The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  Acid leaned with her back against the door and closed her eyes. Her insides felt raw. She hoped Caesar was waiting for her upstairs. She’d have it out with him here and now. Would rip the bastard’s throat out. Or die trying. Either option was fine by her.

  An image flashed across her mind of her poor mother. The last time she’d ever see her. She looked so innocent and frail sitting there in her chair, all alone at the end.

  “I’m sorry,” Acid whispered to the ceiling. But she wasn’t. Right now she didn’t feel sorry, or sad, or scared, or anything. That was the problem.

  She’d realised it as soon as she’d left Spook at the station. The chatter had ceased. The intense mania of the bats replaced by a new presence – one that was altogether more despicable – the lumpen manatee of depression. It slumped heavily across her shoulders, weighing her down as she tiptoed upstairs and unlocked the door to her apartment.

  Like always, it was concepts rather than words that plagued Acid’s senses. A tingling awareness in the back of her consciousness rather than sheer logic. She wished she could cry. It’d be a release. But she couldn’t. She’d spent the last sixteen years hardening herself to concepts like pain and guilt and human connection. Indeed, a huge part of her training with Caesar was learning to push her emotions down. To become callous towards life. Her own included. It was the only way she could do what she did.

  She entered the apartment and closed the door behind her. She paused, listening, then called out, “Hello.” But nothing. She slipped off her jacket and went into the kitchen. The low-wattage, under-unit lights gave a warm glow to the room, absorbed somewhat by the black granite work surfaces. She yanked open her large stainless steel refrigerator and went straight for a beer. Instinct again. She twisted off the top and took a long swig. It was cold and gassy and the carbonation burnt her throat, but she liked that.

  Back through into the front room and over to the stereo, she opted for the iPod rather than messing around with vinyl, hitting shuffle and getting Sabbath’s, You Won’t Change Me.

  “Well, shit, Ozzy,” Acid sneered. “Isn’t that the truth?”

  She slumped onto the couch, letting the heavy chords wash over her. She’d been stupid to think she could do anything but kill for a living. This was who she was. Remove that part of her, she didn’t exist.

  “Idiot. Stupid bloody idiot.” She sat up and drained the beer bottle in one go. She’d let Spook get to her, but it stopped this second. Acid Vanilla had to return. The role she’d created for herself all those years ago – that person was strong, powerful, full of direst cruelty. But just as important, that person was a survivor. They didn’t mope around feeling sorry for themselves like some miserable, wounded puppy. They sucked it up and moved on. They saw when they were crashing and took a holiday. Like she should have done at the start of this miserable episode. Life would have been so different now.

  A new song came on the iPod, Beethoven’s Egmont Overture. Acid got to her feet and stumbled into the bedroom as the violins sprung into life. The room was dark. But enough light filtered through from the lounge for her to see the large cardboard box on her bed. She stopped in the doorway. She’d never seen this box before. It hadn’t been there when she left for Paris. The gentle lilt of oboes carried through from the stereo next door as she moved over to the bed. A part of her already knew what was inside, but it didn’t stop her from being tentative as she opened the lid and peered inside.

  “Ah, shit.”

  It was Tariq. Or, more accurately, it was Tariq’s head. He had two passports stuffed in his mouth. She didn’t need to look to know who they belonged to.

  As the music hit an upsurge of strings and woodwind, Acid closed the box and walked over to her wardrobe. She removed a black holdall and placed it on the bed next to Tariq’s head. Then she pulled various pieces of underwear from her chest of drawers – bras, pants, vest tops – followed by a bunch of plain black t-shirts, jeans, leggings. She balled each item as small as possible and stuffed them in the bag. Once she’d packed as much as would fit, she took the bag into the bathroom and tossed in hairspray, bottles of shampoo, her expensive creams, make-up. She returned to the bedroom and opened her large ottoman bed, revealing a sizeable armoury: eight pistols, two rifles, plus silencers, knives, a selection of mobile phones. She grabbed a burner phone and checked it worked. Then she stuffed a new Glock 45 and a Beretta 70S down the back of her jeans and shoved whatever else would fit into the holdall. She carried it though into the lounge and put on her jacket. Then, as the orchestra reached its final crescendo, she left her apartment and slammed the door behind her.

