by Adam Hamdy
She walked past the building a couple of times in an effort to see whether there was a 68a, or somewhere else that looked like a residence. Surely this had to be a mistake. Number 68 Victoria Street was a huge glass and steel skyscraper, at least twenty stories high, and was the headquarters of a number of financial and legal firms. She tried calling Riley, but got no answer. She checked the text to see if she’d misread it, but it definitely said 68. Connie could see a security guard sitting at a desk watching something on his tablet. She approached the main entrance, a carousel door, and tried it. Locked. The guard looked up and waved her to one of the side doors. When she approached, the guard buzzed it open, and watched her as she crossed the lobby.
‘I’m sorry,’ Connie said. ‘I think my friend gave me the wrong address.’
‘What’s his name?’ the guard asked.
‘Riley. Riley Cotton,’ she replied.
‘Eighteenth floor,’ the guard said with a smile. ‘Take the second lift on the right.’ He pointed Connie in the direction of a bank of elevators, and nodded encouragement when she stared at him in puzzlement.
She crossed the gleaming black marble floor to the waiting lift, stepped inside and pressed the button marked eighteen. The lift was tiled with cream marble and lined on two sides by dark wood and on the back by a full-length mirror. Connie surmised that Riley had invited her to meet him at his office. He had always been a show-off, keen to rub any achievement in the faces of those around him.
The elevator doors opened and Connie stepped into a large lobby. There was no corporate livery, just the same cream-coloured marble floor and wood-clad walls. An unmanned reception desk stood at one end of the lobby. Next to it was a set of solid wood double doors. Connie walked over and rapped her knuckles against them. No response. She tried the handle, but the door was locked. She looked around and started to wonder if this was a practical joke – she wouldn’t put it past Riley to harbour a grudge over some perceived slight that occurred years ago. She heard a noise behind her and turned to see Riley Cotton open the double doors.
‘Constance Jones!’ Riley exclaimed. ‘Welcome to my humble home.’
She saw that Riley had undergone a significant image change. Gone were the cargo pants, long hair and expletive-strewn T-shirts. In their place were dark jeans, a short-sleeved checked shirt and a crew cut.
‘Hi, Riley,’ Connie responded as she approached.
‘You look hotter than ever,’ he said enthusiastically. He leaned forward to hug her and planted a kiss firmly on her cheek. Connie had never seen him so full of life. The transformation from cynical, miserable computer troll was unsettling.
‘Come in. Come in,’ Riley instructed. ‘Check this place out.’
Connie stepped through the double doors and was greeted by a superb view of London. She’d often tried to peer into Buckingham Palace Gardens from the top deck of the 73, but the buses were never quite tall enough. The eighteenth-floor windows offered a view, not only of the Gardens, but of the Palace beyond. Glass seemed to stretch endlessly, showcasing London in all its splendour: the Mall, the Houses of Parliament, the Thames, and all the glorious architecture in between. Connie drifted towards the windows and then realised that there was something very odd about this office. It wasn’t an office at all. The open-plan space was about two hundred feet long and a hundred feet wide. It had been divided into loosely designated zones. There was an expansive living area with a couple of large sofas, a huge television and a coffee table. Behind a partial screen was a king-size bed and two large chests of drawers. Two clothes rails hung nearby, laden with suits. Further along was an exercise area, with a treadmill, rowing machine, a multi gym, and free weights section. In the far corner of the space was the only visible partition, a temperature-controlled server room that was sealed off by glass walls. This was no joke; Riley had turned a twenty-thousand-foot open-plan office into his home.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ He smiled broadly.
‘I . . . I don’t even know where to start,’ Connie spluttered. ‘What is this place?’
‘It’s my pad,’ Riley replied slowly. ‘It’s – where – I – live.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
Riley tapped the side of his nose. ‘Do you know how many important computers are within a mile of this location? Government, security services, banks, hedge funds, corporate headquarters.’
She looked at him with horrible realisation. ‘No, you wouldn’t be that daft,’ she challenged.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said innocently. ‘I’m a computer consultant with a small, exclusive client base.’
