Stone Game

by J. D. Weston

  They'd spent a few days in Kent, and then a week in the Lake District, just walking and eating glorified pub food. Then they'd driven their camper over to the East Coast, and made their way down to Norfolk for another week, just enjoying the peace and quiet. Little Easton had been their next stop, and Dunmow, the village where Melody had grown up.

  He was pleased to see her so relaxed and happy, which in itself, was a strange feeling for Harvey. Enjoying someone else's happiness was an odd sensation for him. He'd never been selfish, and deep down his moral compass was set true, but he'd never been close enough to someone to enjoy their happiness.

  He was slowly coming around to the idea of being married. He still needed to officially propose, according to Melody. They'd discussed getting married briefly at the beach by their home in the south of France, and although he hadn't got down on one knee and proposed, Melody had seemed excited at the prospect.

  Harvey had thought before about being married, and now for the first time in his life, he didn't have any objections. Married life would offer stability, some semblance of normality, which was a far cry to what Harvey's life had been so far. Maybe it was too much to ask, he thought. Maybe he'd done so many bad things that even marriage wouldn't bring a normal life, peace and quiet. It was almost immediately after they had been discussing the idea on the beach in France that they'd been approached by a man neither of them had seen before. The man had been serious when he'd offered Harvey work. He'd said that a man with Harvey's skills was hard to find.

  Harvey had turned down the offer. He'd been lucky to live as long as he had, given the situations he'd found himself in. Harvey had spent most of his life taking people out for his criminal foster father. It wasn't something he was proud of but he wasn't ashamed either. He'd killed more people than he remembered, and was grateful for the fact that he couldn't remember them. During his training, Harvey had honed his skills on the lowest members of society, paedophiles and sex offenders mostly. People that wouldn't be missed.

  For much of Harvey's life, he'd sought the men that had raped and killed his sister, Hannah, when they'd been young. The sex offenders he murdered were his way of offering some kind closure to Hannah, and the countless other girls that had been assaulted, had their families destroyed and suffered so severely. But once he'd eventually found Hannah's rapists, the need to target society's scum had ceased. Harvey had been able to move on, knowing that Hannah's memory could live in peace, even if she couldn't, and there was no longer a dark shadow hanging over her.

  But recently, he'd been having dreams.

  That's where the urges used to start, the urge to deliver suffering to those who deserved it. When the dreams started, Harvey would begin his hunt for a target. The internet had made it easier to find them. Offenders leaving prison or awaiting trial were easy targets. Old newspapers online or in libraries would give Harvey their backstories. Once he'd found a target worthy of suffering, he'd spend weeks researching them, following them, identifying their patterns and building a plan.

  He stood on the bridge looking over the lake. Large carp swam close to the water's surface, and the geese and ducks swam around them. He didn't want to start killing again, but the dreams were overbearing. They weren't too bad in the early stages, but if he didn't satisfy his urges, the dreams slowly became more intense until it was all he could think about.

  He stared down at Boon who was watching the geese with a hunter's eye.

  "How am I going to do it, boy?" he asked the dog. "How am I going to lead a normal life?"

  Boon didn't respond. He didn't even look up at his master. The geese were far more interesting.

  Harvey leaned on the side of the bridge and pulled a piece of wild grass that was growing close to his hand. He rolled it in his fingers mindlessly then flicked the little green ball into the water. The geese and ducks saw the movement and darted across to it, but a fish plucked it from the surface before they reached it. They were all too used to being hand fed, thought Harvey.

  "Penny for them," said Melody as she approached the pair on the bridge.

  Harvey turned sharply to her, snatched from deep thought.

  "They're not worth a penny," he replied.

  "What do you mean you're getting alerts, Tenant?" said Jackson. "You need to slow down and start making sense. You're running operations downstairs, and if the team see you flapping like this, you're going to lose your credibility. You need to stay strong."

  Reg Tenant shuffled his feet.

  "It was the old team, sir," he began.

  "You mean Frank's team?" asked Jackson, long since bored of dealing with the repercussions of a dark ops team that he'd helped bring to a close.

