by Luca Veste
LEAVE MEALONE!!
UR PROB A UGLY FAT B1TCH. KILL URSELF! DO US A FVOUR
Each message became worse as he scrolled through them. A whole range of different people, who all wanted to get back at her in some way, for something.
Mark knew what she’d done, of course, he knew about her way of getting back at these people she’d gone to school with. Now, he could see their reaction.
What puzzled him was the lack of replies from Emily herself. He continued going through them all, but couldn’t find a single time she had responded to any message she received. It was almost like having invited this sort of reaction, Emily had then ignored it entirely.
From the dates of the messages, she had continued on also. More people tricked, more people sending obscenities to her when they found out.
More victims.
They stretched back over months, the first occurring a year earlier. Mark wondered how this hadn’t spilled over into her real life, but then realised it probably had.
He would need to talk to the family again.
Mark was ignoring the main question – of what the messages probably meant. What they would do to someone over a sustained period of time.
‘I think she did something to herself,’ he said, under his breath. Everything about the way the case was going now pointed to this. The isolation, the way Emily had turned her anger outwards, then received attention in return. Yet, what started as just attention – albeit only the bad kind – would have begun to hurt. It would have been a slow build, a snowball rolling down a mountain, gathering and gathering, until it finally became an avalanche of hate.
He suddenly felt sorry for the girl, imagining what it must have felt like to be on the receiving end of those messages. The way they must have made her feel.
Yet, he also knew he couldn’t totally blame the people sending them.
He imagined most of them had probably forgotten about the whole thing by now, though. An internet drama that was over before it had even really begun, but felt like the end of the world at the time. People move on quickly, on to the next drama in their lives.
Most were probably embarrassed and wanted to forget.
For Emily, it would have been different, Mark thought. This would have been her life.
The last message had been sent around a week earlier. Then, nothing. As if it had been wiped clean, or she had suddenly stopped.
He flicked the screen to Emily’s Twitter page, but her direct messages – private and unseen from anyone without access to her account – were much the same. Here, the angry messages were few and far between and the oldest a few weeks past.
Then Mark started looking for a link to Joanna Carter. Placing the names together, running through all the messages looking for Joanna’s name; everything he could think of, he tried.
Nothing.
Gaining access to all the other accounts Emily had set up on social media would take a long time, and he probably wouldn’t get help. He looked at the list of possible login details – all the various email addresses Emily had used over the past year –and wondered where to start.
Well, he knew how to start.
Gaining entry into someone’s Facebook account is quite simple when you know how. It didn’t matter how many security measures were put up, there was usually a way around them. For this, he just needed to note one of the email addresses that had been used to set up the various Facebook accounts and gain access to that first. He went on the first email provider’s website and typed in an email address on his list. Then, he went to Forgot Password and had a new password set up and sent to the recovery address for that email.
Within seconds, a new email pinged into Emily’s main email inbox, setting up a new password for that email address.
It was easy from there.
Within ten minutes, Mark was able to log into a Facebook account for an Isabel Thomas, an account which seemed to have been active for a year or so, then abandoned. It only contained a few photos and from a quick glance, they all seemed to be of the same young woman. A tanned brunette, with athletic legs and a penchant for doing the splits in photographs. Mark didn’t expect the girl in the photos to have any knowledge that Emily had done this.
The inbox contained only a few different message threads. A conversation over a number of weeks with someone called Jack Marland. He tried to scroll to the beginning of it, but it went on for hundreds of messages. It would take longer than he had to go through each of them. Already, he could see some of them were sexual in nature. He scrolled past them for now and went to the end.
cant believe u did dis 2 me
ur messed up
u need help!
no1 does dis 2 me
IF I EVA SEE U UR DEAD AND I NO WHO DIS IS
Emily had never replied, it seemed. The messages simply ended, along with the posts. Mark knew she’d moved on to someone else after that.
He needed a list of all the victims. All of the people Emily had targeted and angered. If Jack’s last message to her was anything to go by, he imagined there’d be more threats to read. More warnings.
As Mark continued to read on, he discovered it wasn’t just romantic catfishing Emily was doing online. She was using information about people to mess with their lives, playing people off against each other, trying to destroy relationships.
It was Machiavellian in nature. All of it.
And now Emily was missing.
He knew the case could disappear within seconds if Emily’s body was found with a likely cause of death being suicide. It would change everything he was looking at.
Mark made his way over to DI Bennett’s office and filled her in on what he’d discovered. She hummed and hawed over the social media information, but seemed to perk up when Emily’s writing in her personal notepad was mentioned again.
‘Go over the notebook in more detail,’ DI Bennett said, motioning towards the book in a new evidence bag on her desk. ‘And also find out who missed it in the first place. Who doesn’t look under the mattress, I ask you? Sometimes I wonder about this lot.’
