A Cursed Place

by Peter Hanington

  ‘… was there anything else Patrick?’ She paused, long enough that a question could have been asked. ‘Oh yeah, that new gear you’ve been talking about? I think it might be down on the fourth floor, Patrick. I, er … I don’t know.’

  Dan stepped forward and grabbed the phone, switching it off before throwing it behind him, back onto the bed. Viv stared at him, incredulous.

  ‘That’s it. Get out of this bathroom Dan, I’m going to get dressed, get my stuff and go.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that Viv. We were having a good time, weren’t we? How about we just press reset?’

  ‘How about you tell me why you were logged in as me, Dan? How do you know my password? Why were you looking at those shared files?’

  The American shook his head.

  ‘I was curious, it’s not a big deal.’

  ‘It’s a big deal to me Dan …’ She grabbed her dress and tights. ‘Please, step out of my way.’

  Dan sighed and stepped aside to let her pass.

  ‘Ah, Viv.’ He smiled. ‘I want you to know, I really hoped it wasn’t going to play out this way.’

  59 Departures

  NEW BROADCASTING HOUSE, PORTLAND PLACE, LONDON

  Carver nodded at the security guard on reception at Broadcasting House and swished himself in through the tall glass revolving doors. Down in the main newsroom – the pit as most of the hacks here at the BBC called it – it was business as usual. Dozens of journalists sitting closely together in a space-saving pattern of white desks and black computer monitors. Carver stared at the large screen that listed the most recent radio and TV despatches filed by BBC correspondents elsewhere in the world: Washington, Tokyo, Sydney. The city and then the name of the reporter and the time the story was sent. At the top of the list were several HongKongBrandons. He sniffed and headed for the lift.

  As McCluskey had predicted, Naomi was delighted to hear about Carver’s travel plans.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you to teaching for good to be honest William, and your timing is excellent. Patrick’s exhausted, every time I talk to him these last few days he sounds worse. You’ll be just the tonic he needs.’ She told Carver she’d help the School of Journalism find a replacement to sub in for him for a few weeks and asked if he needed any new equipment. He shook his head. He had his own stuff, plus a couple of bits of kit that McCluskey had insisted he take with him.

  ‘Nah, the MiniDisc and Marantz are fine and I’ve still got one of the office laptops.’

  Naomi lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘That must be seven or eight years old by now. I assumed all of those were in landfill in China. It still works okay?’

  ‘It’s slow, but it’s fine.’

  She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it.

  ‘Sounds like you’re all set. When are you planning to go?’

  Carver thought about this. He needed to book a flight, pack his stuff and see or at least speak to McCluskey and Rebecca once more. He wanted to make sure that McCluskey’s sister had agreed that she could go stay with her and also suggest to Rebecca that she moved somewhere else for a week or two. Perhaps her parents could put her up?

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ll book a seat on the first flight out of Heathrow. I reckon I can do everything I need to do between now and then.’

  Naomi offered to buy Carver a quick lunch down in the canteen, but he refused; he was due to meet Donnie shortly and he needed to get a wiggle on.

  They’d arranged to meet at the coffee shop just outside New Broadcasting House. It was a sunny late autumn day and having looked around inside the café, Carver took a table outside. It was quieter out on the piazza and there was less chance of being overheard. Donnie appeared outside the glass revolving doors carrying a blue Ikea reusable bag in each hand, both stuffed almost to overflowing with documents. Carver watched him waddle his way over and waited while he unburdened himself.

  ‘What the hell is all that?’

  ‘That’s one hundred and eighty quid’s worth of photocopying and printing is what that is.’ He sat down heavily and pushed his beanie hat back away from his forehead; he was sweating. ‘It’s also five years’ worth of Public Square accounts …’ He pushed the bags back towards the wall with his boot. ‘… and all their shareholder reports too.’ He stared at the empty table. ‘Where’s my coffee?’