  "Yes, well, as you know, we were unofficially dark ops, and well, we did a lot of stuff that was very unofficial and-"

  "Not quite legitimate?" suggested Jackson. "Is that what you're trying to say, Tenant? You did things that bent the rules, but it was overlooked because the results were good. Am I right?"

  "Yes, sir. We did what we had to."

  "Tenant, I have a file on you all as thick as the Yellow Pages. I can assure you that everything you lot got up to was recorded and is safely tucked away. I personally refer to the files quite frequently so I wouldn't worry yourself about the records. But..." He pointed his index finger upwards. "I think we both know that Harvey Stone bent the rules a little more than most, and if someone were to look him up, it would probably raise a few eyebrows and take some explaining on his behalf."

  "But, sir," said Reg, "that's just it. I knew the data was stored in a database so I ran some plugins that would send me alerts every time one of our names shows up in a search result."

  Jackson cocked his head and began to listen intently.

  He was sat at his desk in his office in the Secret Intelligence Services building on London's Southbank and was responsible for a small covert operations team. He'd been recently promoted, which let Reg step up into Jackson's old role and run the operations as a team leader. Jackson merely steered the ship from the lofty heights of his office.

  "I started receiving alerts, sir. Information was being pulled out about Harvey and what he did before he joined the team."

  "Ah yes, Frank's data."

  "Sir?"

  "When your previous boss, Frank Carver, was 'killed in action' shall we say,” Jackson gestured inverted commas to accompany his statement, "we found the information on his laptop to be..." He searched for the right words. "Potentially useful."

  "It was you who stored it, sir?"

  "It was, Tenant. It was a department laptop, and the data was taken for analysis when Frank died."

  "But now someone has found it, sir," said Reg. "Does that mean that Harvey will-"

  "Get into trouble?" asked Jackson. "No, Tenant. Frank wasn't completely inept. He secured full exoneration for your friend Harvey Stone. But I must say, the charges would have been severe. Stone would be looking at something like two to three hundred years imprisonment."

  "He's been cleared, sir?"

  "Exonerated, Tenant," corrected Jackson. "I dare say some would have called to bring back the death penalty had the knowledge been made public."

  "But nothing was proven, sir. Is that right? Besides, he even helped you get your promotion, didn't he?"

  Jackson glared at Reg. He sat forward in his chair, raised his finger and lowered his voice.

  "If you ever mention that incident again, Tenant," he said, "to me or especially to anybody else, it'll be the last thing you do in this organisation. Just forget any of it ever happened."

  Reg took a step back.

  "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to bring it up."

  "It was all based on Carver's notes," said Jackson, moving the conversation forward. "It was what he used to persuade Stone to join the team in the first place."

  "The noose," said Reg under his breath.

  "The what, Tenant?"

  "Oh, err, nothing, sir. Thank you. Sorry to have troubled you." Reg turned
and started towards the door. "One more thing, sir."

  "Go on," said Jackson, leaning back in his chair and rolling a pen between his fingers.

  "So, who would be looking for Harvey? Why would his name come up in a search? It's a secure database, even I can't access it directly."

  Jackson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Your friend Stone, Tenant," began Jackson, "upset quite a few people during his time with the force, even as an unofficial member of an unofficial team. He was wreaking havoc, as you know, and behind the scenes, Frank Carver was the puppet master pulling on every string he could find to stop Stone being carted away."

  "Frank was helping him?" asked Reg.

  "He was," said Jackson. "And once the exoneration was in place, there was little anyone could do but wait for him to do something else."

  "That's entrapment, isn't it?" asked Reg.

  "Not entrapment, Tenant," said Jackson. "He wasn't led into a situation where we knew what crimes he would commit. But we did know he would commit a crime eventually."

  "But he's not in any trouble now, sir?"

  "You're fond of him, aren't you?"

  "He saved my life, sir. He saved all our lives on several occasions. But mostly, it's Melody, his-"

  "Ah, Mills, yes," said Jackson. "She's a good friend?"