  Acid didn’t know where she was heading, all she knew was she couldn’t stay here. Her home was compromised, and even if Annihilation weren’t watching her they’d be back soon enough. She hurried down the steps onto the pavement and dummied out the gate before doubling back on herself and heading down the side of her building. At the end of the alley she cut across a small square and took a right, which opened onto to a wider road that led to the river. It was the least populated area in terms of houses, but a short high street led to a strip of food outlets, late-night bars and – most importantly – taxis. The underground would be too risky, and Acid needed to get as far away from here as possible. She hailed down a passing black cab and jumped in the back.

  “Can you head east, please,” she told the driver. He was a big man. Typical cockney. He was wearing a flat cap and an expression that said he’d seen everything there was to see in life.

  “That’s it? Just east?” he barked. “Sounds ominous.”

  Acid clocked his eyes in the rear-view mirror. “I’m looking for a hotel.” She held up the new phone, glad to see it had data and a signal. “I’ll let you know in a minute or two.”

  “Right you are, love,” the driver said with a laugh. “You having a bad day, are ya?”

  Acid sniffed and gazed out the window. “You know what,” she told him. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Thirty-Nine

  In the end Acid opted for a poky bed and breakfast place in Abbey Wood. It was a run-down affair, lacking in amenities and freezing cold. But that was one reason she’d chosen it. Penance. Self-flagellation. An attempt to shear off the wretched humanity she’d allowed to develop these last few weeks.

  Her room was on the second floor, a long and thin space with a double bed pushed against one wall and a slim, veneered drawer unit opposite. On the wall facing the door a window looked out onto an overgrown yard littered with old furniture. To the left of the window, another door opened into a small bathroom comprising of a beige toilet and sink unit. It also had beige carpets and beige walls. Everything beige.

  Another reason Acid had chosen the hotel was the 24-hour internet café and late-night off licence she’d spotted around the corner. After checking in and paying in advance for seven nights, she dumped her bag and headed straight out. First to the off licence, thankfully still open at 3 a.m. She bought cheap scotch and a bottle of red wine, a 2015 Argentinian Malbec. She also bought note pads, a box of Sharpies and some drawing pins. Then she headed for the internet café.

  The pasty-faced man on the counter wore an LA Raiders baseball cap and didn’t look up from his PlayStation as Acid lay down five pound-coins for an hour online plus ten printing credits. The man typed something into a computer and shoved a slip of paper at her with a short passcode written on it. He still didn’t look up.

  “Much obliged.” Acid picked up the paper and scanned the room, assessing which computer unit would provide maximum privacy. Only two other people occupied the café, not surprising at this time of night. They both looked to be Chinese, playing some online game. Acid made her way between the two banks of yellowing computers and chose a unit in the far corner. Here she had a wall behind her plus a clear view of the entrance. The printer was a few steps away.

  She typed in the code and, while the computer loaded up, cracked open the bottle of scotch and took a long drink. It wasn�
�t the nicest thing she’d ever put in her mouth, some weird brand she’d never heard of, but it was welcome.

  Once the old PC had settled down, she opened a new browser window and signed into a secure email account. As always there was only one email in the inbox. A saved message from herself that contained a single link. Acid clicked on it and held her breath as the Annihilation Pest Control Portal appeared on screen. She typed in her login details and took another long drink as the egg timer icon appeared and the computer’s fan went into overdrive.

  “Come on, let’s have you,” she whispered at the screen. “Please.”

  Thirty seconds later the recognisable home screen dashboard flashed up, and she relaxed. Her login was still active.

