Digital Circumstances

by BRM Stewart

  Digital Circumstances

  Copyright © 2014 BRM Stewart

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-291-93901-9

  Brian Stewart worked in education, and was a maths teacher for more years than he can count. He now focuses on his writing, and lives in the Scottish Highlands with his wife. He has two grown-up children who live elsewhere in Scotland.

  Follow him on Twitter @BRMStewart, visit www.brmstewart.co.uk, or email brianrmstewart@gmail.com.

  The cover design is by Malcolm McGonigle, from images on morguefile.

  To my wife Sally

  for making it all possible.

  The beginning of the end, and the beginning

  Chapter 1

  Now - Kirkwall

  The hotel room itself is silent, save for a slight creaking of the old wardrobe, but I can hear the wind howling outside and the rain smashing against the window panes as I look out. It’s not long after noon, and only early September, but out there it’s very dark. I can see part of the outer harbour, with two ferries pulling restlessly at their ropes against the northerly gale. Somewhere further on are the small north isles, and beyond that Shetland and the Arctic, which doesn’t feel so very far away. I’ve moved my chair so that I can sit with my feet on the old cast-iron radiator, and the room thermostat says it’s twenty degrees in here, but I feel cold.

  The window flexes against the wind.

  It’s been a journey and a half to get here. BA Glasgow to Faro, EasyJet from Faro back to Glasgow, EasyJet again from Glasgow to Malaga, car hire to Gibraltar and then back to Malaga, train to Alicante, Ryanair to Edinburgh, train to Inverness, Flybe to Kirkwall, taxi to the hotel. Ideally, I would have done each leg with a different fake passport, using different credit cards, covering my tracks. But I’m just an ordinary guy: one passport, two credit cards, a debit card – all in my own name. I’m not quite sure who wants to find me the most, but if they have the resources and the contacts, they surely will.

  Assets? I’ve got fifty pounds and five hundred Euros in my wallet, and about two million pounds split over three bank accounts in Gibraltar, and half a million Euros in a Spanish bank account (though that could suddenly be worth fuck all any day now with the way the economy is going). I can access almost all of my money online, but one of the Gibraltar banks would need me there in person – that was the arrangement. I’ve got other investments in a string of companies, and a scattering of ISAs which I’ve lost track of, but they’re probably all out of reach now.

  Possessions? I’ve got a suitcase – weighing just less than 15kg of course – and enough technology to see me through: a MacBook, an iPhone, and an iPod.

  All of that is enough for a forty-two-year old single man to be going on with, except for that particular word ‘single’. I have no lover – not any more. No friends, no security. I can’t even contact anyone I know – updating my Facebook status is probably out of the question.

  I smile at that thought: Martin McGregor is hiding in Orkney. Sad face.

  The hard rain turns to hail, and I can see my reflection in my hotel room window. My unshaven face looks tired and gaunt, a product of irregular hours and irregular eating. I need to relax, to sleep, but part of me expects a knock at the door to pour scorn on my attempts to run and hide.

  Just a year ago, I thought I had it all. But it all went wrong.

  Chapter 2

  Alvor, a year before

  Where did it all go wrong?

  Well, it really went wrong way back when Charlie Talbot appeared at my school and I ended up at his party, met his dad Ken, and… But it really really went wrong that day on the Algarve, in the middle of my holiday with Helen, when Charlene appeared.

  *

  I find the Atlantic surf pounding onto an Algarve beach, when it’s big but still safe to swim in, absolutely exhilarating – once you’ve had the sharp intake of breath when a wave first hits your groin, and then not minded how stupid you look as you’ve tried to dive through a wave only to find yourself beached as the wave recedes.

  The difficulty of getting into the ocean is only matched by the difficulty of getting back out again. I thought I’d judged it perfectly, as I planted my feet down and began wading confidently ashore, but then the next wave smashed my in the back, knocked me over, and dragged me back out of my depth. I rose to the surface coughing and surprised, found I could stand up, started wading ashore again, and then the next wave caught me. By the time I stumbled up the beach, my swim-shorts were sagging round my knees, filled with rough sand. Helen was laughing so much that her iPhone was shaking as she jabbed at the screen.