  "She's the best, sir. I just worry for her. If Harvey is being investigated then she might be in trouble too."

  "Reg," said Jackson, "I can assure you that, to my knowledge, Harvey Stone is not being investigated. It's probably just a random result. You're seeing them soon, aren't you? Did I hear you mention that a while ago?"

  "Yes, sir. We're having dinner, the four of us."

  "That'll be nice. Send my regards, won't you?"

  "I will, sir." Reg opened the door and took a step. "Oh, and sir?"

  Jackson raised his eyebrows.

  "Thank you, sir."

  3

  Small Sacrifice

  "You can't stay in your cell all day, Tyson," said Prison Officer Grant. "Get yourself down to the showers and clean up. You don't want your poor old dear smelling you like that."

  "I'm okay, thank you, sir," replied Tyson. "I'd like to carry on reading my book."

  "Tyson, I don't think you heard me. Get yourself down for a shower. It wasn't an invitation," said Grant. "How long do you have left?"

  "Tomorrow, sir," said Tyson.

  "The big day, eh?" said Grant. "Well, until tomorrow, you still need to follow orders. Get yourself down to the showers and clean yourself up. You stink. When was the last time you showered?"

  "A few days, sir. But I can wash here in the basin."

  "Tyson," began Grant, "look, it's gym time. If you're quick, you can get in and out before they finish."

  Shaun Tyson put his book by his side and sat upright. "Okay, sir," he said dejectedly.

  He collected his prison-issue towel and a clean t-shirt then stepped gingerly out onto Pentonville Prison's G-wing for vulnerable prisoners.

  The showers were at the far end of the wing on the ground floor, so Tyson had to descend the mesh steel staircase, which clattered noisily. It was essentially a dinner bell for G-wing's less pleasant clientele.

  Shaun kept as far from the open cell doors as he could as he made his way along the wing. He hated the walk. He hated the time of day, and he hated the prison. It was recreation time, and while others used the time to visit the gym, many didn't. They preferred to sit in their cells out of harm's way, or worse, waiting for someone like Shaun to walk past. Like a spider waiting for a fly.

  G-Wing's vulnerable prisoners unit held a mixed bag of prisoners. While some, much like Shaun, were indeed vulnerable, fragile and ready to break at any given moment, other prisoners, more adapted to prison life, had found their way onto the wing and quickly established their place in the hierarchy.

  It was these prisoners that Shaun feared.

  He walked along the middle of the wing on the ground floor, kept his head down and moved fast. All the cell doors were open, but his peripheral vision kept watch for movement as he passed. He saw no movement. The concrete floor was painted grey with a gloss finish that the prisoners cleaned every day; to become a cleaner was a privilege you had to earn. Shaun had preferred to stay low during his three years inside. The cleaning duties gave prisoners access to all floors and they could ferry messages from prisoner to prisoner, which earned other less-formal privileges. Shaun needed no privileges. Shaun had been counting down the days since his arrival.

  The showers consisted of an open wet room with a fixed bench to one side where prisoners could leave their clothes while they showered. Small partitions partially segregated each shower but offered little in the way of privacy.

  As Prison Officer Grant had said, and to Shaun's delight, he found the shower room empty.

  He gave a quick glance out of the door to make sure nobody was coming then pulled off his shirt and his prison-issue tracksuit bottoms as fast as he could. Then he darted under the shower, keeping his underwear on. In case someone came in and saw him, it offered a barrier of protection against the regular attacks.

  The water was freezing at first but it soon became warm. It wasn't hot enough to soak under and relax, not like the shower at his mum's house, but it was just warm enough to wash under.

  Shaun didn't particularly care about the temperature. Shower time was when he was at his most vulnerable. Shower time was when the spiders came out and the flies like Shaun found themselves trapped in sticky webs. Shower time was high alert.

  He finished washing and pulled the water from his long, unkempt hair then quickly squeezed into his clean t-shirt.

