Take a Life

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘No, it’s definitely not,’ I said.

  ‘You look heaps like him,’ she said.

  I took my tray to a table that was as close as possible to the hospital. The burger was greasy and salty and weirdly sweet: it was crazy delicious. As I opened ClamTop I noticed that the nerd of the Asian variety at a nearby table was showing an unhealthy amount of interest in me and my hardware.

  I considered changing tables, but figured that would look suspicious: what did I have to hide? Instead I shifted around a bit, so the inquisitive nerd didn’t have such a good view, and I got to work.

  The hospital wi-fi was there for all to see. Getting into it was a different matter, however; it was pretty secure and the little devil had to do quite a lot of dancing before it was cracked. Once cracked, I was able to move around freely, and with a major hospital, there was a lot to move around in.

  It took me a while to get my bearings, but eventually I found the security centre, the place where all the CCTV feeds ended up. And, boy, was there a lot of them! But I managed to find those that I was interested in, that would track my entrance into the children’s wing, to the ward where Brandon was, and into his room.

  I didn’t mind being seen on CCTV, there wasn’t much I could do about that anyway, but what I needed to do was stop that footage ending up on a hard disk. This was very taxing work; my focus was completely on ClamTop, and I didn’t realise that there was somebody standing behind my shoulder. And when that person said, ‘What sort of laptop is that?’ I practically jumped out of my cheap plastic seat.

  It was the Asian nerd, of course.

  ‘Is it Linux operating system?’ he said.

  I didn’t want to appear to be racist, or nerdist, but I had to get him away from here really quickly.

  ‘Please go away,’ I said as politely as I could.

  He stayed where he was.

  ‘If you don’t go now, I’m probably going to have to punch you in the face,’ I said.

  This time, he did move back to his seat, a shocked look on his face. He was immediately on his phone, though, and I was worried he was calling in reinforcements, further nerds, swarms of them, who would overpower me to get to ClamTop.

  I couldn’t get too caught up with him, however, because I had to concentrate on the hospital. I figured that I had two options. I could get back into the system after I’d been into the hospital, get into the video files, and edit me out of them. Or I could make sure I never got into the files in the first place.

  The first option seemed simpler, but I had the feeling that as soon as I’d accomplished my mission I was going to want to hightail it like hell out of there.

  The second option was the better one.

  I didn’t want to stop the feed saving to the hard disk completely because that would’ve looked suspicious, but I worked out that I needed a window in which to get through the hospital, from the first CCTV camera to the last CCTV camera.

  Though these cameras themselves were pretty dumb – they just looked – the software that controlled them was very sophisticated, and had many different functions. I went through all the dropdown menus, looking for something I could use. And on the last one, there it was: ‘activity scheduler’.

  From there it was surprisingly easy, and I kept thinking that I must be forgetting something. I entered a start time, when the camera stopped saving its data to the hard disk, allowing myself ten minutes to get to the hospital from here. The end time, when the data began recording again, was tricky. I wanted to allow myself enough time to get everything done, but I also didn’t want it to look too suspicious; I decided on half an hour.

  By the time I’d done that for each of the cameras, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. But then I looked over at the nerd’s table. I’d been right about the reinforcements; there were about five of them sitting there, glaring at me. They were all Asian, but not all of them were so nerdish – a couple looked like they spent serious time in the gym.

  So when I’d finally finished I wasted no time in packing away ClamTop and getting out of there. Though it was night, this area was well lit – lots of streetlights. I looked behind; they were following me! My attempt at anonymity was anything but; I now had five people clocking my every move.

  What had I been thinking, threatening him like that? Just because violence, or the threat of violence, had worked for me in the past, that didn’t mean it would work all the time.

  Hell!

  Now I wished my former employer Hound had given me some on-the-job training, especially in the how-to-lose-a-tail department.

  It didn’t seem as if I had any choice, so I ran. When I say ran, I mean I Usain Bolt-ed out of there. And the nerds had no chance; a couple tried to keep up, but it only took me a few minutes to lose them.

  Now, I had to do a complete circuit and come around to the back of the hospital again. I checked my watch; my ten-minute window of time was fast closing.

  And if this plan didn’t work. I didn’t really have a backup one.

  Back at the entrance again, and I got past the first CCTV camera with a few minutes to spare, before it started recording to the hard disk. I half-walked, half-ran, and passed the second one okay.

  Lift time.

  There were a lot of lifts, maybe eight, and catching one would not normally be too much of a problem. Tonight, however, it was.

  What is the name of the law that says if anything can go wrong it will? Sod’s law – that’s it! Well, Professor Sod was spot on, and that zen-centred feeling I’d had before, well, it was gone – my brain was buzzing, my heart was banging against my rib cage.

  Finally – at last! – a lift opened its jaws. There were only two people in it, but one of those people was on a bed on wheels, and the other was one of those funky orderlies with tribal tatts and creative hair. There was really no room in the lift, but I went to get into it anyway.

  ‘Hey, man,’ said Funky Orderly. ‘We’re already a bit squeezy in here.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, finding some room, hitting the close-doors button. The doors closed, and I hit the level 4 button.

