Hashtag

by David Wake

  Target Four was nowhere to be seen, but Oliver ran down the stairs. He knew from his training that fugitives tended to run downwards, an instinct to get out of the trees perhaps.

  I’m going up, I’m on level four, Target Four’s stooge thought, but, even second hand, it included the hint of a basement.

  Oliver flung himself around the awkward spiral, grabbing the metal rails for leverage. Without the daylight from the windows, it was dark below ground level. It frightened him, always had from childhood, but at least with his colleagues’ thoughts in his head, he wasn’t alone.

  His eyes didn’t adjust fast enough, or his heavy gasps fogged the riot helmet’s visor, but he assumed the shape of the turns would be identical and the door to the sub–level in the same place. He got away with it, and he came out in a gloomy underground car park.

  There were no cars. No, wait! One car, there, and pillars holding up the ceiling and the entire abandoned shopping centre above. Light streamed in weakly from the distant iron shutters.

  “Give it up,” said Oliver, aloud. His voice echoed like a rethink.

  He snapped his torch on and scanned the beam around to be rewarded by a scuffle.

  Target Four’s thoughts were now distorted by fear with a strange echo. Oliver had him almost on recognition, which meant he must be close, and the stooge’s repetition came afterwards.

  Perhaps he was behind the abandoned car?

  Oliver bent over until he could see under the vehicle.

  Or one of these pillars then?

  Oliver began to move sideways, deliberately moving around the pillar in a clockwise direction before he flicked the torch’s beam off. He paused, waited for his eyes to adjust before moving around anti–clockwise. He thought he might catch the man moving to keep the pillar between them.

  No way, came a thought.

  Oliver took two strides back the way he’d come, flicked the torch on and jumped around the nearest pillar. Target Four’s wide eyes reflected back and Oliver recognised him, a clear signal now there wasn’t anything between them, and he knew he was Jimmy Scanlan.

  Give it up, Oliver thought.

  The man came for him: Take this!

  Oliver’s reflexes took over, his training kicking in, and he flung his torch forward as a distraction. The metal tube bounced and clattered away, but caused something in the man’s right hand to glint silver.

  Take this, came the stooge’s rethink.

  Oliver blocked and then twisted so that the blade snagged on his stab vest. They went down, the man landing on top. Oliver was winded, his neck jarred when his helmet struck the concrete floor.

  In your guts!

  Oliver felt the man shift position, his arm going down to probe below his Kevlar protection.

  The stooge: In your guts!

  Jimmy! Don’t!

  Their eyes met, he smiled: Any last request?

  Oliver head–butted him.

  Ah! Bast–ak, @£$%, #mum… mummy…

  Oliver did it again and was rewarded with a flaring shutdown.

  Any last request… nah, he’s toast, the man thought… no, his stooge had thought that. The kid, wherever he was, did know English after all.

  For a moment Oliver didn’t think, he just lay there, breathing, and glad to be alive.

  Chen and the others arrived in a thundering stampede as Oliver pushed the unconscious man off.

  Ollie, at Ollie, OK, OK? It was Chen checking.

  Oliver undid the strap of his helmet and pulled it off. His head felt suddenly cold without the clammy padding and metal covering. Oliver held his thumb upwards. Chen liked this.

  “Jimmy Scanlan,” said Chen in a loud and clear voice. “I’m, like, arresting you–”

  He’s unconscious, Oliver thought, as he tried to swat the light away from his eyes. The others got the hint and pointed their torches downwards.

  Which reminds me, Oliver thought, where’s my torch?

  A couple of the police moved their own torches to indicate where a beam of light shone from under the abandoned car.

  Thanks.

  He called for his Mummy when Ollie smacked him in the head.

  Six others in the squad liked this.

  Oliver wasn’t sure which of them had thought that. They all looked the same in their visors, but he recognised them all from their signals.

  You got ’im, Ollie, Mox thought.

  Yea, Oliver thought back.