  Feeling pleased with himself for being so quick and not getting caught, he picked up his tracksuit bottoms and fumbled with the drawstring. He'd pulled them off in haste without untying them, and now the knot was stuck. He fumbled some more, but with wet hands, the job was frustrating.

  "I hear you're leaving us?" said a voice from the door.

  Shaun's worst fear.

  He knew the voice; it was the one voice he'd been dreading to hear and had been so close to avoiding.

  "Tyson," the voice said again, "I'm talking to you. It's rude to ignore somebody who's being nice to you. You know that, don't you?"

  Pops Little liked to think of himself as the wing's father figure. The vulnerable prisoners unit needed someone like him for the inmates to go to with their problems. At least, that's the premise he used to befriend the younger and more vulnerable prisoners, like Shaun.

  Pops Little was a predator.

  Shaun had been caught in his web on his second day. He remembered it well. In fact, he'd never forget it. It had happened while everyone was working and Shaun hadn't been assigned a job yet. He'd been crying in his cell, adjusting to prison life, when Pops had walked by and seen him upset. He'd seemed so nice at first, and somehow, by using some kinds of psychiatric techniques, he'd coaxed a full confession from Shaun. Shaun had even cried on his shoulder. How stupid he'd been.

  Shaun had been imprisoned for sex offences with a girl that had approached him while he sat in a park, which had then led to other girls recognising his picture in the local paper and coming forward with their own stories. But there were still more that hadn't come forward, and Shaun had told Pops all of them. It had been one of Shaun's biggest mistakes. Pops had threatened to use the information against Shaun and had forced him to do terrible things.

  "Tomorrow," said Shaun, "I'm getting out."

  "Good for you," said Pops. He had a thick wave of grey hair and features that one might think of when describing a generic grandfather, soft stubbly cheeks, glasses, a friendly smile, but hands as strong as any man's that Shaun had ever felt. "So, I guess this is goodbye then, Tyson?"

  Shaun struggled with his tracksuit bottoms and decided to try to get them on without untying the knot.

  "No need for that," said Pops. "Why not just pop them back down on the bench, eh? I think you owe me for helping you throug
h your little spell here, don't you?" He shoved himself off the wall he'd been leaning on and made his way to Shaun.

  "No, Pops," said Shaun weakly. "I just showered. I-"

  "So, we'll shower again," said Pops smiling, "together."

  Pops began to unbutton his jeans. "Come on, Shaun," he said, grinning. "One last time for old Pops. You'll miss me when you're gone." The old man grinned a yellow smirk.

  Shaun closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to look at him anymore. He felt Pops grab his hand and pull it towards him.

  "No, Pops," cried Shaun. "I don't want-"

  "It's not about what you don't want, Shauny boy," hissed Pops. "It's about what I do want, and what I know, so if you want to go and breathe some fresh air tomorrow, if you want your freedom, you'll do what I say."

  Shaun bit his lip and clenched his mouth shut.

  "So get on your pretty little knees and say thank you to old Pops one last time."

  "No," whimpered Shaun. "I can't do it." He began to sob. He squeezed his eyes closed but felt Pops forcing his hand open.

  "That's it, Shauny," said Pops. He growled into Shaun's ear.

  There was a dull thump.

  Shaun opened his eyes to find Mr Grant standing with his baton in his hand. Pops fell limply to the floor between their feet. Shaun was terrified. He expected a beating from Grant, but instead, the prison officer nodded at the door.

  "Get yourself dressed, Tyson," he said, "and get back to your cell."

  "Yes, sir," said Shaun. He hopped on one leg as he pulled the tracksuit bottoms over his feet and squeezed them up to his waist.

  "Sir," he called after Grant. "Sir?"

  Grant stood at the door, half in and half out of the shower room. Shaun collected his clothes and towel and stood in front of the much bigger man.

  "Thank you, sir," said Shaun. "I just wanted to say thanks."

  "Not my doing, Tyson," said Grant. "Warden said to keep an eye on you, so I am."

  Pops moaned behind them and rolled onto his back on the wet and puddled floor.