  ‘So, what’s the big rush?’

  ‘Somebody I know is dying,’ I said.

  ‘Bummer, man,’ he said, and I couldn’t have agreed more.

  The lift clanked upwards.

  Funky Orderly was now up for a chat. ‘So what ward is your mate in?’ he said. ‘I might know him.’ Hell! Professor Sod got it right again.

  I resorted to the old phone trick.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I have to get this.’ I answered the imaginary caller, ‘Yes, Mom. Yes, I’m aware of that.’ I kept it going until the lift reached level 4 and the jaws opened again.

  Just as I was stepping out, Funky Orderly said, ‘Lovely work there, mate. There is no reception in these lifts.’

  I walked past the third CCTV camera and I’d made it, five seconds within the timeframe. Past the ward desk, or whatever it’s called, where a red-haired nurse was writing in a file. I just strolled past, trying not to look as if I didn’t belong here, not making eye contact. Past the last camera, and I’d made it: if my hacking had worked, and I didn’t see why it wouldn’t have, I was here, and I was not here.

  I pushed open the door to Brandon’s room. There was a woman sitting in there; a scarf covered her head.

  Wrong room, I thought. Brandon doesn’t get visitors except for PJ; Brandon’s a street kid. My eyes shifted from the woman to the bed. No, it was Brandon’s room alright, because there was Brandon.

  Before I could make a retreat the woman said, ‘Hello, do you know Brandon?’

  I didn’t know what to say. If I didn’t know him, then what was I doing here?

  ‘Yes,’ I said, keeping my answer as brief as possible.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Lovely that he’s got friends.’

  No reply. Keep it brief. I checked my watch; my window for this camera was closing, I had less than ten minutes left.

  I hadn’t moved f
rom my position in the doorway, and the woman shifted in her seat. I supposed it was to get a better look at me. But I also got a better look at her.

  She was about my mum’s age, I guessed, but what struck me most about her was who she looked like: PJ. The same manga comic features.

  I couldn’t help myself, I stopped keeping it brief, and I said, ‘You’re PJ’s mother?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Though I know her better as Polly.’

  Polly? No wonder she called herself PJ.

  ‘And you’re Brandon’s mother?’ I said, somewhat redundantly.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘My name’s Pat.’

  You don’t think of street kids as having mothers, even though PJ had told me once that hers had a Leaning Tower of Pisa statue on her dressing table. But here she was in the maternal flesh and maternal blood.

  ‘So how’s he doing?’ I said.

  She shook her head, and dabbed at her eyes with a wad of tissue. ‘You didn’t say what your name was.’

  ‘Tristan,’ I said, the first name that came into my head.

  I checked my watch. Eight minutes and twenty seconds left.

  For a few seconds my mind was completely blank – my meticulously worked-out plan had been derailed and I didn’t know how to get it back on track. But then it came to me, what I had to do: there were no options, I had to get this mother away from her dying son.

  Dom, you are evil.

  Yes, I am evil.

  Because if I failed, they would have their pound of my flesh.

  I took out ClamTop.

  ‘You young people,’ she said in a friendly sort of way. ‘You can’t do without your computers, can you?’

  And I did what I had to do, setting the hospital’s alarm to go off in a minute.

  A minute can be a very long time.

  Say something, Dom. Anything.

  ‘So you used to have a little statue of the Leaning Tower of Pisa on your dressing table?’

  ‘How in blazes did you know that?’ she said. ‘Did Polly tell you?’

  I hadn’t given much thought to what PJ and Brandon’s parents would be like – why would I? They were street kids, and that’s one of the distinguishing characteristics of a street kid: lack of parents. But I guess you make all sort of assumptions. I mean, why would a kid leave home and live rough unless their parents were useless, or violent, or no-hope junkies? But Pat didn’t seem to be any of these.

  Again, I couldn’t help myself, I had to ask her. ‘Do you mind if I ask a question?’

  ‘You’re going to ask me why my kids left home, aren’t you?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  ‘They did the right thing,’ she said. ‘You see, I got mixed up with this fella, and basically he was no good. They knew from day one, the way kids do, but it took me a bit longer to find out.’ Again, she dabbed at her eyes with the sodden tissue.

  One of the machines that was connected to Brandon beeped.

  ‘Maybe I should call a nurse,’ said Pat.

  Then the siren went.

  I think Pat thought that again it was coming from the machine, because her eyes were wide with terror; what did such a big noise mean?

  ‘That’s the evacuation bell,’ I said. ‘We have to get out of here.’

  ‘But Brandon?’

  ‘I think if it’s serious, they’ll come and get him.’

  Pat seemed unconvinced, so I said, ‘Come on, we better go.’ I placed my hand lightly on her elbow and helped her to her feet. And then we walked down the corridor together.

  Two nurses appeared alongside us. ‘I wouldn’t be too concerned,’ one of them said. ‘That stupid alarm goes off all the time.’

  When we reached the open lift, I stepped inside with Pat. But just as the doors were about to close, I jammed my arm between them, forcing them open.

