Playing With Death

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘What the hell does he think he’s playing at?’

  ‘Quite,’ Ms Steiner says. ‘This is not acceptable. And worse, this is not untypical of the rest of his work at present. And it’s not just his academic life that is suffering. He also seems isolated, not bonding too well with his peers.’

  ‘Ms Steiner,’ Jeff says, flashing his trademark sincere look. ‘Robbie is just the same as most boys his age. But we’ll certainly speak to him about his writing and his attitude to his work.’

  ‘I will be grateful if you do,’ she says. ‘But sadly I’m not sure it’ll be enough. I’m bound to ask this, but is everything all right at home?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jeff demands.

  ‘I just wondered if there was a reason for Robbie’s current behaviour.’

  ‘No. Nothing. Everything is fine at home.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Blake. Then the problem must lie elsewhere.’

  ‘Drugs?’ Rose queries. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘You’d better not be,’ Jeff warns Ms Steiner. ‘Unless you have evidence to back that allegation up.’

  The teacher raises her hand. ‘Relax. I’m not saying drugs. Not the kind of drugs that are illegal, at any rate.’

  She takes off her glasses. ‘I watch my students closely, and many of them lack the attention span to finish reading a novel, or even sustain a coherent argument. Last week I asked them to write a book report and some couldn’t even remember the last time they’d read one! If they find it difficult to commit their attention to learning now, what sort of adults will they be? I had to confiscate a boy’s smartphone because he was showing the boys, and unfortunately girls too, violent pornography that he thought was funny.’

  ‘Did Robbie do any of this stuff?’ Rose asks. ‘Because if he didn’t then I don’t see what it has to do with our family.’

  ‘As far as Robbie goes we aren’t talking about any progress. Just regression.’

  ‘What do you suggest? We can’t all live in the dark ages,’ Jeff says.

  ‘Indeed we cannot. We have school tests coming up in the next two weeks and I am expecting the results to be dreadful. I’m sure when you were children, Mr and Mrs Blake, there was what I call the hard graft, the in-depth reading of books, a limit to the time children are permitted to play games. Children need to switch off these devices. Sometimes, we all need to switch off.’

  ‘What can we do for Robbie?’ Rose asks quietly.

  ‘Actively enforce a curfew. Control his access to the internet as best you can. Limit the hours he is allowed to play on his devices.’

  ‘How can we?’ Jeff scoffs. ‘It’s everywhere!’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you go and live in a cave. But if you don’t control the amount and nature of the content Robbie is consuming online then who will? Give him clear parameters to work with. See if he can read a book cover to cover.’

  Rose nods.

  Ms Steiner flicks through the rest of the report.

  ‘On the more positive side, his IT results and graphic skills are excellent.’

  ‘Then maybe there’s some hope yet,’ Jeff comments.

  Ms Steiner glances up. ‘You really think so? I hope you’re right, Mr Blake. I really do. For all our sakes.’

  34.

  Miss Steiner’s words have unsettled Rose, and she notices that Jeff is not talkative either. He sits looking out of the passenger window, lost in thought. Rose pulls the car onto the gravel driveway.

  ‘Lights: on,’ she commands when they are inside the house. Robbie tries to head upstairs.

  ‘Robbie, no, come sit with us.’

  Rose takes a seat alongside Jeff.

  ‘Take your hoodie down,’ she says. ‘Sit here, at the table.’

  Robbie pulls it down. He can’t hold her gaze for very long before looking away. Rose can see he feels ashamed.

  ‘Robbie, we had a very interesting chat with Ms Steiner tonight. Your IT and graphics are excellent, but Ms Steiner is concerned about your English and a few other things. We are a little worried too, and it’s going to be hard because you’re going to need to take your SATs soon.’

  She grips Robbie’s hand as Jeff joins them with a tray on which rest three cups of coffee.

  Rose sighs. ‘All this . . . online stuff . . . it’s not good for us. Not all the time. Let’s try something. Get your smartphones out. Here’s mine.’

  Robbie and Jeff do as she says.

  Rose scoops them up and puts them in her bag. ‘We’re going to sit here, like this, for ten minutes.’

  Jeff snorts.

  ‘Aww, Mom, this is lame,’ Robbie says.

  ‘Nope, it’s going to prove something,’ she says, squeezing both their hands.

  Robbie slumps on his chair. Soon, a few minutes in, he is restless. Jeff caresses Rose’s hand softly, looking into her eyes.

  ‘How much longer?’ He wants to make it sound like a joke, but Rose can see he is uncomfortable.

  ‘That’s less than five minutes, guys.’

  ‘Really? Seems much longer than that,’ Robbie says.

  ‘Relax,’ she says.

  Robbie ends up managing to sit still.

  ‘OK, we’re at ten minutes now.’

  She releases their hands. Her palms are soaked wet with both their sweat. She shows them. Robbie and Jeff both stare at her.

  ‘That’s going cold turkey for ten minutes,’ Rose says.

  Jeff is clearly rattled by the experience. He stands up. ‘Need the bathroom. Won’t be long.’ He turns and hurries towards the downstairs bathroom.

  Rose focuses her attention on Robbie.