Connie eyed him suspiciously.
‘A client base that pays exceedingly well,’ Riley bragged. ‘Want to test the bed?’
Connie shouldn’t have been shocked; Riley had always been crass. But her dismay must have shown on her face.
‘I was only kidding,’ he explained. ‘Bed’s been tested plenty. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to score when you’ve got a Ferrari.’
This is exactly where the world went wrong, Connie thought. A socially inept misfit like Riley had become exceedingly rich, and he’d almost certainly made his money doing something highly illegal. The old adage that good things happen to good folk was a lie people told themselves to feel better about life. Good things happen to folk who can rob or cheat their way to them.
‘I’m glad to see you’re doing so well,’ she lied.
‘Yeah, well, after my last stint working for you, I decided I couldn’t be a wage slave any more,’ Riley said. ‘Imagine spending what little time we get on the planet serving Omnimegacorp, so that some grey-skinned fat oligarch can buy another yacht. Fuck that. So I sat down and figured out the quickest way to get rich. Money buys everything, right? Love, freedom and a shitload of stuff. Well, we’re living in the information age, and I worked out that the best place to be is slap bang in the middle of the information superhighway. Directing traffic, so to speak.’
‘As long as you know what you’re doing,’ Connie cautioned.
‘Got to be in it to win it, Constance. And if I do get caught, I get a slap on the wrist, a few months in a country club prison, and a job with MI6 when I get out. How terrible!’
‘Well,’ Connie started on the purpose of her visit, ‘I was wondering if you could do me a favour. I need you to run a diagnostic on a machine.’
‘Does this look like PC World?’ Riley feigned outrage.
‘It may have been tampered with,’ Connie continued. She was happy to see Riley’s eyes spark with interest, and slipped the laptop case off her shoulder.
He put his arm out, and Connie handed over the satchel.
‘OK, Constance,’ he said. ‘I’ll run a diagnostic for you. Be a fun little workout.’
‘Can I give you anything?’ she offered.
Riley raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Ten minutes between the sheets,’ he suggested.
It was Connie’s turn to raise an eyebrow, but she didn’t smile.
‘Just a smile then,’ Riley suggested.
Connie forced a fake smile. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Give me a call if you find anything.’
‘You want to stay for brunch? A drink?’ Riley pleaded.
‘I can’t. I have to be somewhere,’ she lied as she hurried towards the door.
‘Some other time,’ Riley suggested.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Connie replied vaguely as she opened one of the double doors and stepped into the lobby. ‘Take care of yourself, Riley.’
‘See you around, Constance Jones,’ Riley said, before slowly shutting the door.
Connie called the elevator, urgently pressing the button over and over. She was relieved when the doors pinged open and she stepped into the escape pod that would take her away from Riley and his creepy lair.
17
Sunday had taken its toll on Wallace. Special measures at Maybury meant that he was chaperoned by Keith at all times. The fat orderly accompanied him everywhere,
standing outside his shower cubicle, posting a watchful eye from the corner of the men’s toilets, and looming like a globulous shadow at his shoulder during meals. Keith’s only respite from guard duty was during Wallace’s session with Doctor Taylor, who sat there spewing theories and suppositions that were based on the lie that Wallace had tried to kill himself. Wallace desperately wanted to grab Taylor and shake him until he accepted the fact that he was wrong; Wallace was here voluntarily with the support of the police, who were out to catch the man who had tried to kill him. Instead, he sat quietly and listened to the doctor drone on. Taylor interpreted his silence as denial and prescribed another pill to add to the cocktail of medication that was supposed to help Wallace return to reality. Wallace was already struggling to combat the numbing effects of the first dose Keith had given him after breakfast.