  ‘I’ve not bought anything yet. There’s a queue.’

  ‘Well you better go stand in it. I’ll have a gingerbread latte and a blueberry muffin.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Chocolate sprinkles on the latte.’

  When Carver got back, Donnie had a handful of the many hundreds of documents he’d printed off fanned out in front of him on the table. He took a slurp of his sugary coffee and cleared his throat.

  ‘So Public Square is quite a company. It’s like an octopus with about a billion tentacles. It’s here, there – every fuckin’ where.’

  ‘You told me you were a shareholder.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So surely you had an idea about the kind of stuff it does?’

  ‘I had a vague idea – tech, phones, mining. I knew a bit about it, like just about every other shareholder I reckon. But that stuff isn’t even the half of it. Way less than half.’

  ‘Can you give me the headlines?’

  Donnie talked Carver through some of what he’d found, but it soon became too detailed for William to make much sense of it.

  ‘What’s the most interesting thing Donnie?’

  ‘The most interesting? Okay, so Public Square’s research spend is something incredible.’

  ‘Like big?’

  ‘Like the GDP of a medium-sized country big. And the income streams that fund the research flow straight into that bit of the business – they don’t go anywhere near the main company.’

  ‘And that’s unusual?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Why would somebody want to do things that way?’

  ‘Well, it looks to me like some of that money’s coming from interesting old places: Philippines, Myanmar, China … all via the usual offshore favourites – Cayman, Panama, Channel Islands and the rest.’ Donnie pointed at the Ikea bags, stuffed with documents. ‘It’s all in here, that and much more I’ll bet. I’ve only skimmed the surface.’

  ‘Right, so you’ve not finished?’

  Donnie laughed.

  ‘I’ve got a full-time job here at the BBC and several other full-time jobs in other places too. I haven’t got time to go through all this for you line by line. You’re lucky I found the time to do what I did.’

  ‘Sure. I’m sorry Donnie, I’m grateful. But what am I supposed to do with all this? I’m flying to Hong Kong first thing tomorrow.’

  Donnie shrugged.

  ‘Where’s that lanky blond kid who used to do all the work you didn’t want to do?’

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘He’s in Hong Kong already.’

  ‘Well then, I guess you’re either going to have to find yourself a new sucker or …’ He waved a hand at the Ikea bags again. ‘… you’re going to have to shell out for some serious excess baggage.’

  Carver thought for a moment.

  ‘Now you mention it, there might be someone.’

  60 Video Nasties

  BROCHU, CHILE, SOUTH AMERICA

  Jags threw the Chilean burner phone back in the glove and slammed it shut. He took the notepad from inside his jacket pocket and read a few of the poems he’d written in recent weeks. The haikus were crap, he knew that, but they helped to calm him and right now he needed some of that.

  Through a car window

  A moonlit mining town, hills

  One man awake, me

  He remembered sitting almost exactly here and scribbling that down – not so long ago either. He’d written it just before going to hang Soledad’s father. No moonlight now, hardly any light at all in fact, despite it being mid-afternoon. A leaden sky and the stead
y drizzling rain meant he could barely see the pockmarked metal Brochu sign that he was parked next to, let alone the town or hills or dam.

  ‘Shit.’

  He got the burner phone back out of the glove and re-read the recent exchange of text messages between him and Fred.

  ‘Another day, another video nasty featuring your new recruit. I’m sending help.’

  Jags had messaged straight back.

  ‘I don’t want help.’

  ‘I’m not asking you any more. I’m telling you. He’ll arrive tomorrow. He’ll tell you what needs to be done. No more messages.’

