The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  ‘Umm… Oh God. This, this wasn’t supposed to happen.’

  ‘What was not supposed to happen?’

  ‘It.’

  He pictured the motorbike man again, the image he would never shake. And the way he spoke, so calm, so in control.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen.’

  ‘We’ve traced your location to Central Library in Peterborough. Is this correct?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Help is coming, what is your name?’

  He didn’t hear the operator. The moment it happened screamed too loud.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Good, stay with me, all right? What is your name?’

  ‘Umm, Richard.’

  ‘Richard, tell me what happened. I’m sending help now.’

  ‘I – this wasn’t supposed to happen.’

  ‘Richard, are you hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you bleeding?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said again, beginning to sob. ‘Yes, a lot, I’ve got cuts everywhere, I’m covered, but it’s not all mine, it’s not all mine.’

  ‘What’s not all yours, Richard?’

  ‘The blood, it’s not all mine. Oh God, it’s not all mine.’

  ‘Richard, have you had to hurt someone?’ the operator said quietly.

  ‘He made me do it, he made me,’ he sobbed.

  ‘Is there someone else with you?’ the operator said, getting to her feet to flag down a supervisor in the call centre. ‘Richard, are you badly injured? Can you move?’

  He looked at his forearms, the blood flow beginning to slow. He assessed his injuries; his face hurt, where he had been hit and there was an ache in his stomach but he couldn’t remember what happened to cause it.

  ‘I don’t know. My arms are cut up pretty bad. My left is bad.’

  ‘OK, help is on the way. Is the man who made you do it still there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ He cried harder; his words barely audible.

  ‘OK, Richard, calm down, take a deep breath so I can help you. Is anyone with you?’

  ‘My boss.’

  ‘Is she injured?’ the operator asked, knowing the answer.

  Richard looked across the carpeted floor towards the Crime Fiction bookshelves and into the eyes of the kind woman who had been his mentor since he’d started working at the library a year ago. Roberta Richardson was his friend, she felt like family to him, and he had attacked her with a screwdriver. Her body lay at an angle Richard didn’t think a person could lay in.

  ‘No.’

  There was a pause. ‘If you can, find something to apply pressure to your wounds, to slow the bleeding, can you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘A belt perhaps, do you have a belt, to tie it off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great, that’s great. Loop it above your wound and pull it really tight. Do it now, I’ll hold.’

  He put the phone on the floor and took off his belt, and tied off his left arm, which was the more injured of the two.

  ‘I feel sick. I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘You’re in shock. Help is coming. Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘He told us only one of us would get out alive.’

  ‘Can you repeat that?’ the operator said, knowing the tape would be listened to again by the police. She couldn’t help poor Richard, nor his boss, but there might be something in the tape the police could use, if it was clear.

  ‘We only had four minutes, or he would hurt my mum.’

  ‘Is your mum there, Richard?’

  ‘No, he knows where I live, he told me he would go and hurt her.’

  Beside the operator, stood the manager, who was on his mobile to the police. He wrote something down in capitals on a piece of paper and held it up.

  GET A DESCRIPTION.

  ‘Who did, Richard? Can you describe him?’

  ‘I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t.’

  ‘Richard. Take a breath, breathe with me, OK? What did he look like?’

  ‘A helmet,’ Richard replied. His body started to convulse as the numbness subsided and the shock kicked in.

  Another scripted sign from the manager as he emphatically fed the information to the police on the other line.

  GET MORE DETAILS.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I don’t know, oh God. Oh God. Am I going to die?’

  The supervisor tapped the note again and mouthed, ‘Details.’

  ‘Take a deep breath, Richard, you need to help us. The paramedics are coming.’

  There was another pause, as Richard fought to control his breathing. The operator covered her mouthpiece and told her supervisor they wouldn’t get much more out of him. He nodded and continued talking fervently into his phone; it seemed the whole floor was watching, waiting. The manager nodded and scribbled again.

  WHERE DID HE GO?

  ‘Richard, are you sure the man isn’t still there?’

  ‘No, I mean, yes. He’s gone, I’m sure.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘He helped me dial 999.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘And he told you to kill your boss?’

  ‘She attacked me first. I didn’t mean to kill her. I’ve murdered my friend. God, I’ve murdered my friend.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Host

  8.23 p.m.

  He knew it was time to leave the area, go home, prepare the next video for the world to see, but in the distance, he could make out police cars. One vehicle he would dismiss as a coincidence, two would raise an eyebrow. But four? It had to be related. Parking his motorbike behind the cathedral, he slipped off the helmet, locked it to the back of the bike, and confident he would go completely unnoticed, put in his headphones and walked into the city centre through the cathedral grounds. The way the cathedral was lit with upturned orange lights, capturing each and every detail carved into the limestone, was both beautiful and intimidating. The early English gothic west front was imposing in its size. The song he listened to told him there was no need to run, or hide; the lyrics couldn’t be more appropriate. As ever, it truly was a wonderful life.

