The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  Reviewing the comments made his cheeks flush. It was too real for them, and so they had to try to rationalise or desensitise it – but soon they wouldn’t be able to. When he posted again, they wouldn’t be quite so dismissive.

  On the news, the police called it a ‘clever hoax’, no doubt trying to keep the public calm, assuming they would find him before he could do it again, but they never would. Soon the police would have to change their script. Soon, Timothy’s wife would speak out, or Michelle Reed’s parents. Soon they would have to tell the truth.

  And when they did, when everyone knew what another human being was capable of, they would be one step closer to understanding there was no such thing as good.

  Logging off, The Host got up. He needed to walk, to enjoy the evening, and see if he could hear any quiet whispers from the public about his Game. There would no doubt be a thousand questions, and one by one, he would answer them all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  7.46 p.m.

  Peterborough District Hospital seemed quieter than expected for the end of visiting hours. The few people I saw outside as the bus pulled up were mostly patients, wrapped in dressing gowns, some in wheelchairs, IV drips attached to a trolley, who had braved the frigid February air to have a cigarette or chat on the phone. I tried not to look anyone in the eye as I walked into the main entrance. Even now, after countless visits, I couldn’t help but be surprised at how warm it felt, how clean it all looked. The huge, light atrium adorned with giant colourful kites in the ceiling was nothing like the old hospital, which had been lifeless and frightening.

  I smiled at the older man standing in the reception area, and made my way towards the lifts at the far end. I suspected that Michelle would still be in the high dependency unit, as Howard told me, and reaching the lift, I pressed the button for the first floor and waited for it to come. As the doors opened, a uniformed officer I recognised was on the other side. I dipped my head and stepped past him into the lift. He didn’t seem to notice me.

  At the first floor, I held the lift open for a young man, late teens at most, and after he thanked me, I walked towards critical care. My phone rang as I approached.

  ‘Howard?’

  ‘Just checking up on you.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You sound like you’re out?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Give you one guess.’

  ‘Thank you, Karen.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, thank me when I find something out, as long as I don’t get caught, of course.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘Really? You say this now?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked today. I was out of line.’

  ‘Out of line?’

  ‘You know what I mean, you’ve got bigger things to deal with at the moment.’

  ‘To be honest, it’s nice to feel useful.’

  ‘Yeah, but –—’

  ‘Howard, I watched the video. I’ve not seen anything like it in my life.’

  ‘No, me neither. How are you gonna speak to her?’ he said, the guilt in his words tangible.

  ‘By blending in. I’ll keep you posted.’

  I hung up and walked on. After the next corner, there was a copper leaning against the wall, looking vigilant. I suspected someone from the media had turned up, trying to get a statement from Michelle Reed now the case was all over the local news.

  I walked past, keeping my head low, pretending to read my phone and made my way towards the seating area, tucked just out of sight of him, opposite the nurses’ station. When I got there, a nurse flashed me a glance. I smiled, and it seemed to be enough for her not to ask anything. She kept an eye on me for a while longer, no doubt assuming I was here for a scoop. As she lowered her head, continuing with her paperwork, I looked around for an idea. Somehow, I needed to be in that room, but the officer outside couldn’t know who I was.

  I sat down, kicked off my shoe and began kneading the arch of my foot, pretending to be another poor soul who was on their feet all day, like her. She glanced my way, gave me a knowing smile and continued with her work. Without saying anything, I had identified myself as yet another overworked, tired woman. She was subconsciously on my side, which would make it easier to get around her.

  I just had to wait for the right moment.

  Around me, hospital staff moved to and fro, busy, stressed to the limit. Behind the nurse, who was now talking on the phone, I could see a white lab coat slung on a back of a chair. I knew a hospital chart and an air of confidence would likely be enough to slip by the police officer. But a lab coat would guarantee it. The nurse finished her phone conversation, picked up some paperwork from her desk, and flashing me a trusting smile, walked away.

  I didn’t waste a second, as soon as the nurse was out of sight, I moved. Stepping behind the counter, I grabbed the coat, slipped it on and picked up a patient’s chart. With a purposeful stride, I headed towards the room where Michelle Reed was recovering. I exchanged a polite nod with the police officer, and slipped inside.

  Michelle Reed was looking at the ceiling, hooked up to an IV drip and heart rate monitor. Once the door was shut behind me, I took a deep breath and paused, my fingers working over my nails, thumb to little finger, there and back twice, waiting for the police officer outside to recognise me and storm into the room. Nothing happened.

  She was a mess. I could see deep purple marks on her neck where she had been strangled. The right side of her face was swollen, her eye clamped shut, the skin stretching over it looked like it would tear at any moment. Both her arms were bandaged up from the defence wounds sustained as she tried to stop Timothy Smart killing her with a chisel. And her left hand, the one Howard said she nearly lost, was braced with several external pins in it. In her other hand was a small button for pain medication. Christ knows she looked like she needed it.