  So that was that. Soledad had texted him too, asking to meet, possibly to apologise or explain what her performance at the unburying had been meant to achieve. Although Jags doubted it. There was no point in a meeting now anyway, not yet. He had to wait and meet this guy that Fred was sending and work out what his function was. It would be a recent graduate from Fred’s school for former military or intelligence agency people. It might even be one of the individuals that Jags had watched taking that test during his tour of Department Eight. Sending one of his most recent recruits to put Jags back in line would appeal to Fred’s sense of humour. The more he thought about it, the more convinced Jags was that the man being sent to straighten things out would be someone he’d seen in that room. He ran through what he remembered of each of them. It turned out to be a fair amount.

  They were all younger than Jags, that almost went without saying. No doubt some were stronger and one or two were probably quicker. But none were more experienced. Experience sometimes gave you half a second’s advantage and in Jags’ line of work, half a second was usually enough. If it came to it – then he would kill Soledad himself. He’d do it before they could. Jags could do it quick and kind – which Fred’s man might not. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his bomber jacket and lit one. He took a deep draw and opened the car window a couple of inches to let some fresh air in.

  He remembered something that Soledad’s father had said, just before he’d died. Some old Chilean superstition about having to carry the soul of the man you kill around with you, carry it on your back. Jags shook his head. The burden he’d been chosen to carry wasn’t a dead man’s soul; it was his daughter’s life. He got his notebook and pencil back out and turned to a fresh page.

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

  Elizabeth had asked him to promise that he would go to her if he was ever unhappy with one of Fred’s orders. He smoked some more of the Marlboro, pulling so hard on the filter that his head felt dizzy. He was unhappy now.

  ‘You can talk to me … any time.’ That was what she’d said. He’d bought a new phone, unregistered with Public Square, the number unknown to anyone but him. Him and Elizabeth, if he decided to take a chance and call or message her. If the risk had been his alone, then he almost certainly would have called her already. But it was not. Such a move risked putting Elizabeth in harm’s way and he could not countenance that.

  61 Slow Journalism

  PORTLAND PLACE, LONDON, W1

  Naz answered on the second ring.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hello, is that …’

  ‘Whatever it is you’re selling bruv, I’m not buying.’

  ‘Er, okay. It’s William Carver here, Naz. Your journalism teacher?’

  ‘Oh shit. I mean, sorry sir, I thought you were some random man.’

  ‘I see. Well …’

  ‘What can I do for you Mr Carver?’ She paused. ‘Is this about the essay deadline?’ There was a slight nervousness in her voice.

  ‘What? No, you can take as long as you like with that.’

  ‘Ah, cool.’

  ‘It’s something else. What’re you doing right now Naz?’

  ‘Right now? I’m doing a little karaoke.’

  ‘Karaoke? In the middle of the day?’

  ‘Yeah, just practising. I’m pretty serious about my karaoke. I can do this any time though, what d’you need?’

  ‘I’ve got a job for you, a journalistic job. How long will it take you to get into town, Oxford Circus?’

  It took Naz forty minutes. Carver stayed where he was, sitting outside the café on the BBC piazza; there was no way he was going to lug those Ikea bags around if he didn’t have to. He read through a few copies of Public Square’s shareholder reports and ate a disappointing tuna sandwich while he waited. When Naz arrived, wearing her usual jeans and tracksuit top and looking like she’d run from the tube station, Carver let her catch her breath and then gave her the background.

  ‘You’ve heard of Elizabeth Curepipe? Public Square?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m doing a little investigative work.’

  ‘Investigating her, why?’

  ‘Well, partly because she has shown an interest in me and I figure it would be rude not to return the favour. But also she’s pitching this partnership between Public Square and the BBC and I’m not so sure about it.’

  ‘Why not? She’s amazing, it’ll be brilliant.’

  ‘Okay. Well, you might be right, but I prefer it if you tried to keep an open mind while you’re doing this job I need you to do …’

  Carver explained what he needed Naz to do; he removed a few more of the documents and went through them with her.

  ‘The key to doing something like this Naz – I probably said this to you in class – is that you need to turn every page …’

  Naz looked at the Ikea bags.

  ‘That’s a lot of pages.’

  ‘I hadn’t finished … Turn every page, read every word.’