  I staggered across the hot beach to our sunbeds and the shade of the pointed, wicker umbrella. ‘Oh, come on!’ I said.

  ‘There’s a couple of likes in already,’ she giggled, and leaned up on one elbow so I could kiss her mouth as I reached for my towel and my sunglasses.

  I knew that was probably an exaggeration – Portugal didn’t seem to have good Wi-Fi, certainly not on the beach – but I laughed anyway. Helen lay back, plugging in her ear buds and pulling her NYPD baseball cap over her forehead. I looked at her as I towelled myself, admiring her figure, her short black hair, the intelligent dark brown eyes hidden behind big sunglasses, the full lips. I smiled with a satisfaction bordering on smugness. OK, there had been tough times, tough decisions in my life – some of which I wasn’t proud of – but I felt in a good place now.

  I looked around. Many of the beaches on the Algarve are tiny coves, hard to get to – and I love them – but the one at Alvor runs for over a mile, formed by the river estuary turning sideways just before it gets to the ocean. We were on the last, most westerly rectangular group of loungers and umbrellas, close to where the courtesy bus from the hotel dropped us. The beach further on was deserted. In the other direction lay the travesty of high-rises that had been built during the seventies tourist boom, and then the beach ran into the sandstone cliffs. Just beyond them was the larger town of Portimao.

  I scanned it all, still grinning. All I had to do was finish my plan to get out of various... entanglements I had. Then I could have and enjoy it all.

  I was about to lie down beside Helen when I caught sight of a couple walking along by the water’s edge. This was early October; the beach was by no means empty, but now that the weekend was over there weren’t that many people around. As I looked at this couple I realised they were looking at me.

  They were an odd couple. She was small and blonde, wearing only the tiny lower part of a bikini. He was much taller, heavily built, with coarse features. He wore swim-shorts and carried a manbag. As I watched, they turned away from the shore and started walked straight towards me, no expression on their faces.

  I was aware of Helen sitting up, pulling an ear bud out and pausing her iPod. ‘You’ll certainly know her the next time,’ she commented. I gave a small murmur that I hoped was non-committal. ‘The word you’re looking for is ‘pert’,’ she added.

  ‘They seem to be coming this way.’

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Don’t recognise them at all.’

  As they came nearer, Helen reached for her T-shirt to cover herself and swung her legs off the lounger, her bare feet on the sand. I gave my hair a last rub with the towel and dropped it onto my lounger. The couple got closer and closer, still looking straight at me. I looked straight back.

  They were now directly in front of us. He stood with his feet planted firmly in the sand, looking at me: he had a square face, with a prominent forehead – straight black hair combed forward over it – and a single, long eyebrow, and thick lips. His body looked strong, but not particularly athletic. His chest, legs and arms were thick with dark hair. She was just perfectly formed,
like some film director had asked the CGI people ‘make me a cute little blonde with a perfect body and a pretty face’. Her face was expressionless, flat. She stood with one knee bent, shoulders back, almost daring me not to admire her. She looked like she was in her early twenties, he was maybe around thirty. I saw wedding rings, the gold chain round his neck, the barbed wire tattoo round his upper arm. She had a small dolphin on her shoulder. There were perfect little pearl earrings in her perfect little ears, red nail varnish on her fingers and toes.

  ‘Hello again, Martin,’ the man said, in a very rough Glasgow accent.

  I sensed Helen looking at me. I frowned, and reached to shake hands – his grip was dry, firm, but I sensed reserves of pressure. ‘Hi – er..?’

  ‘We met at Colin Strachan’s a couple of years ago, remember?’

  My smile froze. What the fuck… ‘Colin Strachan’s. Sorry, I can’t remember your name.’

  ‘Jimmy Anderson. I’m a friend of Ken Talbot.’