‘Easy mistake to make, I suppose,’ Mark replied, half-heartedly. It’s not like they were all friends out in the bull-pen, but he imagined there was a nervous sergeant or – more likely – a lowly uniform who had made that mistake. ‘At least we have it now. More likely than not, it’s probably not going to give us much anyway. From a quick scan of it, it’s just private complaints. Nothing to suggest outside involvement or anything like that.’
‘Still, it could prove useful. An insight into her mindset, that type of thing. I don’t think we’re going to get much further tonight. You can knock it on the head for now.’
Mark stood up, turning his back and walking towards the door. He had one hand on the handle before the DI spoke again.
‘One more thing, Mark,’ DI Bennett said, sliding her chair back slightly from her desk. ‘I know you have thoughts about whether the Burns and Carter cases are linked, but the evidence we have points towards a suicide, so I need you to see if we might be right. Without anything better than a hunch about them being linked, at the moment I should add, it’s a pretty difficult sell.’
‘I understand,’ Mark replied, feeling a little better for hearing DI Bennett say that, but also wondering how long it would be until that tone changed. Whether he would be shoved to the side when it did. If he found the link, would he be congratulated, or cast aside? He wasn’t sure.
Mark left the station not long after, driving his car out into the dark of night, winding his way out of the city centre and into its suburbs. Or what there is of them, in a city like Liverpool. The city centre was its hub, but the various council and housing estates bordering it had to be traversed before you found the so-called nicer areas. He’d grown up over the water, in a place called Wallasey. A town which had seen better days, his parents had always told him.
Thinking of them reminded him that he’d not spoken to his parents in a few days. He knew they’d be worri
ed, as they always seemed to be.
They weren’t far off turning sixty now, still wondering how they’d allowed their son to move across to what they’d always viewed as the less affluent side of the River Mersey. Liverpool was the large city on their doorstep, one they had treated not with contempt, but with an air of something approaching fear. As if it held secrets they could never unlock. Now, their son was not only working in a dangerous job, but one which had taken their little boy to the bad side.
He’d always been attracted to the city.
His mum was always carrying on about why no one should ever leave the house. The dangers that lurked when you escaped the safety of the home. He’d long since given up telling her that the biggest dangers lay in your own house. The vast majority of the cases he dealt with occurred behind closed doors.
Once he’d landed the job in the Major Crimes Unit in the city centre’s station, his mum’s worries had kicked into overdrive. He knew she’d be happier if he was working in a quiet area. Somewhere in the leafier parts of the Wirral, where she could imagine he’d be dealing with lower-level crimes, if any at all.
It had never been a consideration for him.
He pulled up outside his house and killed the engine. Stepped out the car and glanced at the place he called home. He’d been saving for two years now for a deposit, but didn’t think he’d be buying any time soon. The rent was just high enough on his house to leave a slim amount to stash away each month. He liked the area though – quiet and less rough than places a short drive away. He walked around his car, pushing open the metal gate and making his way up the short path. Wondering how long he’d give it before giving in and calling Natasha.
Or if she was already around, waiting for him to arrive home again.
He heard a noise from behind him and smiled. A shift of feet on the pavement. He turned to look, but there was nothing in his sightline, just an empty street, a dull light emanating from the streetlight a few feet away. An almost amber yellow. A noise again and Mark’s heart rate increased. Beating against his chest, he could almost hear the pound of it.
‘Natasha?’
There was no answer. He didn’t think it was her anyway.
Yet, someone was out there.
He didn’t know where that thought came from, but it was suddenly stark in his mind. Eyes watching him, unseen. Lurking in what was now a multitude of shadows outside his front door. He heard the scrape of shoes against concrete again and forced himself to walk back up the path, his breaths coming in short bursts.
Mark leaned against the gate, looking left and right, watching for any movement. Still, the feeling of being watched lingered, as he peered into the gloom of the evening.
Nothing moved, nothing shifted. The only noise he could hear was traffic in the far distance, blown towards him on a wind which seemed to increase in strength the longer he stood there.
He waited for another noise, but when none greeted him, he made his way back to the front door, pausing as he held his keys near the lock, waiting.
No sound came.
He shook his head and let himself inside. Almost rushing to close it behind him, as he imagined something out there.
Watching him.
Waiting for him.
Nineteen
NEW GAME
PLAYER ONE
She was standing in the darkness, watching a stranger walk into his house.
Her hands shaking with nerves, as she waited and waited for him to go inside. To not see her.
Holly didn’t know who the man was.
She could feel the tears stinging her eyes, as her throat swelled up with fear. As she took her phone from her pocket, she almost dropped it. She righted it, and took dimly lit photographs. Swearing internally to herself, she switched to video and began filming instead.
Hoping, praying, this would get better. That it would be okay.
It had started with a phone call.