  ‘Right.’ She nodded knowingly. ‘I get what you’re talking about Mr Carver. You mean, like, slow journalism.’

  Carver pulled a face.

  ‘I suppose so. But it didn’t used to be called slow journalism.’

  ‘What was it called?’

  ‘Just journalism.’

  ‘Okay …’ She sucked at her teeth. ‘… you said this is a job, right Mr Carver?’

  ‘Right. I’ll pay you …’ He paused. ‘… the minimum wage is around six quid an hour these days I think.’

  ‘The London living wage is more like twelve.’

  ‘I’ll give you seven.’

  Naz sucked at her teeth some more.

  ‘Even the Hounslow Chronicle pays ten.’ This was smart.

  Carver nodded.

  ‘Okay, I’ll pay bloody ten … but keep a proper account of the hours and read quickly.’

  ‘I’ll do my best Mr Carver, but I need to turn every page, read every …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Very good.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I need to get going.’ He stood up from the table. ‘This is a bit of proper journalism I’m giving you to do here Naz. And a test of your initiative too.’

  ‘Right.’ She looked at the Ikea bags. ‘How am I supposed to get this lot back home to Hounslow?’

  ‘There’s the first initiative test right there. I’ll message you as soon as I’ve got a Hong Kong mobile. Good luck.’

  62 The Common Denominator

  PUBLIC SQUARE HQ, CUPERTINO, CALIFORNIA

  Halfway across the Public Square campus, Fred stopped briefly to admire the elaborate sprinkler system that was watering a tennis court-sized patch of plastic grass. The Astroturf didn’t need water of course, but Fred enjoyed the sight and, in particular, the sound the sprinklers made; they brought back a childhood memory that he was fond of – hence the pointless, pretty sprinkling.

  Up inside his office, Elizabeth was waiting. She’d left for work even earlier than him that morning, which was unusual.

  ‘Hey husband of mine, how’re things?’

  ‘Everything’s good thank you …’ He sat down behind his desk and switched on his computer; the machine whirred quietly into life. The screen, almost as long as the desk itself, flickered. ‘… are you well?’

  ‘Very well.’

  It was obvio
us that Elizabeth had something she wanted to ask him, but in the meantime, he needed to work. Everything was not good. As Elizabeth watched, Fred’s eyes assumed that glazed, lifeless look they got when he was concentrating hard on something. He moved the mouse around, a frown clouding his face.

  ‘What’s the problem Fred?’

  He looked up from the screen.

  ‘I never asked you how that meeting with the old BBC guy went. What’s his name again?’

  Elizabeth looked at him.

  ‘I’m pretty sure you remember what his name is Fred, let’s not play games. My meeting with William Carver was interesting but ultimately unsuccessful.’

  ‘Right …’ He paused. ‘… are you familiar with that old piece of folkloric advice about how best to deal with a sleeping dog, Lizzie?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Don’t patronise me Fred. What’s the problem? What’s Carver done that’s upset you?’

  ‘Nothing serious, not yet but …’

  ‘Let me guess … you’re in the nipping in the bud business?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I can talk to him again … if you like.’

  ‘I don’t like.’ He sighed. ‘Don’t worry Lizzie, I shouldn’t have mentioned it, it’s fine. I’ll sort it …’ He looked up from his screen again and smiled. ‘… it’s really not that big a deal.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now what was it you wanted?’

  ‘I wanted to ask if you knew where Jags was at?’

  ‘He’s in Chile. Checking that everything’s the way we need it to be before you fly down there.’ Fred paused. ‘You knew that was the plan, how come you’re asking?’

  ‘No reason. I’m just really keen to make that trip, I wondered if you’d heard from him?’

  Fred lied easily.

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  They arranged to have lunch together in the Public Square canteen. Fred never particularly enjoyed doing this, but he did it anyway. Once a month was usually enough to send a message to the staff that they were all in it together.