  ‘So tell me, what’s going on with you, huh?’

  Robbie’s face clouds over. ‘Mom . . . I’ve got ADD.’

  ‘Attention deficit disorder? How do you know that?’

  ‘I looked it up online. I have the symptoms.’

  ‘Listen, Robbie. You don’t have to believe everything you read online.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So what are you feeling? What’s the problem with your studies?’

  ‘I try to read something and then I just drift off, look for something else to do. I’m finding school harder than I used to. Maybe my subjects are getting more difficult . . .’

  Rose hears the flush of the toilet. Jeff quickly picks up his suitcase.

  ‘Guys, I’m beat, we’ll talk some more tomorrow.’

  Rose watches as he heads for the stairs. Then she turns her attention back to her son. ‘Is there anything else troubling you?’

  ‘Well . . . on Facebook I changed my profile so I sounded more confident, tried out all the dumb things the jocks say. There were online tips on how to get a girlfriend. I thought if I followed them, maybe they’d like me. I’m sort of shy when I like someone.’

  ‘And? What happened?’

  ‘They said I was weird. I just wanted them to say I was . . . I, normal. And Trent . . . Trent keeps showing me these videos on his smartphone.’

  Trent was the class’s rich-kid douchebag.

  ‘Trent’s an idiot, you know that. He’s king of the school playground now, but when he’s grown up he’ll be working for students like you. I promise you. Videos of what?’

  ‘Weird stuff, like sex videos . . . but I don’t like them. It looks painful.’

  Rose feels a piercing agony in her heart. There’s so much she wants to protect her son from. For as long as she can. She knows he will grow up one day and take his place in the world. Until then, she is his mother and he is her treasure.

  Clearly there had been many things troubling Robbie. Things she had not been aware of, been too busy to notice. Rose feels crushed by guilt.

  And then there’s anger. Anger at the
internet. Anger at men like Wade Wolff who is brilliant enough to be responsible for something like the Skin suit, yet too naive to realize the consequences of his creations. We live in a world in thrall to a generation of Victor Frankensteins, Rose muses. Older, wiser heads have been shouted down and ridiculed as dinosaurs. Technology is the future and we’re going to have it rammed down our throats one way or another. The online world seems to pander to permanent adolescence with its constant challenges to authenticity, authority and even truth. And we’re told to treat it as a blessing and share the joy. But it’s a mixed blessing at best, she reflects.

  35.

  Rose kisses Robbie good night. She has not done this in a while and her son is as uncomfortable with the gesture as she is. ‘Good night, my precious bundle.’

  ‘I’m a pretty big bundle, Mom.’

  ‘I know, but you’re still my bundle.’

  He mumbles something she can’t catch, turns away from her and draws his legs up into a ball. Rose makes for the bedroom she shares with her husband. The walls are a soft blue, with long deep-blue silk drapes across the windows. Jeff is lying in his black bath-robe, his back against the headboard. He flashes her a tired smile.

  ‘I’ve been talking with Robbie. He’s confused about a lot of things. I think he’s feeling better, but maybe you can talk to him?’

  ‘Definitely. I’ll chat with him tomorrow. Man to man.’

  ‘I’m just going to take a shower,’ she says.

  ‘Go for it, I’m drafting some more stats for Keller. Won’t be long.’

  Rose slips into the bathroom, turns on the water and selects the rainfall setting.

  I think we should have sex, she thinks to herself. Maybe that’s what is causing the tension. It has been nearly two months since the last time.

  After ten minutes in the shower, Rose pulls the towel around her and opens the bathroom door. When she is sure she has Jeff’s full attention, she lets go of the towel. She stands in front of him, naked.

  Jeff pulls his glasses gently off. ‘You are so beautiful.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ she says with a grin, approaching.

  ‘Dim lights,’ she says as she clambers across the bed towards him. The room darkens as she strokes his styled hair while he unties his bathrobe.

  ‘Do they have a badge for sexiest FBI agent?’

  ‘We can work through this. All of us,’ Rose whispers, kissing him softly, then hard on the lips. She grips his hands tightly and looks deep into those intense green eyes. The way he looks at her still makes her feel weak. ‘Maybe after the election we can take a break somewhere, away from the city. I’ve been looking at Hawaii,’ she teases in his ear.

  Jeff mumbles his affirmations, kissing her.

  Her eyes travel over his muscular shoulders and the line of thick hair across his chest and down to his navel. Jeff stares at her body as she sits herself on top of his shins. Then he flips her onto her back. She feels his warm kisses on her breasts, her stomach, her hips and groin. She is gasping, running her fingers through his hair. She wants him inside her, the desire surging through her body. She longs for the moment of escape, her climax, to obliterate her worries for just a few moments. She feels that familiar deep pull in her abdomen, tightening, quickening. Jeff’s attention starts to fade away. She can feel him shrinking inside her.

  ‘Jeff, what’s wrong?’

  She looks at him, the moment fragile.

  He pulls out of her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I guess I’m just tired. It’s been a hectic few days, and this evening . . . there’s a lot to think about.’ He looks embarrassed.