  Oh shit, I thought. The relaxed, safe holiday mood slipped off me. What did this guy want?

  ‘Not surprised you don’t remember,’ Anderson said. ‘You were pretty well gone that evening. It was quite a party.’

  I might very well have been pretty well gone ‘that evening’, but it wasn’t at Colin Strachan’s party. I hadn’t spoken to Colin since he’d left the company four years ago, and I’d never had any need or desire to. I’d definitely never met this guy before; he was mentioning Colin and Ken Talbot in order to get my attention, and probably frighten me a little. It had worked.

  ‘This is my partner Helen,’ I said.

  They shook hands, and then Helen and I both looked at the cute blonde, who didn’t react.

  ‘This is my wife Charlene.’

  She didn’t offer her hand, but kept giving us the blank look, so we just nodded at her and said hi.

  ‘We’re going for lunch,’ Anderson said. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ And he began to walk towards the wooden walkway that led up the beach, Charlene by his side.

  Helen pulled my arm. ‘Stop leching, Martin. And can you tell me just what the fuck is going on?’

  I started gathering our stuff together, and she helped, face in a frown. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Might as well have lunch now anyway.’ But I knew I looked worried, and that wouldn’t be reassuring for her.

  We paused to wash the sand off our feet at the taps by the walkway and put on our sandals, then went up past the café bar where we usually had lunch and a drink – the waiter gave us a wave as we went by, though he was clearly focused on Charlene. As we left the beach, Anderson passed her a T-shirt and she shrugged it on.

  We made our way over the rough track flanked by scrub, past the sports ground and the fishing businesses, to the promenade. On our left the water was filled with small boats, and then we reached the first of the line of café bars.

  Anderson sat at a table by the wall, his back to the shoreline, and Charlene sat beside him, shaded by the standard conical wicker umbrella. Helen and I sat opposite, the metal legs of the chairs scraping on the concrete.

  The waiter materialised, white shirt and black trousers, a round tray under his arm, nodding to me and Helen like he maybe recognised us but giving a cautious look to our companions.

  ‘Bom die,’ I said.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the waiter replied. ‘What can I get for you?’ He gave the tabletop an unnecessary wipe, and repositioned the ashtray.

  We ordered drinks – beers for me and Anderson, a large glass of red wine for Helen. Anderson ordered Charlene a sparkling water without asking her. Three of us made small talk about the fabulous weather and how lovely the town was, and where we’d visited. Charlene sat half-turned towards Anderson, looking behind him to a narrow pontoon at the end of which was the large Portuguese-style wooden boat that took tourists on trips. I wondered what Anderson wanted from me.

  We ordered food – Helen and I shared a cataplana, with more beer and water and a bottle of wine, Anderson had a burger and chips, and he ordered Charlene a salad, which she picked at disinterestedly. She still hadn’t said a word, and it wasn’t clear whether she was following the small talk. I began to think she didn’t speak English.

  After a bizarre but not unpleasant hour – Helen was now pleasantly lunchtime-sloshed, and looking almost relaxed – Anderson stood up. ‘Can we go for a wee walk, Martin? I’d like a chat in private.’

  He stood up and started walking away, in the direction of the town. I shrugged at Helen’s wide-eyed look, her hands indicating Charlene with a glare that said ‘what the fuck am I supposed to do on my own with her?’ and followed him.

  We walked slowly through the heat along the promenade, past the stalls noisily advertising boat trips, and the strange totem-pole, and then turned up along one of the narrow roads that ran through the old town, lined with traditional Portuguese restaurants and the odd Italian, an English-themed pub; down a side road was an Indian restaurant. I followed him patiently.

  At the end of the restaurants, beyond the small shops, almost at the end of the old town, he turned off into an even narrower residential street and stopped beside the empty skeleton of a small building where a major renovation had been started and then abandoned in the recession. The street was deserted, shutters closed against the heat and dust of the early afternoon.