  Working fast, Acid pulled off as many details as she could find – last known whereabouts of each operative, lists of aliases, current GPS co-ordinates. She printed them all off, along with any recent photos she could find. There were eight active operatives, not including herself, and from what she could see they were scattered all over the world. Even Caesar himself was in Thailand. It appeared his new goal, to create a global nomadic assassin network, was being realised.

  Bastard.

  This would be harder than she’d first thought. Doubly so with this heavy despair pressing down on her soul. But she had to press on. Her thirst for revenge was all she had. She gathered together the print-outs and stuffed them into her jacket. Then she logged-off, took another long swig of the scotch and went back to the hotel.

  Forty

  After leaving Acid at Charing Cross station, Spook had wandered the wet streets that ran down the side of the Strand for hours. She was lost, cold, miserable. She cursed Acid Vanilla and Sinclair Whitman, and this Caesar person she’d never even met – but most of all she cursed herself, for ever taking that stupid job with Cerberix Inc.

  Eventually though she’d had the same idea as Acid, and got herself a room for the night in a small hotel over the river in Elephant and Castle. First chance tomorrow she’d buy a plane ticket. Canada, perhaps. Spook had always fancied going to Vancouver and, despite the precariousness of her situation, she felt excited at the prospect. She’d get settled somewhere safe, outside the city, like Acid had suggested. Then she’d set up bulletproof cloaking software and email the recording to as many people as she could. The CIA, FBI, the Cerberix board. A part of her still didn’t believe she could do it. But being with Acid Vanilla these past few days she’d learnt that actions were all that mattered. Fear was something she had to make peace with.

  She woke early the next morning and opened her trusty laptop, ready to move forward with the next stage of her life. So when she logged on to the exasperatingly slow broadband the hotel provided and saw an email from Rory Roberts, she was somewhat troubled.

  Rory had been a classmate of Spook’s at the MIT and she’d had a small crush on him – but the fact he was emailing her wasn’t what made her sit up and pay attention. It was what was written in the subject line:

  WTF! Seen the news on Goldballs? Poor guy (LOL)

  Without taking a breath Spook clicked open the email, seeing a single link in the body, along with a sad-face emoji. Followed by two crying-laughing-face emoji. She clicked on the link. It was a news article from TechWorld News. The headline:

  Silicon Valley Golden Boy Dead After Overdose.

  At the top of the page was a photo of the titular Golden Boy. He was posing with a colourful cocktail on a white sandy beach, looking incredibly smug and self-important. He was also instantly recognisable as Eugene Goldman.

  Spook took a moment to compose herself, then carried on reading. Eugene’s body had been discovered by his housemaid when she arrived for work. He was in bed. With a bottle of pills in his hand. An apparent suicide. The article said he’d been rushed to hospital but was pronounced dead on arrival. The piece then asked a simple question, Why? Why would a man with so much going for him, at the start of an illustrious career, take his own life? Then it went off into conjecture and spin, talking about the pressures of the tech world. Spook read all the way to the end, but she’d stopped taking it in. Her mind was racing.

  She’d been watching Eugene that night. The night of the murder. If they’d flagged her watching Whitman, there was no reason they wouldn’t have checked who else she’d been watching. Or communicating with.

  “Oh, shit. No.”

  Her stomach did cartwheels as she logged onto her Facebook page and scanned her feed. Nothing. Adverts mainly. A few friends sharing motivational quotes, some Star Wars memes. She let out a sigh. It was fine. Her imagination running away with her. But then she clicked over to Kelvin’s page and saw all the messages of condolence, and it felt like her head would pop.

  “Fuck,” she whispered to herself, stretching out the word as far as it would go.

  Her eyes darted around the screen, searching for answers. From what she could tell, Kelvin had been killed at his home. The victim of a robbery gone wrong. They’d taken his laptop, all his tech equipment, then staved his head in with a barbell. Wrong place, wrong time, was the consensus. But Spook knew different. Kelvin and Eugene had been murdered by Annihilation Pest Control. Their deaths paid for by Cerberix Inc.