  Stopping in the middle of the deserted grounds, he let the music sweep over him, the synthesised keyboards and melodic vocals transcendent. The rhythm surged through him and raising his arms he swayed, arms outstretched to the heavens, his head thrown back, entirely immersed in the song. As it ended, he saw atop the cathedral were goblins, cherubs and knights that looked down on him, their eyes hollow and black. He wondered if perhaps they were judging him, but knew they couldn’t be, for they knew more than anyone that God was the ultimate killer. He took when He desired without explanation, or reason. He caused earthquakes and famines and forest fires. He made cars skid off roads into water. He watched as people died, he watched and did nothing. ‘God’s way’ – he hated that phrase. It left no choice. At least what he was doing gave people a choice.

  Playing the song again, he left the cathedral behind and walked through the central archway that separated the holy and sanctimonious grounds from the less virtuous shops and bars of the city centre. Two worlds separated by one large gate. By the time he approached the Queensgate Shopping Centre, it seemed that word had got out: several men and women were running from inside, back to their cars. Some ignored the cars and began sprinting up the road, towards the Central Library. The police were there in force, most of them plainclothes. They’d been only half a mile away when he’d made the librarians become The Players.

  A tall black man came out of the shopping centre, a phone glued to his ear. Even in the streetlight, The Host could see a large bruise on his jaw. The police officer looked over, caught his eye, but didn’t hold it for long as a helicopter flew over. He ran in the same dir
ection it was flying. He was fast, strong, The Host knew if he was instructed to play The Game, he’d win every time. Thankfully, because of his demeanour, and the world’s preconceptions, The Host could hide in plain sight, and the strong-looking officer didn’t give him a second thought. They would never suspect it could be someone like him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  8.27 p.m.

  I waited and waited for the phone to ring, but the call didn’t come. Either Howard hadn’t called because he was arresting a suspect or because we were wrong about the location. I went online; lots of people were talking about The Host, but no one mentioned any details about the Third Game of his. Sam was right, I couldn’t control this, so I turned off the TV, put my phone in my pocket and went upstairs. Sam was sitting up in bed, a small pile of exercise books on my side. I sat down on the edge, tentatively.

  ‘Sam, I…’ I began, but she waved me off.

  ‘I think we should go on holiday at Easter. What do you think?’

  ‘We can’t go then, it will cost a fortune.’

  ‘We’ve both been so stressed lately. I think we deserve it.’

  Her words caught me off guard, and I smiled. ‘I must admit, the idea of getting away for a bit is more than tempting. A break from it all would be good for us.’

  ‘Yeah, it would. Where do you fancy?’ Sam smiled back, scooting closer so we could both look at holiday locations on her phone. It was nice to be thinking ahead for a change, and the more we looked at hotels in the Canaries with sprawling beaches and year-round sunshine, the more I felt like we needed it. Sam was truly amazing, and I felt very lucky. She had every right to be upset with me but she chose not to. She chose to see the world from where I stood. I leant in and kissed her.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Just because.’

  As we flicked through travel agent websites, comparing prices, I felt myself begin to relax, then my phone started buzzing in my pocket. It was Howard. For a moment, I didn’t pick it up. I was too scared about what he might say.

  ‘Babe? You don’t have to answer that,’ Sam said.

  ‘But it’s Howard. What if he’s ringing to tell me they caught him?’

  ‘What if he isn’t? You’ve done more than you should, so much more. Let them handle it now.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t ignore him. It’s Howard.’

  ‘OK,’ Sam conceded, resigned.

  ‘OK,’ I echoed, taking a deep breath before answering the call. ‘Howard, tell me it’s good news.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  After Howard filled me in, I hung up. Dropping my phone on the bed I sat quietly beside it. We had got it wrong; I had got it wrong, and now, someone else was dead. Sam knew something had happened, and rather than asking, she sat closer, so I could put my forehead on her shoulder. I took a few deep breaths, forcing the anxiety that bubbled inside to stay contained. As I rocked forward, putting my head in my hands, Sam rubbed my back, knowing better than to ask how I was. I was convinced I had got it right, the time matched, the opportunity was there. But I focused on one location, without offering any alternatives, as I should have done. The person responsible had even mentioned a library in the first two videos and I hadn’t seen it.

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘I was so sure he was going to attack in the Queensgate. I was so sure.’

  ‘Love, there was no way you could have known.’

  ‘But that’s my job, it’s my job to know.’

  ‘You’re not even at work.’

  ‘Someone is dead.’

  ‘And the police will deal with it. They’ll find him.’

  ‘I am the police, Sam.’

  ‘No, Karen, right now, you’re not, you’re a woman who isn’t sleeping, who needs some time to process what happened with…’ She trailed off.

  ‘I’m fine about that, and we don’t have time. He’s going to do it again.’

  ‘You’re clearly not fine, and right now this isn’t your responsibility.’

  I stood up, left the bedroom and walked downstairs, grabbing my shoes. Sam followed.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  I put on my coat and opened the front door. ‘I need to get some air.’

  ‘Karen, stop, Karen!’ Sam shouted, ensnaring my attention. Sam never shouted. ‘Don’t go, stay with me. Please don’t go out, it’s not safe. I’m worried for you. I know you’re struggling. But he could be out there. You know it’s dangerous.’