After his session with Taylor, Keith had taken Wallace for a walk in the gardens. Other inmates ambled, shuffled and trembled along the paths that criss-crossed the grounds. The cold November air cut through some of the narcotic haze as Wallace wandered the grounds and thought of Connie. The tall trees reminded him of the view from her living room window, and he longed to be back in her flat with her wrapped in his arms. Later, he sat alone in the crowded canteen and ate dinner with Keith looking on. After the meal, Keith administered another dose of pills, with the new one – some kind of sedative – prescribed by Taylor. Denied television, Wallace was offered a range of improving books in the recreation room: recognised classics such as Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights and The Count of Monte Cristo. With a sense of irony, he selected the latter, but couldn’t really concentrate and had only reached the part where Fernand and Danglars plot against Dantès when Keith told him it was time to return to his cell.
Wallace changed in the shower block, carefully concealing the stun gun in his palm as he put on his pyjamas. Once dressed, he followed Keith to his cell. As he shuffled slowly along the corridor, the walls seemed to curve and bubble and the floor rose and fell in waves. Whatever Taylor had prescribed to return him to sanity was having the opposite effect. He only just made it to his cell before the world became a gelatinous mass of shapes and colours. He tried to say something to Keith, but heard a drooling mess of sound. He staggered over to his bunk and collapsed. The last thing he remembered was hearing the cell door shut behind him. The tumbling lock stopped with a sudden snap that seemed to echo for eternity as Wallace fell into oblivion.
Sound. Darkness. Movement. Wallace floated up from the murky realm of unconsciousness and became aware that he was not alone. He was face down on his bunk, his wet cheek pressed into a pool of stinking vomit. Someone was behind him. Wallace reached his arm round to his back and fumbled for the stun gun inside the waistband of his pyjama trousers. Without knowing what he would find, he turned and swung his arm up. His eyes registered a shape in the darkness: it was the killer. Wallace’s masked assailant stood over him holding a syringe that was pressed into a phial of liquid. The man was shocked to see Wallace move and didn’t have time to properly parry the blow. Wallace struck his assailant’s neck and pulled the trigger, and the stun gun unleashed over one hundred thousand volts directly into the man’s body. He fell to the floor, shaking violently, and Wallace hauled himself to his feet.
‘Help!’ Wallace cried weakly. The word barely carried; his throat had been stripped raw by acidic bile. He swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘Help!’ This time his cry echoed along the corridor.
He heard movement behind him as his assailant stirred. Wallace lunged with the gun, but the masked man blocked the blow and tried to grab his arm. Wallace ran from his cell and tried to pull the door closed behind him, but the lock had been deactivated and wouldn’t catch. Wallace saw gloved fingers reach around the edge of the door and felt a forceful tug. He held on to the handle with all his strength, but the man on the other side was too powerful. Wallace could see the outline of his masked face through the gap between the door and the frame. The opaque goggles prevented Wallace gauging his assailant’s emotions, but he knew the man was angry and determined to finish his murderous task. A piercing sound cut through the building as the main alarm was activated.
‘Move!’ a familiar voice yelled.
Wallace turned to see Bailey sprinting down the corridor. Behind him were two large men in orderly uniforms. Both men were pointing black pistols in Wallace’s direction.
‘Move, now!’ Bailey shouted again.
Wallace felt the pressure on the other side of the door subside, and he peered into the gap to see nothing but darkness. He let go of the handle, but the door didn’t move, so he turned and scrambled down the corridor towards Bailey. The detective ushered Wallace behind him and waved the two armed police officers forward.
Wallace looked behind him to see an orderly and two security guards approaching.
‘Stay back,’ Bailey commanded above the persistent sound of the alarm. The three men hesitated. ‘And you,’ Bailey told Wallace. ‘Stay right back.’
The two firearms officers crept towards Wallace’s cell. The larger one stayed on the near side, while the other, a gaunt officer with a pinched face, moved swiftly to the far side of the door. Both men held their pistols a few inches from their chests, pointed in the direction of Wallace’s cell. The large officer raised three fingers to signal the start of a countdown. The first finger dropped, and his colleague nodded seriously. The second finger fell and the cell door swept open. The masked assailant sprang from the darkness beyond and rushed the large officer. Wallace saw a blur of movement as the masked man lashed out with rapid punches and kicks. The efficiency and discipline of movement were hallmarks of an expert martial artist and in less than a breath, the masked man had snatched the pistol from the stunned officer. He turned swiftly and shot the gaunt policeman. The bullet caught the man in the throat and he dropped his gun and clutched at his neck, screaming a hoarse, wet cry as blood gushed from the wound. Wallace was sickened by the sight and saw Bailey’s face cloud with dismay as the masked man turned to the large policeman and shot him twice in the head.