  He had really connected with Target Four’s forehead with obvious results. It would be a while before the man’s iBrow settled and they got any straight thinking out of him. Jimmy Scanlan writhed on the floor as if he was having a fit, a sort of disconnected automaton, disturbingly inhuman due to the lack of thought.

  I’d like to read his ‘Mummy’ thought out in court, thought someone, the idea as clear as day.

  Straight away, everyone liked this.

  Imagine reading the rest out in court: run, run, run…

  Everyone laughed at that, their relief spilling out into the echoing subterranean chamber.

  Hash Foxtrot, we deserve to go to the pub now, Chen thought.

  Oliver got up and sauntered over to the vehicle, a red Tiger Fire. He reached first, but then had to go down on his hands and knees to retrieve his torch. When he stood up, he flicked it on and off to check it was working properly and, in doing so, shone the beam across the back seat of the car.

  “Shit!”

  There was a body, quite clearly very dead.

  Chen came over: Is he dead?

  Oliver realised he must have leaked a thought or two unconsciously. She’s seen better days, he thought in reply.

  Chen looked in the car. “Jeez, what a mess,” he said. Sometimes thoughts weren’t enough. Chen glanced at everyone in turn: Who’s senior officer?

  The others looked at each other, almost shuffling back to avoid volunteering.

  Oliver raised his hand: Detective Constable, he thought.

  Your show then, Chen thought.

  Do we need one, Oliver thought.

  Murder, Chen thought, she can’t have smashed her head in like that herself.

  Oliver nodded, OK, OK, and took charge: Mox, you’re scene of crime officer.

  When he received no reply, Oliver called out, “Mox!”

  Mox looked startled: Sorry, just updating my status.

  Secure the area until forensics gets here.

  Mox saluted and stepped forward, holding out his hand to back everyone away from the car, even Oliver. He tilted his head, a sure sign he was noodling something.

  It’s 2:35pm, Mox thought, and this is now officially a crime scene: Hash 83,648,819

  Given the situation, Oliver thought, someone best stay with him.

  Riot’s over.

  No way.

  Overtime?

  Oliver considered for a moment, recognizing each of the identically dressed officers: Tim.

  Ollie!!!

  Two paramedics arrived to deal with the injured prisoner, Jimmy Scanlan, who was no longer Target Four but officially an ‘alleged’ riot jay.

  The rest of them went outside.

  Beyond the abandoned construction site, its steel reinforcing rods visible sticking up through the concrete dust, a police mini–bus was cruising past collecting the various groups: a clear sign that the flash mob’s interest had waned.

  Oliver noodled for a situation update and, sure enough, with the ring–leaders bagged and some celebrity event going viral, the streets had turned eerily quiet. There’d be a lot of glass to replace and items to recover, but that was it.

  Chen came up beside him: Can we get across that?

  Oliver checked the construction site: No, we’ll have to go around.

  OK.

  Chen led the way to the steel shutters and they found a place where they could climb up to the vehicle access ramp. The mini–bus doubled back when the driver got their thoughts.

  Oliver suddenly remembered: Shield?

  What numb
er?

  Oliver tried to pull his police overall round to see the stencil, but he couldn’t.

  Fifty–three, Chen thought.

  Is it in the back?

  Yes, here.

  Here.

  Oliver took the offered hand and jumped into the mini–bus with the others.

  At Ollie, Jellicoe wants to see you, Freya thought.

  Me?

  Yes, in person.

  Can he not brief me here, Oliver thought back.

  No, he’s in the Lamp.

  He wants to talk to me in person!?

  Yes. Then get the report on my desk about today’s operation by 16:30 and one for this new crime, Hash 83,648,819.

  Oliver sighed and held the bridge of his nose tightly.

  I heard that.

  That was from Freya, either she’d replied to someone else or she’d simply assumed he’d thought something sarcastic.

  On the way back, Oliver noodled a list of the various interactions over the morning. This he sent to his ancient tablet, so that when he got back to the office and changed out of the riot gear, a rough draft of a report was waiting. He assigned names to thoughts, deleted a few idiotic asides and inserted some hooks for the wiki. It would have to do. He wasn’t sure why they used this obsolete technology anyway. Why hot–desk when you can hot–foot? He emailed it to Freya.