  ‘It’s not. He has a pattern, he won’t be out now. He’s done what he needed to do and for now he’ll be lying low, waiting to strike again.’

  ‘Maybe, but you don’t know when.’

  ‘We all will soon, when he posts the video, and there is fuck all anyone can do about it. Sam, I need some air. Please.’

  I walked towards Sam and gave her a kiss.

  ‘Go to bed, I’ll be back soon,’ I said before grabbing my keys and walking out of the front door.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  9.17 p.m.

  I knew I shouldn’t have left, but I needed a moment to think, to collect my thoughts. The night was clear, cold, the stars were out in full force. I loved the stars, and as I reached the end of my road, I paused to look at them. They were so big, most of them bigger than our own sun, and yet, so far away they were just a pinprick in the black. It made me feel small, and with it, my problems were small too. As I walked, I became aware that the streets were quieter than usual, eerily quiet. Very few cars were out on the road and even fewer people.

  From where I stood, the Chinese was only two miles away, the nightclub and the library another mile beyond. A stone’s throw. I suspected most of the people in Peterborough knew how close to home the threat really was. The latest attack would likely filter to the national news, and I would put money on Facebook being a frenzy of thoughts, theories and panic. People would be terrified that they could be next, but that wasn’t my biggest fear. The uniqueness of these crimes was what scared me. Usually, the reasons for murder are obvious: rage, passion, revenge. The majority of murder victims are killed by people they know. This was the first time in my career I had come across a situation where anyone could be a murderer, or a victim.

  I couldn’t change what had happened. I could, however, step up my response. I should have seen the library as a potential location. Foolishly, I’d assumed it would close at 5 p.m., forgetting tonight was its late-night trading. I should have checked. The fact he had mentioned libraries was salt in the wound. I was wrong about the location, but right about the thought process behind the clue. I had touched on his mindset, if only skimming it.

  I was so caught up in my thoughts, I had completely zoned out of my surroundings. Now, taking them in, I felt sickened. Without realising it, I had walked to the address where we had arrested Grayson James. The door that was damaged when we entered had a board in the glass, and the single bunch of flowers on the doorstep had turned brown. I walked away quickly, before anyone saw me there.

  Rounding the corner, I found a bus shelter and sat down on the metal bench; it was so cold it felt wet through my jeans. Sam was right: I wasn’t doing very well. I’d tried to hide it from everyone, but Sam could see it, and I knew it too. It was clear, I hadn’t dealt with what I had done. I took out my phone as I began walking away. I should have emailed Shauna there and then, asking to speak, like she said I could if I needed her. But I couldn’t. Going to my call log, I hovered over Howard’s number for a moment, then tapped on Sam’s number underneath.

  ‘Karen, is everything all right?’

  ‘No,’ I said, struggling to catch my breath.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m outside his house.’ I didn’t need to say whose house, she knew. ‘Sam, will you please come and get me?’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Carlson

  9.26 p.m.

  It was a fucking mess, both figuratively and literally. Blood was everywhere, and every coppe
r they had, including Carlson, had been looking the wrong way while it had happened. In front of him, the paramedics were still working on the young man who was seriously injured. Carlson knew he wouldn’t die; he had seen what the human body could endure if it had to. Besides, someone had to live, right, that was The Host’s modus operandi.

  Carlson wanted desperately to talk to him, to try and coax something out, but Rawlinson was already there, barking at him, pushing him to get some answers, until the boy passed out from shock. He must have only been twenty at a push. What kind of life would he have going forwards with another person’s blood on his hands?

  Knowing he would have to wait to speak to the kid, he continued to process the scene before him. The other victim had been identified as Roberta Richardson. She had worked at the library for over fifteen years. Carlson was sure he had met her once, when he and Jess came to summer reading club last August. She read classic fables to a group of young children in the open reading space only thirty feet from where he stood. If he was right, and it was her, she was too lovely to end up lying with a screwdriver sticking out of her chest.

  ‘This is so fucked up,’ he said out loud to no one in particular, before being asked to stand aside so the crime scene photographer could get closer to her body. He wondered what Karen would do if she were here: would she insist on trying to talk to the boy? He doubted it. She would step back, look at the problem from afar. Come at it from a different angle. She would be interested in The Host’s journey before and after he forced the librarians to play. Walk in his shoes, so to speak.

  So Carlson wondered: when the staff locked up the library, where did The Host wait? The boy, or perhaps the deceased, would have said a farewell to the last of the guests and author before locking the door. Carlson assumed the fire exits would have been closed and the doors alarmed, which meant The Host was already inside the building. Carlson guessed he would have been up here, on this floor. Waiting patiently. But where would he wait?

  Three backward steps and he was level with an aisle labelled HISTORICAL FICTION. He wandered down it, trying to gauge where The Host might have stood. Karen would know where to look. Her ability to know how people were thinking unnerved him and impressed him in equal measure. Once again he resolved he had to be more like Karen.