The Hit List

by Holly Seddon

  At Wimbledon the train wheezes to a stop and sits, vibrating, for an unnecessary amount of time. If someone is watching me, they’re hiding well. I tear both tips of my thumbnails off with my teeth then start to bite away at the flesh around my other nails. The varnish I’ve just scraped with my teeth is bitter on my tongue.

  By the time we arrive at Waterloo, my fingertips are raw and throbbing. I pace in circles by the train door, then jab repeatedly at the button until it finally lights up. The doors creak open. It’s nearly five o’clock and I’m thrusting myself into a main London station just as commuters start to pour in for their journeys home. They move in one slow mass like tipped jelly as I elbow through them.

  My unregistered Oyster card is barely used these days and it’s taken my last credit to get here. I tap out of the barriers, wondering if I should top it up now or after. But after what?

  As I look for the right exit, I see other women my age looking around or distractedly staring at phones. I see a man in his fifties close to tears. Are they in the same situation? On the run, living lies? Ripe for manipulation?

  E-Z Luggage & Lockers is not in the station itself; it’s not even attached to the station. I have to follow a complex pathway of arches and turns, using my phone map to navigate. There is nothing very ‘E-Z’ about this place and my nerves have frayed to snapping point by the time I see the sign.

  It sits under an archway, two stinking wheelie bins on either side of the doorway. At first I think the storefront is made from smoked privacy glass but as I get closer, I realise it’s thick with dirt.

  Inside, the carpet is balding and the smell of smoke and coffee lingers in lieu of staff behind the counter. Lockers of every size fill the walls but at first I can’t find number 49 in the sea of grey metal. Behind me, a lad of around Joe’s age strolls out from the back and leans on the counter.

  ‘Number forty-nine?’ I ask, trying to sound normal.

  He rolls his eyes, points to one of the larger lockers and then disappears back to his cigarettes. He’s nothing like Joe.

  *

  My fingers tap out the key code automatically – Joe’s date of birth, a staple part of most of my passwords since he was tiny. A stupid, complacent choice. How did they know? And what else have they gained access to?

  The door opens and I’m staring into an empty locker. My heart pounds, is this a prank? Has someone from back then tracked me down, determined to pull me back in? Are they coming to take me? Surely I have no value to them now – they were paid off years ago by Steve. And any ‘value’ we have now is Steve’s, not mine. The house, the business, the cars.

  I sit down heavily on the ground next to the locker, my knees clicking as I fold in two. Steve is a good man who tried to do the right thing. And now I’m calculating his worth from the point of view of a blackmailer. He doesn’t deserve this. Our nuclear family is developing a dangerous half-life.

  I’m about to give up, unsure what the hell to do next, when I see it. An unmarked manila envelope at the back. I reach in, open it hurriedly before the boy comes back for another sneer.

  Inside is a stack of gift cards for Electronic Superstore. This makes no sense, why would someone blackmail me but then give me something? I turn the envelope up and shake it. There are no instructions inside but a tiny black rectangle slides out. A SIM card.

  I stuff everything back inside the envelope and shove it into my handbag. Then I stand up to leave as elegantly as I can manage. As I burst out into the relatively fresh air of Pear Place, I brush my trousers off. Tiny fragments of carpet remain, like DNA.

  I bring my phone screen to life to check train times home and see that I have an unread email.

  Put the SIM card in your phone, download the Whispa app and use the same key code as before to access. It will only work when the correct SIM is in your device. All communication will take place there from now on. It is encrypted end to end to keep all parties safe – do not contact us any other way.

  I lean against the brick archway, traffic rumbling nearby. Despite the muggy weather, it’s started to drizzle and my hands are slippery. It takes several attempts with the spike of my earring to open the SIM tray. I put my own SIM card into the zipped pocket of my handbag and then insert the plain black SIM into the tray, closing it furtively. I feel like a sitting duck, waiting to be caught red-handed.