  The Lamp was the tavern of choice for the Senior Detectives. It was dark, secluded and ancient; their custom all that kept the place going. Oliver was a new breed of detective, he knew, and he wasn’t going to end up in this throw–back to the last century. The decor came from an age before the iBrow or the internet even.

  In person, honestly.

  The pub was guarded by two elderly detectives smoking just outside the doorway. Oliver held his breath as he went past.

  When he breathed in again, he smelt the hops and stale beer. Everyone was wearing corduroy and tweed. There was a babble of audible talking as you always had in pubs. Jellicoe was in the third booth along; alone, except for a tumbler of scotch.

  I’m here, Sir, Oliver thought.

  No reaction.

  Sir?

  Nothing.

  Still nothing.

  Oliver coughed deliberately.

  Inspector Jellicoe looked up. “Ah, Oliver…” The man consulted a piece of paper. Oh for… the man uses paper. “Braddon.”

  Sir.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Sir?”

  “Sit down, what would you like?”

  “I’m fine,” Oliver said, squeezing into the booth. His mouth felt dry as it was unused to talking aloud, and he swallowed to relieve his throat.

  “I insist.”

  “Tonic water.”

  “Just that?”

  “I’m on duty.”

  “So am I.”

  “Oh. Right. Er… half a lager then.”

  “Same again,” said Jellicoe, showing his glass to Oliver. “Her name’s Babs Lamp.”

  At Babslamp… At Babs_lamp, Oliver thought, could I have a half of Stella and whatever Jellicoe was having, please.

  Coming up.

  Oliver sidled out again and walked to the bar, getting there just as the barmaid topped up the lager. Babs looked fifteen and Oliver wondered about checking her ID.

  Gland problem.

  Sorry, he thought back.

  Oliver waited for the buzz – nine fifty – and reckoned with his bank.

  Get me a lawyer, get me a fucking lawyer! Fucking Thought Police.

  God, Oliver thought, I’m still following Jimmy Scanlan and he’s come round. Oliver tweaked his settings as he negotiated his way back with the drinks.

  Jellicoe took his glass with a grunt, swirled the neat liquid and then held it to the light. “Hello scotch,” he said, “glad to meet you.”

  He took a sip.

  This is going to take all day, Oliver thought.

  Better not, Jasmine thought, we’ve a date at six.

  Don’t worry.

  I do.

  Thanks.

  Booked and asked for our table.

  We have a table?

  Yes, Ollie, the one–

  Jellicoe banged his glass down sharply, shocking Oliver back to the Lamp.

  At Jasmine, got to concentrate here – sorry.

  Later.

  “This body of yours,” the Inspector said.

  “Not mine.”

  “It is now, you’re assigned.”

  “Me?”

  “You found it.”

  Jellicoe was old, crumpled, and his nose was marked with a fine tracery of red lines. He was borderline alcoholic: No, Oliver thought, he is alcoholic. Thin hair, grey and swept back. When the man frowned, the skin of his forehead furrowed to reveal the shape of the iBrow underneath. He represented everything that Oliver hoped never to be. The police force was modern now and didn’t need these has–beens. The Inspector wore a uniform of tweed jacket and wrist watch. Honestly – steampunk – or whatever – was what? Ten years ago, at least.

  “Get it sorted quick, we don’t want any hacking group picking it up and making this morning’s flash riot political,” said Jellicoe.

  “It was nothing to do with the riot,” Oliver replied.

  “Nothing?”

  “We found it because Jimmy Scanlan tried to escape through Chedding Shopping Centre. The body was hidden in a car in the underground car park. We found it by pure chance.”

  “You’re sure? Bit of a co–incidence – bodies don’t just turn up,” said Jellicoe. The Inspector fumbled in his pocket and brought out a bottle of tablets. He spilled three into his palm, took them and washed them down with his whiskey.

  Oliver waited for him to finish and then said, “We’ll see when the pathologist reports back.”