  Spook slammed her laptop down and punched the wall. Which she immediately regretted. A sharp pain shot into her hand, making her want to punch the wall again. Instead she stood and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was grey, murky. A dense mist hung in the air like a bad odour. Spook leaned against the glass. She had to do something.

  She went back to her laptop and opened the IDE document she’d been working on the last few months, her facial recognition software. It was buggy as hell and she still had to assimilate it with local CCTV footage, but it was possible. She settled down on the bed and crossed her legs in front of the laptop. Spook had impetus now. A reason to make this work. No one else was going to die because of her.

  Forty-One

  Acid Vanilla hadn’t left her room for two days. Maybe longer. She remembered venturing out to buy more drink at one point, plus the chicken burger that sat uneaten on the windowsill. But that was it. She’d spent the rest of the time planning her revenge, drinking, and stripping and cleaning the various firearms she’d brought with her. But mainly drinking.

  Now she sat on the side of the bed with a bottle of something opaque and Polish between her legs and stared at the wall opposite. At the eight photos she’d stuck there. Her ex-colleagues and her mentor all stared back. Her new kill list.

  “Where the hell are you?” she sneered, swaying as she did – the effects of the half-bottle she’d downed since breakfast.

  She shuffled over to the photo of Beowulf Caesar. Even this grainy, black-and-white photo stirred a rage inside her. She took another gulp from the bottle. Looked into his eyes. The problem was, if it had been pure rage she could deal with it. But she had crushing regret in there too. Sorrow. That’s what bothered her the most. She felt let down. The man she’d believed in all these years, and he’d done this.

  Acid moved back to the bed and laid her head on the thin pillow. Her body felt heavy. Her face sagged with the weight of absolutely everything. What else could possibly happen to her? It was as if the whole world was turning against—

  There was a knock on the door.

  Shit.

  Acid froze, hoping whoever it was would get the message. She knew it wasn’t the cleaning staff as she’d paid off the woman on reception, told her not to send anyone in until she’d vacated the room.

  Another knock.

  Acid raised her chin at Caesar’s mug shot. “You?”

  She reached under the bed and grabbed one of the guns she’d gaffer-taped underneath. A Beretta. She checked the clip and put one in the chamber before gliding over to the door. There was no spyhole.

  She froze.

  Listening.

  The knocking went again. Louder now. More urgent. Acid held the gun aloft, her finger tense on the trigger.

  “Who is it?�
�

  “It’s me,” a voice whispered. “It’s Spook.”

  Acid let the gun drop to her side. “Oh piss off,” she rasped.

  “Please, I need to speak with you.”

  “We’ve got nothing to say to each other,” Acid replied. “You should be long gone by now.”

  “I can’t. Not now. I need your help.” She went quiet for a moment, then added, “Can I please come in? So we can talk properly.”

  Acid sighed loudly, making sure Spook could hear it through the door. “Fine. But be quick, I’m working.”

  She unlocked the door and eased it open a touch, poking the gun through the crack and peering out over the barrel.

  “Hey, I told you, it’s me,” Spook cried, stepping back and throwing her arms in the air.

  Acid snapped her head back. “Inside. Quick. You’ve got one minute, then you’re gone. Or I swear to god, I will shoot you.” She opened the door wide and Spook slunk inside.

  Forty-Two

  Once in the room, Spook couldn’t help but pull a face. “This place freaking stinks.” She pulled her jumper over her nose and squinted at the photos on the wall. Then she walked over to the long row of empty bottles on the chest of drawers. “Been having a party, I see.”

  Acid went to the window and cracked it open. Her movements seemed deliberate, over-thought. It was clear she’d been drinking heavily and consistently since Spook last saw her over two days ago. She wore a pair of threadbare black leggings and an old Johnny Thunders shirt with the sleeves cut off.

  “Tell me, what have I done to deserve this delightful visit?”

  There was something different about her. Her hair was wild and greasy, her make-up smeared and worn. But it wasn’t just her appearance that was off.