  I find and download Whispa from the App Store while I walk back towards Waterloo Station, unsure if I should be getting on a train or whether there will be other lockers, gift cards to collect all around the city. What the hell am I doing?

  London still belongs to that other girl, the one I was. Wide-eyed and hopeful despite everything and everyone I’d left behind. I was still a teenager when I arrived, believing somehow that this city would offer a new start, a bigger life. So I took a leap of faith back then, knowing I had no other option, and I landed hard. I soon found that young women like me were simply a commodity.

  An overwhelming urge to cry wells up and I push it back down. I need to stay sharp, I know that much. I walk into Starbucks and join a queue, buying myself time and a seat as well as a coffee. By the time my latte is ready, the app has downloaded. I enter the key code and open it up.

  One new message.

  Greg

  Sunday, 16 June 2019

  Despite nerves churning in his belly every time he thinks of Ana, Greg and Marianne have had a nice weekend.

  Yesterday, they’d gone to Kew Gardens, breathing in nature. Then they’d bought fat field mushrooms, thick spicy sausages and fresh pasta from a fancy food store. Greg had cooked it all with hot chillies and almost too much garlic, while Marianne sat on the counter nearby, swinging her legs in pyjamas and reading her book.

  This morning, they’d slept in and then decamped to Victoria Park to squint at the paper through the sunshine and eat lunch at the Pavilion café. Look at us, he wanted to shout at the young lovers warming themselves in the sun, we’re just like you. After all this time, she’s still my favourite.

  He crawled across the grass to lay his head in her lap, sinking into her flesh like a memory. Something ancient and hard to reach. Childhood and his mother. Or Jenna. School summers, locked away.

  This afternoon, they’d had sex on the sofa as if nothing bad had ever happened.

  As he cooks dinner now, he looks out at his wife in the lounge, one leg tucked under her in her corner of the sofa, breasts loose under an old T-shirt. A body he knows so well, a brain he can never fully unlock. A lifelong challenge he’d relished on their wedding day. Better that than boring.

  Ouch! Fuck!

  He’s stared too long and burnt his fingers on hot oil. He nurses the little red welts, sucking his fingers.

  As the sun goes down, she packs her things for school the next day and kisses him goodnight. ‘I’ll be in soon,’ he murmurs, reaching to stroke her hip as she stands over him. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Always,’ she says, shuffling into the bathroom to brush her teeth.

  *

  She’ll be asleep now. There’s no sound from the bedroom and the door is pulled to, the light off. He is conscious of his fingers on the keyboard, every tap ringing out in the silence. But she rarely stirs when she’s asleep. He’s both impressed and envious.

  As promised, Ana has apparently been traced and her information is waiting for him. Everything he asked for. Plus a video clip. How have they done this? This kind of black magic is beyond the grasp of his understanding.

  He writes down all the details in his notepad and then checks the sound is off on his laptop, casts an eye at the bedroom door and clicks play.

  *

  It’s certainly not Hollywood. Nor is it a scripted, cheesy porno. This is something rougher, uglier. At first Greg can’t make sense of what he’s seeing. Like watching one half of a Skype conversation, a static image of a face filling the screen. One camera angle only, catching a small mirror over the bed that reflects a flimsy wardrobe in the corner.

  Then it c
omes to life. And it all becomes clear. This is saved footage from a live stream, pay per view perhaps or the shared spoils of a small network. She is alone, at first. Those same sad grey eyes that had looked up at him in their meeting room, now pretending to be lust-filled and wanting. Painful to watch.

  A man enters the room, his face blurred. Greg watches until he cannot.

  It’s her, that’s the important thing.

  Now he can use the address he’s been given to find her, and try to forget what he’s just seen.

  *

  Tuesday, 18 June 2019

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t tell you,’ he says. ‘I can’t reveal my sources.’

  Eloise, patient, sane, grown-up Eloise, slaps her hand on the desk. ‘For fuck’s sake, Greg, this isn’t how we do things.’