  ‘I forgot something,’ I said.

  I hurried back along the corridor.

  Hurried into Brandon’s room.

  I checked my watch: I had thirty seconds left.

  I looked at him, his face so thin, so white, the bandages around his wrists, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.

  I took out my iPhone, put it into video mode.

  Now all I had to do was take a life.

  SATURDAY

  SOD’S LAW

  Sod’s law said there was going to be somebody in the alley.

  But it was as dark and deserted as when I’d come, not even a rat to observe me removing the grate and disappearing back into the subterranean world I was getting to know so well. I put my headlamp back on, put the gloves back on, and began my journey home.

  Considering what I’d just done, I felt very little at all: thoughts entered my head, but I paid them absolutely no attention, and they just wandered out again. It was the physical that I was more concerned with, that rhythmic shuffle back along the tunnel.

  I wasn’t in a great hurry; as far as the world was concerned, the part that mattered anyway, the part that could lock you up in jail, I hadn’t moved from my bedroom all night. Why rush to get to someplace if you’re already there?

  I reached the first sump, stopped, had a drink of water. I reached the second sump, stopped, ate a Snickers bar. By the time I reached Halcyon Grove, pushing up one final grate, emerging into one of the Coast’s most secure addresses, it was past one o’clock.

  Immediately, I knew something was wrong.

  Don’t ask me how, but I knew.

  A hundred per cent, I knew.

  I remembered what Samsoni had said about the perimeter security being compromised. There was somebody inside the walls who shouldn’t be here. I took off, running for Samsoni’s box. The light was on, but I couldn’t see him.

  I looked inside; Samsoni was slumped on the floor.

  Dead?

  I dug my fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse.

  I found it easily – strong and regular. He was alive – thank heavens. I thought about ringing triple-O, but I knew how much time that could take. I knew that they wouldn’t believe me.

  He stirred, opening his eyes.

  ‘You okay?’ I said. He nodded. So I kept moving, ninja-ing towards my house.

  Past Imogen’s house. Was she in danger? Should I warn her?

  No, that didn’t make sense. I kept going.

  Gus – was he in danger? Maybe, but Gus was a tough old bugger.

  I hurried up the drive to our house; not one light was on. That was unusual; my parents always kept at least one light burning.

  I was in the right place.

  I tried the front door; it was locked. I took out my key, inserted it, turned it as gently as I could. There was the tiniest of clicks as the door opened, and I slipped inside.

  I stood absolutely still, and I listened. The only sounds I could hear – the hum of the fridge, the burble of the aquarium – were innocent ones. I kept moving, towards the staircase.

  As far as keeping quiet, I had an advantage here; because of all those mornings I’d sneaked out of the house as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb my sleeping family, I knew where every creaky floorboard was.

  Up the stairs. Along the passage.

  Miranda’s door.

  I turned the handle, opening the door enough so that I could see that she was in bed, asleep, safe. I kept going.

  Toby’s door.

  I did the same. He, too, was in bed, asleep, safe.

  My parents’ room.

  My hand on the handle.

  I was about to turn it when I had another idea: there was another, less conspicuous way into their room. One us kids had used a lot when we’d been in our sneak-a-look-at-our-parents’-stuff phase.

  Along the passage, and into the storage room, and there was a door that led into their walk-in wardrobe. I slid open the sliding door, just a fraction.

  And another.

  It was the slightest of cracks, but enough to see the two shapes, my dad, my mum, as
they slept in their canopied bed. Relief – they were okay.

  It occurred to me that maybe I had this wrong, that this sixth sense was nothing of the kind; I was just on edge after what had happened tonight.

  Wait, I ordered myself.

  Wait.

  The curtain to the side of their bed moved.

  And moved some more.

  And there was a person there, dressed in black, a balaclava covering his face, with some weird contraption on his head. It was so strange, so unexpected, I almost laughed.

  But then he moved to the bed, and his hand came up, and something in it glinted.

  ‘Dad!’ I screamed, bursting out from between the sliding doors.

  The knife came down, and Dad’s eyes were open. He threw up his arm and the knife sliced into his hand.

  But the knife came up again and came down again. Again, the steel plunged into flesh.

  Dad screamed, and I could see blood.

  Mom woke, screaming.

  The knife came up again, and I knew that this time the aim would be better.

  I launched myself at the intruder, my shoulder catching his chest. We both hit the floor, but the knife was still in his hand. He held it to his chest, and immediately I could see what he intended to do.

  A backhand jab would get me in the heart.

  But as his arm came towards me, my hand came down on his, knocking the knife from his grasp. That’s it, I thought.

  But his hand reached into his belt and came out with another knife. I reached around, grabbed the handle of the first knife.

  Dad lay on the bed, moaning.

  Mom was screaming; there was blood on her face.

  The intruder and I were both on our feet, crouching.

  ‘Just go,’ I said, waving the knife at him. ‘Get out of here.’

  He came at me low. I thought of my time in Rome, those fights I’d had in the Colosseum and in San Luca. I thought of what I’d done right and what I’d done wrong.