Slowly, Will swivelled left to right and back again, eyes slightly unfocused, just letting the scene sink in: waiting for something to nag at him, something that was out of place. He found it over by the bay window.
The view was spectacular, even through the rain. The monsoon had turned Glasgow Green into a lake-same as it did every year-the water dotted with islands and fancy little restaurants, raised up on stilts. A meal there would set you back a week’s wages, if you weren’t feeling too hungry. They’d strung golden lights between the trees, turning the scene into a glittering water world…
But that wasn’t what had drawn his attention. The VR unit was on, a plain grey cable snaking out from it across the carpet-the gold jack glinting against the oatmeal weave. Will picked it up, then squatted in front of the unit, searching for a headset. There had to be one: Trent was only four, too young for a cranial implant.
He found the headset. ‘Oh, that’s just brilliant…’ It was tiny, pink, and covered with little white daisies. He plugged the gold jack into the socket and loosened the head strap as far as it would go. It still wouldn’t fit over his bruised and battered head, but he was able to peer in at the pair of tiny screens.
It was tuned into one of the children’s channels, all bright colours, unicorns, and talking toadstools, waiting for him to play with them. Squeaky voices coming from the earpieces, ‘Hey, I know, why don’t we go on an adventure, Jillian? Wouldn’t that be cool?’
Jillian: still configured for the last person plugged into the system.
Will dropped the headset.
There was something wrong with the carpet in front of the VR unit: a circular patch, about the size of large pizza, was a slightly different colour. Cleaner than the rest of the floor. He reached out and stroked the surface with his fingertips. They came away dry, but with that same lemony smell as the bathroom sink.
Clean freak.
The birthday girl would be lying right here, plugged into a cheery kiddie’s VR game, hands and feet tied, sobbing behind a gag, wetting herself in terror while the mystery visitor Thrummed the back off granny’s head.
Dirty girl. Leaving a mess. Couldn’t have that.
‘When you bag and tag this lot,’ said Will, making for the door, ‘grab any cleaning materials you can find. Watch for prints.’
Brian looked up from forcing one of the scanning booms back into its casing. ‘Why, where you off to?’
The muffled screams. The fake smiles. Everyone waiting for their turn to die.
‘Anywhere I can get a bloody stiff drink.’
An electronic voice breaks the silence. ‘HELLO STEPHEN. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?’
Stephen’s head snaps up as if someone’s just rammed an electric prod into his rectum…which isn’t a bad idea.
He frowns, making little creases between his eyebrows. ‘Is there somebody there?’ he asks, completely ignoring her standing in the corner of the room. Holding the datapad.
She hits the next button, and that same disembodied voice says, ‘WE WORKED TOGETHER OVER SIX YEARS AGO.‘
‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Stephen sits forward in his chair. ‘Show yourself or I’m calling security!’ He reaches for the phone and she slams the datapad down on his hand-hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to damage those delicate, skilful fingers.
His eyes go wide as she pushes him back in his chair.
‘Hey! What…’ Look left, look right, look very, very scared. ‘Who’s doing this?’
She types in two words into the pad: ‘I AM.‘
His face falls open like a gash. Then his lips start to tremble. The poor wee soul must think he’s having a nightmare.
‘Who are you?’ he whispers.
As predictable as ever. She only has to punch a button to bring up the preprogrammed reply. ‘STEPHEN I’M INSULTED. SURELY YOU REMEMBER ME? YOU WEPT WHEN THEY SENT ME AWAY FOR SURGERY.‘
‘Oh God…’
Ah: now he remembers.
‘How did you…I saw you…But…Oh God, you can’t be-’
She slaps him. Blood wells up from the new split in his lip.
‘I REQUIRE A NEW FACE, STEPHEN. A JAW, A LARYNX, VOCAL CHORDS, CHEEK MUSCLES, EVERYTHING THEY TOOK AWAY FROM ME.‘
‘I can’t-’
She hits him again.
‘A CLONEGRAFT HEAD IS GROWING IN THE VATS. YOU WILL PERFORM THE SURGERY.‘
‘This isn’t happening…’
This time she doesn’t slap him; she balls her hand into a fist and smashes it into the bridge of his nose. Stephen’s head snaps back, blood spraying from his nostrils. He grunts. Groans. Clutches both hands over his broken face. Probably in a lot of pain.
Good.
‘YOU WILL PERFORM THE SURGERY AND YOU WILL TELL NO ONE.‘
He glares up at her, blood seeping out between his fingers. ‘I’ll see you rot in Hell first!’
At last, the mouse is showing some balls.
Time to castrate him.
‘YOU WILL COOPERATE. I HAVE TAKEN OUT INSURANCE.‘ There’s a framed holo sitting on his desk. A happy family group, grinning at the camera somewhere exotic. She picks it up. ‘YOU HAVE TWO CHILDREN,’ says the electronic voice. ‘MARTIN IS FOUR. HE LIKES DINOSAURS AND WILL NOT EAT HIS VEGETABLES. JASMINE IS THREE. HER FAVOURITE THING IN THE WHOLE WORLD IS TEDDY ORANGE. YOUR WIFE IS BLONDE.‘
Stephen’s hand falls away from his face as she pulls a clump of long golden hair from her bucket and throws it onto his desk. There’s a palm-sized chunk of bloody scalp attached to it.
He’s making that whimpering sound again.
‘I…I don’t believe you!’
She punches his home phone number into the unit on his desk.
‘What are you doing?’
It rings for a moment, then an unfamiliar face fills the screen, a Bluecoat uniform just visible beneath the double chins. The man frowns. ‘Who’s this?’
Stephen grabs the desktop. ‘Dr Bexley. Where’s my wife? Where’s Marilyn?’
‘You know your nose is bleedin’?’
‘I want to talk to Marilyn!’
The officer looks down, out of shot, as if consulting something. ‘You Dr Stephen Bexley? Two, two, three, seven, Niven Towers, Cowcaddens?’
‘I…Yes.’ He goes pale. Swallows. ‘What’s happened?’
‘We got an anonymous nine, nine, nine call. Said two wee kids were here unsupervised.’
‘My children?’
The officer’s frown turns into a scowl. ‘You do know it’s an offence to leave minors on their own?’
‘Oh God.’ That’s all he says, over and over. ‘Oh God.’
The man on the other end of the phone sighs. ‘Look, sometimes it just gets a bit too much for the mums every now and then, you know? Your wains are fine, but I need you to organize someone to look after them, OK? Then talk to yer wife. Give her a bit of support, but.’
Stephen snivels. ‘Oh God, Marilyn…’
‘Dinna worry, she’s probably just out takin’ a breather. Doin’ some shoppin’. Blowin’ off steam.’ The officer pauses, staring out of the screen at Stephen. ‘I’d get that nose looked at if I wis you.’ And with that the Bluecoat kills the connection.
Stephen picks the chunk of scalp off the desktop with trembling fingers, sniffs the blonde hair, and starts to cry. It’s sweet the way people become attached to things. A wife’s fragrance. A clump of skin. A limb. Their lives.
Dr Westfield lets him have his little moment before holding up the datapad again. It says: ‘I HAVE HIDDEN HER SOMEWHERE SAFE. IF I DO NOT RETURN TO FREE HER, SHE WILL DIE. SLOWLY. IF YOU DO NOT PERFORM THE SURGERY, SHE DIES. IF YOU TRY TO CONTACT THE AUTHORITIES, SHE DIES. IF YOU DO NOT DO EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE TOLD, SHE DIES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?‘