  He can feel the gaze of his colleagues and colours red. Well, what are you lot doing? he thinks. At least I’m making a difference, not just treading water.

  ‘She’s out of there, isn’t she?’ he says, quietly.

  Eloise breathes deeply. ‘Yes, but at what—’

  ‘And she’s not dead like her sister,’ he snaps. More angrily than he intended. Twisted images of that wardrobe, that mirror. The place they found her in yesterday. The way she had clung to him, almost animal-like in her fear.

  He doesn’t care what Eloise says, doesn’t care how much it costs him. He plans to use that Hacker Supermarket service again, and again, and again.

  In the work loo, he washes his face in the mirror and smiles as the water drips from his nose. Finally he’s making headway. To hell with the risks.

  Samantha

  Monday, 17 June 2019

  Is this for real? I look around the dark archway, the sounds of trains thundering in and out of Waterloo just behind me. I stare at the dirty bricks and rowdy pigeons as if they might help me decipher this. I’m reminded still of that much younger me, eyes acclimatising to the tight, dirty bricks of London. The knotty little streets and mismatched houses, the bird shit everywhere.

  At first my eyes had been wide and full of wonder. And then I met Cristina, my first and only real friend here. Her own eyes had matched mine but were just a slight shade darker, more jaded. She’d arrived earlier, had experienced rougher treatment. She schooled me in the realities of my situation and helped me to stay safe. I wish she was here now.

  I look again at the message on this strange app.

  I’ve never used anything like this. Social media is far too much of a risk. I have a closed and careful circle, my family and my fair-weather friends at the charity; being able to call or email is enough. This new world carries a steep learning curve.

  There is only one contact in this app, ‘A Friend’, and just this one message. At the top of it is a shopping list. I count twenty items: various mobile phones and tablets totalling thousands of pounds. I read on, trying to make sense of it.

  In your envelope you have twenty gift cards. Each one is worth £1000. Do not buy more than one item from any one store. Destroy all your receipts but retain the gift cards.

  You have 48 hours to buy every item on this list, no excuses. Place the items and the gift cards in a locker at another London branch of E-Z Luggage & Lockers. Send the branch address, locker number and key code to us through this app.

  If you are late or do not follow these instructions exactly, you know what will happen.

  Confirm receipt of this message.

  Do not tell anyone about this.

  Your 48 hours starts now.

  *

  My train home is loaded with commuters, drizzle-damp rising from their clothes as they twist and squat, fitting themselves in like Tetris pieces. I feel numb, sitting amongst these real humans like an alien. It’s not a new feeling, but it hasn’t been so acute in years.

  The journey feels sped up, a rollercoaster compared to the one that brought me to the city earlier. I think of that me, the one I was just a few hours ago, scrabbling at the door. Frantic, desperate, my toes poking over the edge of an unknown ravine. I didn’t know what awaited me, I didn’t know what I would find. And actually, I thought it would be worse.

  Now I feel calm.

  I’ve decided that I can do this. I will do this. Buying a few things, putting them in a locker. To do something so simple, that will keep me here with Joe? Of course I can do this for Joe. And really, I can do this for myself. Because I cannot be parted from him any more than he can be parted from me. And I sure as hell can’t go back.

  Outside, the last entrails of London have given way to the first sprigs of Surrey. The people who get off at these stops look like me but they’re not me. I’m sure none of them are carrying what must be stolen goods and secret SIM cards.

  I reply to the Whispa message with just one word: ‘OK.’

  I put my own SIM card back in the tray, tuck the new one behind my phone case where it sits throbbing like a black heart.

  A text from Paula comes through asking if I’m really OK. ‘You didn’t seem yourself last night,’ she says. I need to work on my mask, I think, as I reply chattily.

  *

  I pick at my dinner, while trying to reassure Steve. I can tell his feelings are hurt – he takes so much pride in his cooking – and he pushes his own plate away without saying anything. I mumble apologetically about another headache.