  “I’m having the pathologist rush through the autopsy tonight,” said Jellicoe. “I’d like you to investigate it now.”

  “Oh, sure, as soon as the pathologist–”

  “Now!”

  What honestly was the point? All they had to do was wait for the code and they’d have a proper identification of the victim, otherwise it was endless searches.

  Jellicoe’s expression brooked no argument.

  “OK,” Oliver said.

  Oliver noodled missing persons and was momentarily overwhelmed when he remembered the list of 158,912 missing persons worldwide. He narrowed the search both in the time parameters and geographically. Jellicoe sipped his scotch, so Oliver took a mouthful of his drink. It was refreshing, it had been a day of running about, and he needed it. All this actual talking had made his throat dry.

  “Well?”

  “I remember about 700 odd. I’ll narrow it once more people wake up or,” he added, pointedly, “sober up.”

  “Hmmm… I’ve a gut feeling about this one,” said Jellicoe, continuing to talk aloud.

  “Why don’t you use thinking, Sir?”

  “I prefer my thoughts to be my own.”

  “People only do that, Sir, if they’ve something to hide.”

  “So the slogan says.”

  “Forensics will tell me who she was, and then we’ll noodle her thoughts and know everything there is to know.”

  “You shouldn’t rely on that all the time.”

  “Why not?”

  Jellicoe shrugged.

  Oliver had the impression that there was more that Jellicoe wanted to say, but, without a proper chain of thought to follow, it was impossible to guess. Usually, once he’d parsed a chain, Oliver could pretty much predict the next few thoughts as, he knew, could everyone.

  “Is that all, Sir?”

  Jellicoe nodded and waited until Oliver had extracted himself from the booth, before calling him back, “Braddon, you could make a good detective.”

  “I will Sir,” Oliver replied. But not like you.

  The number of applicable missing persons was down to 451. This was from the official list. Anybody who wasn’t thinking was missing in a way: in any in
stant that was 16 billion, but as people thought every six seconds or so, that quickly dropped by around a billion every second, levelling off quickly. After a minute, that bottomed out at around 5 billion, those people asleep.

  Why are you thinking about populations?

  Sorry, Jas, work – it’s on my mind. I’ll be there in ten. If I can get a cab.

  He checked up and down the street.

  Hash cab, hash cab, he thought.

  One pulled over and Oliver got in.

  A Missing Person didn’t become a police matter until there had been no thoughts for forty–eight hours. Hence the 441, reducing as more possibilities were eliminated, on the list.

  The taxi driver pulled out into the passing traffic. Oliver recognised him and then thought at him about the Palatine Restaurant. They skirted the High Street where clean–up crews were working already, brushing away the shattered glass and hammering boards over the broken windows.

  It was getting late: 6pm here was 10am in Los Angeles, so the whole of the Americas was awake now, so… this was stupid. Jellicoe had got him trying to second guess the pathologist. Tomorrow morning, first thing, they would get the iBrow code and then they’d know the registered owner – done. Unless the owner hadn’t thought about her attacker in which case there’d be a lot of fiddly searches to find who was responsible. So, evening off, glass of wine, chance to unwind.

  Too right… woo hoo.

  Jasmine’s train of thought was breaking up. She must be having a drink while she waited. And why not? He would too. Off duty was off call.

  By the time Oliver reached the restaurant, he was late, but luckily, he had worried enough about arriving on time so his thoughts had mollified Jasmine. The Palatine was a classy Italian restaurant with a large open plan space, split into two levels by a step. Jasmine waved as Oliver tried to link with the waiter. Instead, seeing her, Oliver pointed, and the waiter nodded.

  “Hi,” she said. They air–kissed.

  Sorry, I’m late, Oliver thought.

  “It’s OK.”

  Work, you know.

  “No problemo.”

  Oliver fussed with the menu and realised that he hadn’t worked out who the waiter was. He tried to find the restaurant’s hashtag on the back, but Jasmine raised her arm and clicked her fingers. Her bangles clattered down her wrist.

  A waitress came over.

  I’d like… “I’d like a Stella… OK, that’s fine,” said Oliver.