  As I examined her, Michelle turned and peered at me.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I said quietly.

  ‘Can I have some water?’ Michelle croaked, her voice barely audible from the impact of strangulation.

  ‘Sure, let me help you,’ I replied, picking up a cup and placing the straw near her lips.

  I had a million questions and didn’t know where to start. But I was aware time wasn’t on my side. Another nurse might walk in, or a doctor, or the lead investigating officer, whoever it was. I suspected it would be Rawlinson, but hoped I was wrong. He was a brute of a copper, he barked orders at those below and scoffed at those above; he wasn’t someone to get on the wrong side of or owe anything to. If Rawlinson walked in now, I would be for the chopping block. He was old school and wasn’t much in favour of a woman DI, let alone a gay woman DI. Time was critical.

  ‘Michelle, how are you feeling?’

  ‘I… I hurt.’

  ‘We can get you something for the pain,’ I said. She assumed I was a doctor; I wouldn’t tell her any different.

  ‘Michelle, lots of people want to talk to you. About what happened.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘It’s OK, we know you didn’t want to do what you did.’

  ‘How? How do you know?’

  I wasn’t about to tell her that her video had been all over the internet, that she had become infamous.

  ‘When you were coming out of your anaesthetic, you told us.’

  ‘You were there during the operation?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘What did I say?’ she asked, her voice distant and weak.

  ‘That you never meant to hurt anyone.’

  I watched a tear roll out of the corner of Michelle’s eye and trail around the swelling to her cheek and jaw.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, barely audible, her eyes closing, each blink seconds long. I needed to ask quickly, or I’d miss my chance.

  ‘Michelle, you told me about a third person?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. Can you tell me any more? The police want
to know, and I want to pass on the message, so they’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘I didn’t see a face.’

  Outside the door, I heard the officer talking. Although I couldn’t distinguish the exact words, I could tell he was asking someone to leave. I held my breath.

  ‘Is someone there?’ Michelle asked sleepily.

  ‘The police, they’re guarding your room to keep you safe. Michelle, help me. Tell me what you can remember about the third person.’

  ‘I need to sleep.’

  Tears began to fill her eyes, and before I could say anything to stop her, she clicked the morphine dispenser in her hand. Soon she would drift again.

  ‘Michelle, quickly. What happened? I need to know.’

  ‘There was a motorbike…’

  ‘A motorbike – helmet? Someone was wearing a motorbike helmet?’ I knew this already. I needed more. ‘Michelle?’

  ‘A Game.’

  ‘A Game?’

  ‘Four minutes… I didn’t know…’

  Her words slurred, and before I could ask more, she had drifted into a drug-infused sleep.

  Knowing I’d not get any more out of her, I slipped out the door, past the police officer and towards the exit, dropping the white lab coat and clipboard on a chair. It had been a wasted trip. I hadn’t learnt anything new. The third person – the one who recorded and released that video – had made them fight. But I had no idea who or why. Taking out my phone, I sent Howard a text.

  I’ve learnt nothing. Sorry. I’m staying out of this now, I can’t take the risks. You’ll get this guy, Howard. But it will have to be without me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Host

  8.31 p.m.

  If the first Game in the Chinese set the tone, the second shouted it from the rooftops. The violence was magnificent, glorious. And he couldn’t wait to share it with the world. The video was ready, waiting to be uploaded. Soon. With the next Game planned, he spent the evening walking around the city. Watching the world that was becoming aware. He sat in McDonald’s and listened to conversations about it, he saw it in the way people looked at each other. Fear was spreading.

  Checking the time, he knew he could do one more thing before going home and trying to sleep, and after a twenty-minute walk, he found himself standing on a footbridge, looking down at the cars speeding by. Drivers thought they were invincible in their metal bubbles. It was an illusion; at any moment they could lose control, or swerve to miss an animal in the road – at any moment, it could be over. But as they say, ignorance is bliss.

  As the cars continued uneventfully, he took out his phone and went on to Facebook. He looked up the Peterborough Free Discussion group he’d joined. It was full of the same unnecessary ranting of little people moaning about traffic jams caused by roadworks. Parking issues outside local schools. Some people made political statements under fake profiles. There was the occasional missing dog or cat. None of that interested him; he only wanted to see the thread about The Game. When he found it, he stopped; he had read it several times now, and each time was just as exciting.

  Johnny Ormo > Peterborough Free Discussion

  I can’t stop watching the video. It has to be a fake, doesn’t it?

  116 Comments

  He read the replies, mostly a dialogue between a few individuals. He enjoyed their curiosity, their banter, and silently promised they would have their answers soon. Embedded in the thread was an online feature from the city’s only newspaper, the Peterborough Post. They were just as clueless, but speculative.

  Speculative was good.

  The thread fizzled out, after lots of likes and stupid fucking emojis of sad faces. The contributor who started the conversation asked the group to stay safe, and to post if anyone saw or heard anything.