  ‘Are you OK? You’re getting a lot of headaches,’ Steve says as I leave the kitchen. ‘Maybe we should …’ He stops. Going to the doctor is out of the question, and he knows it.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, trying to smile reassuringly. ‘I think it’s this sticky weather. I need to drink more water.’

  In bed, I switch SIMs to look at the list again, copying it carefully onto a note on my phone before putting my own SIM back in.

  Twenty items in forty-eight hours, buying from a different Electronics Superstore each time. Of course there’s not forty-eight hours now; it’s more like forty-three hours. And I’ll lose more hours overnight. Then I need to get to a different locker place. And how many stores does Electronics Superstore even have? The calm acceptance I felt on the train has given away to something very different. Have I signed up to an impossible task? What have I done?

  I hear Joe shutting the front door as he comes home. He’s so delicate for his size but he can never quite get it to click quietly enough. I still listen out for his click, not fully sleeping until I hear him return. Even after all these years, I’m still on high alert. The same panic that someone else will scoop him up at school home-time, or grab him on an errand to the shop.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ I hear him ask his dad on the landing.

  ‘Not at all,’ Steve lies and I can’t help but smile.

  Joe’s getting back from rowing practice and normally I’d sit with him and talk it over. A herbal tea for me, an orange juice for him. But I can’t bear to see his face. No, that’s not true. I just can’t bear to show him mine.

  There are forty-seven Electronics Superstores across the UK, the twenty nearest ones are still scattered over an area of several hundred miles. My heartbeat cranks up again but I close my eyes and breathe. I can do this.

  Organisation has always been my strength, along with staying calm and thinking clearly. I take after my dad like that, and he groomed me to take his place for that reason.

  I close my eyes and try to focus.

  After a few hours checking opening times, road closures and routes, I have the most efficient itinerary for visiting the stores. Rather than visit the twenty nearest, I will visit ten heading in a north-west then north-east direction – an arc to the left of London. Then I will mirror this route by heading south-east then south-west, tracing my way back to end in East London. I should have all twenty items before closing time and be able to get them into the E-Z Luggage & Lockers near City Airport. I’ll be well ahead of schedule and, I hope, free from this. Just do this one thing, that’s what they said.

  The first store on the list opens at 7 a.m. so I set my alarm for 6 a.m.,
swallow some melatonin so I know I’ll sleep and switch off the light. My lids are heavy but my mind is whirling through a non-stop replay of the last few days.

  Just as I finally feel sleepy, my door opens suddenly. Steve is hovering there in his pyjamas.

  ‘Sorry, love, I know you’re not feeling well but I need you in the Reigate store tomorrow,’ he says. ‘They’ve all gone down with gastric flu.’

  Greg

  Wednesday, 19 June 2019

  In his notepad, Greg has a hastily scrawled list of girls to try to find through the Hacker Supermarket. He doesn’t have much money, but maybe he could scratch up some more. All of the names on his list have been sucked back into exploitation, most of it sexual. They need to be found.

  Marianne has spread a layer of paper and card over the table, bits spilling over. ‘Year Seven,’ she says as she sees him looking. ‘Posters about the Black Death.’

  ‘Nice,’ he says, flipping open his screen as he sits in his corner of the sofa. ‘Let me know if you find out how it started.’ She smiles.

  It takes a while to get on tonight but he’s left the Hacker Supermarket open from last time and toggles straight to it. To hell with all those wannabes and their grand plans, this is real activism, making a difference on the ground.

  He opens his messages, wonders if he should just email or go through the whole process the same as last time.

  One new message.

  Greg Darrow,

  We can help you save many more girls than Ana. All we need is one healthy young woman a month, who fits certain criteria, and in exchange she will receive a life-changing sum of money and you will receive an address filled with more girls ready to be saved. What do you say? It’s win–win, right?

  He stares at the screen. They want him to provide women in exchange for being able to help more women? What?

  He writes back: ‘I’m sorry but I don’t understand. What do you need one woman a month for? And what criteria are you looking for?’