  As I realised we were completely out of sight here, and how quiet it was, Anderson turned and reached to hold my arm while his other hand went into his pocket. And pulled out a smartphone, which he unlocked and dialled one-handed. When he heard someone answer, he passed the phone to me.

  ‘Hello?’ I said, hearing how thin and nervous my voice was.

  ‘Hi, Martin. How’s it going?’ The voice was the low Glasgow growl of a million cigarettes and a lifetime of hard living.

  ‘I’m fine, Sandy. Enjoying the sunshine.’

  ‘Good, good.’ A dry cough, and the sound of a cigarette being lit and sucked on, my earpiece crackling as he exhaled. ‘I won’t spoil it. The people at your end have a job for you – won’t take long, won’t cause you any hassle. Just do what they want, and that’ll be just fine.’

  I frowned at that. ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘Nothing too difficult, I expect. Just do what they ask – that’ll keep you and us all square, and us and them all square too.’

  I looked at Anderson, and he looked back at me with his dull eyes, still gripping my arm. ‘Who are these people, Sandy?’

  ‘Just people, Martin – people with things to get done. Don’t worry about them, don’t ask any daft questions. Just do the wee job for them.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  His voice seemed surprised. ‘Afterwards? Nothing. You just get back to your wee holiday with the lovely Helen, and then get on home to Glasgow.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  He gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Just do this wee job, Martin. For the business.’

  And he hung up. I gave the phone back to Anderson and he put it away, but continued to grip my arm, looking hard at me, and I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  His voice was precise: ‘In Portimao, there is a road that runs along the beach, towards the marina, called Avenue Tomas Cabreira. On that road, about a mile from the marina, is a pub called the Kingfisher. Do you know it?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll find it no bother. Be there at one in the afternoon tomorrow. Someone will come in and tell you what to do. OK?’

  I took another deep breath. ‘Yes, fine.’

  He let go of my arm, and we walked back down to the marina, past the couples and the families in the café bars and restaurants. As we neared our table, his voice was a whisper: ‘One pm, Kingfisher Bar, Avenue Tomas Cabreira. Just you yourself.’ There was no threat in his voice, no ‘or else’.

  I nodded to show I’d heard, and tried to think of the story I could tell Helen to excuse myself the next day, knowing she was going to be really pissed off by this.

>   As we approached the table, Charlene stood up and started to walk away, back in the direction of the beach. Anderson grabbed his manbag, fished out a few Euro notes which he dropped on the table, and followed her.

  I sat down and drank the rest of my beer. Helen was staring at me, her mouth wide. Then she laughed. ‘What the fuck was all that about, Martin? Do you know she didn’t say a bloody word to me? Just sipped at her fizzy water, and gazed around. What did he want?’

  I was trying to think what the hell to say to her, and decided on something that had elements of the truth in it. ‘He works for some clients of B&D. They’ve got a problem and they want me to help out – I’m the only one who can. They obviously found out I was here, so…’

  ‘Couldn’t he just have emailed you?’

  ‘It’s all a bit sensitive.’

  ’Oh.’ She took a gulp of her wine and filled it to the brim with the last of the bottle, pushing it to the middle of the table. ‘So what is it you’re doing?’

  ‘I told you, it’s sensitive.’ I tried a grin, but she just frowned back, and I took a big drink from the glass.

  We finished the wine as we watched the comings and goings of the local boats and the tourist trips in the marina, paid for lunch with Anderson’s money and some of our own, and then made our way back up through the old town and into the newer part where our hotel was. We showered to get rid of the salt and the dust, and then made love. I dozed off for a time, and awoke to find Helen stroking me, a smile on her face. ‘Did that wee blonde turn you on, then?’

  ‘Not as much as you do.’ But it was undeniable: there was something in Charlene that was very attractive - compelling.

  We made love again, and then Helen gave a contented, sleepy sigh. ‘Love you, darling,’ she murmured, and slipped into sleep, a little smile on her face.

  I lay for a couple of minutes almost dozing, and then got up, showered again, put on shorts and a polo shirt, and went out to our balcony with a bottle of water.