcastically.

  ‘At the bottom of the hill is a group of ramblers. Six people, and they’re all walking on the tracks. They’re heading away from the trolley, and they can’t hear it hurtling towards them.’

  ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree. Fortunately for them, you can save their bacon.’

  ‘I can?’

  ‘Yes. You can’t warn them, because they’re too far away to hear you. But you’re standing next to a lever that can be used to switch the trolley onto another line.’

  ‘Must be their lucky day. Mine too. I get to be the hero.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps.’

  ‘Only perhaps?’

  ‘Yes. You see, Cody, there is another rambler, standing on the other railway track. You can divert the trolley and save the six, but in doing so you will certainly kill the one. So what do you do?’

  Cody thinks about it. Despite his antagonism, he finds himself curiously involved in the dilemma just outlined for him.

  ‘Let me get this straight. If I do nothing, six people will die. If I pull the lever, only one person will die.’

  ‘That’s it in a nutshell.’

  ‘Okay. Then I pull the lever.’

  ‘Are you sure? You don’t want to spend more time thinking about it?’

  ‘No. It’s a no-brainer. It’s six versus one.’

  Cody hears the deathly chuckle again. ‘So you
’re going for the utilitarian argument. The greatest good for the greatest number of people.’

  ‘That’s how I roll.’

  ‘But if you weren’t there to pull the lever, or chose not to intervene, it would be the six who would be killed.’

  ‘Yes, but I am there, right? I can do something about it.’

  ‘The situation is not of your making. You didn’t create it. Shouldn’t you just let events take their course?’

  ‘Not if it means the death of six human beings.’

  ‘All right. Let’s spare a thought for the other guy – the one whose death you’ve just determined.’

  ‘If we must.’

  ‘We must. There he is, minding his own business. He means nobody any harm. Maybe he’s a vicar, or he gives huge amounts to charity. Maybe he’s a brain surgeon. Maybe he’s working on a cure for cancer. He has family. A loving wife. Children. Then you come along, and you take it all away. You wipe him off the map with a flick of a switch. Do you think that’s fair?’

  Cody hesitates. ‘Life isn’t fair. Sometimes tough decisions have to be made.’

  ‘Would you be willing to explain that to his wife? Could you look her in the eye and tell her you decided to play God? Tell her that you sacrificed her wonderful, charitable, cancer-curing husband because you thought it was expedient?’

  ‘If I had to. Six lives have been saved because of what I did. Decisions like that are made all the time in real life. In times of war, for example. We kill to protect others.’

  ‘And so that’s your final answer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Eliminate the one, or even the few, to save the many.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Every single time?’

  ‘Yes. How often do I need to say it?’

  Another pause, longer this time. ‘All right, Cody. Same scenario, with one minor change.’

  ‘Go on. Enthral me.’

  ‘The lonely rambler. It’s not a brain surgeon or a cancer specialist. It’s not even a stranger. It’s Detective Constable Megan Webley.’

  The twist hits Cody between the eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘I think you heard me. The lone person on the track is Megan. So now what, Cody? What’s your answer now?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t know.’