  Perfect.

  He could have read it all over again, drawing the energy from it, but somewhere in the distance he heard a cough. Putting his phone away, he looked ahead, watching the cars speed past thirty feet below. The wide shape of a man appeared in his field of vision, holding onto the rail as he ascended the footbridge, breathing hard. The Host expected him to walk past without comment – it was late, dark; people feared the dark, people feared people. But to The Host’s surprise the man stopped.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, clearly thinking that the person in front of him was having a crisis. The Host understood why, because the sight of someone standing alone on a footbridge at night told a certain tale.

  ‘Yes, fine, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure, it’s just…’

  ‘I’m waiting for my girlfriend,’ The Host replied.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ The man was embarrassed. The Host told him not to worry, flashing him a smile.

  ‘Well, have a nice evening.’

  ‘You too,’ The Host replied, fighting the urge to say his name.

  As Jim Weston, the man who would be forced to make the fourth choice in forty-eight hours’ time walked over the bridge and disappeared, The Host smiled, pulled out his headphones and cued his song.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Carlson

  10.22 p.m.

  Carlson had been at his desk since leaving Karen’s, trying to find some connection between Michelle Reed, Timothy Smart, Milly Hallam and Alexandru Stoica. He had delved as deeply as he could into their personal lives: financial status, home life, friends. They all had their quirks – Michelle had debt, Alexandru, a recreational drug habit – but there was no obvious link between the four of them. They were just four people, chosen, it seemed at random, to fight. Carlson knew violence, he had seen it first-hand. It took a certain character to want to inflict so much destruction on another human being. The four involved were such unlikely suspects.

  There had been nothing like this case in his career, and he was desperately searching for a breakthrough before whoever was behind this could strike again.

  Rubbing his eyes, Carlson stood and stretched. He had been at work for two days now, opting to push through when sleep wouldn’t come. He was supposed to see his daughter but hadn’t been able to. He didn’t like it, Jess was his world, but those were the demands of the job, and he did it for her. He hoped she understood, but suspected, at six, she wouldn’t.

  He went into the kitchen to make himself another cup of coffee, and was surprised to see Superintendent Bradshaw still at work.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Hello, Howard. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Can’t sleep, sir.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bradshaw said, giving a sympathetic, knowing smile. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  Bradshaw started to pour from the instant hot water dispenser on the wall and Carlson leant on the table that had a few empty coffee cups and a scattering of magazines.

  ‘Anything to go on yet, Howard?’

  ‘No, sir. I cannot find anything that links our victims.’

  ‘That’s troubling.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it is. From the outside, it looks like they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Bradshaw handed Carlson his coffee and considered it for a moment. ‘No, I struggle to buy that.’

  ‘Me too, sir.’

  ‘We probably also agree that they are linked.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who’s really behind it all? Who is this Host? What’s their motivation, their ideology?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Well, let me know when you do.’

  Taking his coffee, Carlson walked back to his desk and sat down, hoping that a few minutes away would give him a fresh perspective. It wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight; his eyes stung, and the words on his computer screen blurred. Bradshaw passed on his way back to his office and tapped Carlson on the shoulder.

  ‘Go home soon. Get some sleep.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I mean it, Howard. You’re no good to me if you’re exhausted. Rawlinson is on tonight.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll
pack up now.’

  As Carlson began to pack up his things, his phone screen lit up as a Facebook notification pinged. Carlson automatically tapped it and when the link loaded, he saw the image of a person in a motorbike helmet staring at him. He thought it was the first video, somehow back in circulation. When he pressed play, it only took a few seconds for him to know it was new.

  ‘Boss, you need to see this.’

  The Second Game

  ‘What you are about to see is unedited footage of a game I played on the morning of the 4th of February in the Echo Lounge nightclub, right in the heart of the city. It’s a game I will play again.

  ‘I am your Host.’

  ‘Howard? where has this come from?’ Bradshaw asked, unable to peel his eyes from the screen.

  ‘It’s just come online.’

  ‘I am in your offices, in your restaurants and pubs. I am on your high streets and in your libraries, I watch you at the gym, I sit beside you on your buses. I see you eating popcorn and laughing at the cinema. I observe you on your lunch breaks and follow you on your way home from collecting a takeaway.

  ‘I. Watch. You. Sleep.

  ‘And I might come to you, and choose you to be my next Player.’

  Carlson walked around and stood behind Bradshaw so he could get a better look at the video. He knew what was coming, he had witnessed the aftermath. But still, he couldn’t look away. The video faded from the motorbike helmet to inside the empty nightclub. In the shot, both Milly Hallam and Alexandru Stoica stood. They looked terrified. Then, the automated voice spoke.

  ‘Do you both understand the rules?’ The image went to the floor between where the man and woman stood. A rounders bat and a crowbar lay waiting.