She had been sitting alone when her phone started ringing. Nothing unusual about the being alone part. That was the norm since she’d lost her only friend. A mix of misunderstandings had led to her being on her own. Again.
Most of the time she could handle it.
The phone had vibrated three times before she’d answered it. Heard the words that started it all.
‘Hello, Holly. Do you know who this is?’
The voice had sounded unnatural, robotic almost. Like a computer was talking to her. ‘Should I?’
‘Not yet,’ the voice said, flat and emotionless. ‘I hope you will soon, though.
‘I don’t want to scare you, Holly,’ the voice had said, as Holly sat open-mouthed, unable to speak. ‘I just want you to listen. We know what you’ve been doing. And we’re going to tell everyone who you really are. Unless you do exactly as we say.’
* * *
She had been playing The Game since that moment six hours ago.
Holly tried to remember a time when she’d been comfortable in her own skin. When she didn’t feel lost. Out of place. Anywhere she’d been in her life – all seventeen, almost eighteen, years of it – she’d always felt like she didn’t belong, no matter where it was. At school, at parties – when she’d still been invited to them – at gigs, anywhere. It didn’t matter, it had always felt the same.
Now, she was a part of something.
A game.
This was the first part of it. Watching the stranger on her camera come into view finally, then disappear almost as quickly. Into his house.
She breathed silently, wondering what the next step would be. How far she would have to go.
Level One.
How far was she willing to go?
And she knew, right then, that she was ready to do whatever it would take to finish The Game. Was ready to do anything she was asked to do to stop people finding out about what she’d done.
Pretending to have cancer wasn’t something people would understand. Not something her mum would understand, more than anyone else. Not after losing her own mother and sister in the same year to the disease.
That had given her the idea. Finding the support group online, the people reading Holly’s invented story, giving her the time of day for once.
The story growing bigger and bigger. The lies becoming harder to hide.
Yet, they were there for her. More than anyone else.
Someone had found out what she’d done. And she couldn’t let her mum know about it.
She had to play their game.
The alternative was too difficult to imagine.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. She lifted it to her ear and listened to the words. The instructions.
Then, walked out of the shadows and towards the house.
PLAYER TWO
Rob was standing outside the station, his body shivering as the cold air swirled around him, making him nervous.
This was the first level.
That’s what he had been told.
He didn’t know how many there would be. Just that he had to keep going, or they would tell everyone what he’d done. His family would find out. His wife.
Every time he thought about it, guilt and shame hit him again.
No one would know though. As long as he just played The Game and did what they said, no one would find out.
* * *
First level.
It didn’t make sense, what was being asked of him. When he’d tried to question it, all they had repeated was that it was a game. That he had to do what he was told and not ask why. Rob thought it was simple enough.
They wanted to humiliate him enough that he would still be punished, without revealing his greater crime.
He didn’t know how they’d found out. Rob had been careful, he thought. Been online using anonymous names.
It wasn’t like he was really a right-wing sexist bigot. It was just a laugh. Bit of trolling. They were asking for it, most of the time. Moaning snowflakes. That’s what they were.
Okay, some of the death thr
eats and lies were a bit far, but it wasn’t serious.
He’d lose his job if he was exposed.
He didn’t think he would ever reach the end of the levels. And that scared him almost as much as being found out.
The train pulled into the station and came to a stop. Doors swishing open and a few people disembarking onto the platform. Going about their normal evening. Maybe going home after working late. Maybe they’d had dinner in the city centre after work, possibly a date.
He stood at the exit, blocking the way. Some of them had already spotted him standing there, his arms outstretched, blocking the doorway that led to the small concourse. Maybe that was why this station had been chosen for him – they knew he would have been able to block their only way out.
When he spoke, he didn’t sound like himself.
‘No one is getting out,’ he said, his voice, uncertain at first, rose with every word. ‘You all live here now. With me. On this train station. No one is getting past.’
A couple of them laughed quietly, not really understanding the joke. One guy had headphones in and didn’t even flinch.
As they reached him, he didn’t move.
Five against one.
He held on for as long as he could, but once the guy took his headphones out to see what was going on, it didn’t last long.
He fought back.
Ended up on the ground with a bloodied nose for his troubles.
Level One complete.
Twenty
Mark busied himself in the kitchen to shake off the sensation of being watched. He yawned as he clicked on the microwave, the plate holding the frozen meal spinning around until his eyes began to feel heavy. He breathed in deeply and stood up taller. Widened his eyes and hoped he’d stay awake long enough to eat.
Too many late nights and early mornings, he thought. Long days after long evenings with Natasha were probably also to blame.
His eyes closed briefly as he leaned against the kitchen counter, almost dozing within seconds.
A noise shook him awake. At first he thought it was the microwave finishing, but when he opened his eyes, it was still going.