‘Run!’ Bailey issued the command and started pushing Wallace before his colleague’s limp body hit the floor.
Wallace was mesmerised by his attacker, and turned his head to see the man bent over the gaunt policeman, who had fallen to his knees. The masked man picked up the second pistol, and used it to shoot the wounded policeman in the temple.
‘Come on!’ Bailey cried as he grabbed Wallace and urged him to speed up.
Behind them, Wallace saw the masked man turn in their direction. The first security door was fifteen feet away. One of the guards was fumbling with a set of keys. Wallace could hear them jangling nervously over the nagging pulse of the alarm. The second guard looked down the corridor, and the orderly tugged at the door handle. Wallace turned to see the masked killer level the pistol in their direction. Ten feet to the door. A look of relief crossed the first guard’s face as the lock gave. A loud crack echoed off the walls and something whipped by Wallace’s cheek. Relief turned to horror as the guard registered the pain of being shot. The bullet tore through his right arm, into his chest. The orderly pulled the door open and yanked the wounded man towards it. Another crack, and the guard’s head cratered. The man dropped instantly, and fragments of skull, matted hair and blood flew in all directions. Five feet. The terrified orderly let the dead man fall, and turned to run. The second guard tried to follow, but a third crack sounded and the bullet caught him in the back.
Wallace and Bailey were at the door. Bailey pushed Wallace over the fallen man, and then jumped through the doorway. When they were on the other side of the door, Bailey reached round and grabbed the fallen guard. Wallace followed the detective’s lead and leaned forward to help pull the wounded man to safety. Another crack and the bullet caught the guard in the leg. The man screamed in agony as Wallace and Bailey pulled him clear. The security door swung shut behind him, and Wallace heard the satisfying sound of the lock catching.
‘Can you walk?’ Bailey asked the guard above the sound of the alarm.
The man didn’t respond. Wallace looked down to see the guard’s eyes rolling back in his head. While Bailey checked the man’s pulse, Wallace stood slowly, and cautiously peered through the small panel window in the door. The masked attacker was striding down the corridor towards them, and was no more than twenty feet from the door. Wallace realised with sudden, gut-wrenching horror that he could see something hanging on the other side of the door: the keys.
The window shattered as a bullet cut through it. Wallace heard the high-velocity projectile slice the air beside his head. He was so shocked he hardly registered the flying glass, which scored a criss-cross pattern of scratches on his face.
‘We’ve got to move!’ he shouted to Bailey.
‘He’s not dead,’ Bailey said. ‘We’ve got to bring him with us.’
Bailey stuck a hand under the guard’s left arm and Wallace put one under the man’s right. Pulling together, they dragged the unconscious guard towards the next security door. The guard’s feet trailed behind them and his leg wound left a bloody ragged line in their wake. Wallace could see the orderly up ahead. He was frantically hitting the door.
‘Help!’ the orderly yelled.
‘Where are your keys?’ Bailey called.
‘In the staff room!’ the orderly replied, his fists hitting the door furiously. ‘Help!’
‘Check his pockets,’ Bailey ordered, as he and Wallace reached the door.
They dropped the unconscious guard and both began ferreting in the man’s pockets. Another crack and Wallace felt an impact above him. The orderly fell to his knees, retching as his hands grabbed at his chest. A pulsing pool of crimson spread across his white tunic, growing with each beat. Wallace would never forget the look the orderly gave him as he registered his own death. It conveyed the same mix of terrible emotions Wallace had felt hanging at the end of a rope. The orderly fell forward on to the unconscious security guard. Another crack and a bullet hit the door. Wallace looked up to see his assailant striding towards them, taking aim with one of the pistols.