  Rose embraces him. ‘It’s OK . . . It’s OK.’

  She quickly slips on her robe and they lie down on their backs silently, both frustrated.

  Jeff presses his head against her shoulder.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says.

  Rose caresses his hair while he drifts off to sleep. For the first time in many years, she is genuinely afraid for their future.

  36.

  Sebastian Shaw paces down the creaking floorboards of the deserted pier on a moonlit night. It’s been four days since he spoke to Maynard.

  He is dressed in his usual garb – an open-necked white shirt and dark Levis, to blend in with the other customers of the fairground a short distance from the pier. The fairground rides are all in motion, but there are only a few customers.

  Shaw turns his attention back to the sea, a swelling and heaving black mass in the night. He raps his knuckles on the steel handrail. He marvels at the simple sensation on his fingers, momentarily proud of the work he and Coulter have accomplished. But now Coulter is dead and there’s only one other person alive who knows about this place. The same person who sent an email asking to meet him here. But he’ll be safe here. No harm can come to him. He knows the setting well. Every detail of it. An idyllic spot to gratify his needs.

  There is even a breeze, and he relishes it as it seems to caress his cheek.

  The moment passes and it does nothing to calm the anxiety knotting his stomach. He might be safe here, but the outside world is a threatening place.

  The pier was their preferred meeting place. Shaw hates the oppressive cells and cellars that Coulter frequented. After a few visits he had refused to return. That wasn’t his thing. Coulter’s death has shaken him, and he wants to know if he can stop looking over his shoulder. Shaw is feeling alone, and scared. He knows far more about Coulter’s death than he is ever prepared to admit to the special agent from the Bureau. At the same time he knows he is in grave danger and has no wish to share Coulter’s fate. He hopes that the Bureau can find out who is responsible for Coulter’s death, before it’s too late.

  The breeze shifts slightly. He’s aware that the temperature has dropped. He trembles and hunches his head down a little. The sea seems to freeze for a moment and looks like a sheet of black glass. The sound of the fairground rides mutes and there is only the faintest of hums, like a distant air conditioner. Shaw suspects a glitch in the interface, but before he can start thinking about the fault-finding process he senses the air around him change. The breeze has softened to the faintest motion in the air so that even the individual hairs on his arm seem to register its movement. It causes an icy charge to bolt through his senses.

  Then it’s gone.

  Shaw relaxes as the scene resumes in its familiar pattern. He leans forward on the rails and gazes down at the shimmering line of the surf as his thoughts return to Coulter.

  He knows the death was no accident. He’s been over the suit’s specifications in the minutest detail since he heard what happened to his friend. He’s run simulation software in an attempt to mimic the blaze and trace the fault, but found nothing. No scenario that repeats the death. The suit’s design is good. It was far more sophisticated than the simple prototypes WadeSoft had handed over to the military. He had made so many upgrades and improvements to its functionality, comfort and safety. So the suit is not to blame. Nor is the software. Coulter would hardly have put himself in the suit if he had not had complete confidence in his own handiwork. In which case, he was murdered. The question was why? Was someone after the suit? Had they found out that Coulter had stolen his and wanted to take it from him? Something could have gone wrong in the attempt – a fire had started and . . .

  No. Shaw shakes his head. Why the fire? Even if it had started by accident there would have been time to put it out and strip the suit off Coulter’s body. Then if it wasn’t an attempt to steal the suit, what? Had the suit been hacked? The safety features overridden? It might be the work of an enemy of the United States who had got wind of the Diva project. Perhaps they had decided to sabotage it before Diva could be completed and deployed. If so, they were too late. Coulter’s beta version had been completed and was already being assessed by another security agency. Shaw’s w
ork was done too.

  That left the side project he, Coulter and the other party had been working on. And that would never be shared with anyone else. Iris was their secret.

  As he considers the possibilities, Shaw is struck by a further line of thought. What if the Diva project’s outcome has already been approved? What if the government agency that authorized Diva in the first place have what they are after and are now cleaning up behind them, erasing those who have enough knowledge of the project to make them a security risk? Shaw has few doubts about the agency’s willingness to indulge in wet work against citizens of the United States.

  What if Maynard is covering his tracks? Eliminating evidence of his involvement in their side project that might destroy his career should the Iris project ever be exposed.

  He’s aware of the soft clack of shoes on the wooden planks of the pier and he turns. Walking slowly towards him is a pretty young blonde woman. Her hair is combed into long tresses, and she’s wearing a pink dress. He is reminded of a black and white movie he once saw starring a child actress called Shirley Temple. This woman is older than that, but not by much, and he likes the look of her. She looks so much like Iris. She looks like the kind of girl that he and Coulter used to pick up in the fairground and take under the pier for sex.

  ‘Sebastian Shaw?’ she asks. She even sounds like Iris.

  He feels the first stirring of lust. At the same time he’s surprised. They aren’t supposed to approach him. That’s his role. He stares back, unsure how to react. Something is wrong.

  ‘Yes. You know who I am?’

  She smiles, her lips well shaped and alluring. ‘Of course I do. I arranged to meet you here.’

  He feels his throat go dry. ‘Who are you? Iris . . .?’