Minus Life E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

As the world faces soaring pollution, overpopulation and rising sea level, the ruling elite comes up with a bold, terrifying plan.

Detective Bremen is tired of crime and politics. All he wants is a safe future for his son, Petie. But during a gruesome murder investigation, he is thrown into a twisted world of corruption and deceit.

But as he faces enemies from all sides, can he protect his son - and uncover the lies of those who threaten their future?

Leseprobe

Minus Life

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2015 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For David, who has nightmares about our world too.

A Room With a View

Wilson Frement stood and shuddered as he gazed through the window to the street below. A crisp, chilly day beyond the triple glazed glass, sharp and clear, the leaves on the trees rimmed with white. No rain to spoil the perfect stillness. Nor people. Never any people, not anymore.

A cold, clinical room, white walls aching with the memories of the many who had suffered within the confines of its harsh glare.

Sanitized. Clean and bright. No sound to disturb Wilson.

Except for the screams in his head.

The screams of the tortured and dying. And their faces, twisted, agonised, hands reaching out, begging for mercy. None ever came.

Such images paraded themselves behind his eyes, during the sleeping and the waking moments. Grotesque manikins, struggling to free themselves from strong arms dragging them inside, pinning them against the wall, stripping them naked. There they'd writhe until brutish men attached electrodes to testicles and switched the power on.

Dear God, those screams!

Often he found himself, as if waking from a dream and catching himself unawares, wondering if everything had been a mistake. Not so long ago people walked along that street. Dogs tugged at leads, children laughed. They weren't all bad, those people. Some of them were good, decent and caring, enjoying their days, hopes and dreams playing around their eyes, planning for futures full of promise. The city, swelled with so many citizens; loving couples, arms entwined, heads pressed together, lost in a world of love. Families, young ones skipping, smiling. Occasionally someone shuffled by with their face clouded with misery and pain, but did that warrant their death? Even felons, were their crimes so heinous? Besides, how to tell the bad from the good, simply by watching them. Never possible. Only actions revealed the blueprint of the heart, and the actions of ordinary citizen had not created the problems.

“We have to cull,” he remembered the Chinese president telling him from across the boardroom table, whilst dignitaries from a dozen other countries gazed in silence, none of them daring to think the unthinkable.

Only Wilson Frement.

He knew ordinary people were not the cause. That was down to corporate business, the desire for more and more wealth, regardless of the consequences. Oil fields sucked dry, hydraulic fracturing of rocks causing earthquakes, carbon levels rising. Despite their world dying around them, not many citizens steered from the path of decent, clean living. Most lived out their lives as best they could, rats in the cages, but honest and law-abiding. Not everyone was bad. Nevertheless, Wilson looked into the Chinese president's eyes and nodded his head. The order to kill them. Kill them all.

The door opened and he snapped himself out of his reverie, turning to see his son stepping through the threshold. Wilson frowned.

“I thought I asked you never to come here unannounced.”

Sebastian stood rock still. For a moment, the coldness in the room outdid the cold beyond the window. The young man's eyes darted from side to side and he wrung his hands, uncertain. He made as if to go.

“What is it?” snapped Wilson, angry at being disturbed. He had so little time nowadays, a few moments of solitude now and again and he valued them more than anything else.

“They want you.”

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed down his anger. They always wanted him. Always some new mandate to approve, a directive to oversee. The interior of the steppe, the Ghobi, the wilderness of India. So many areas not yet expunged. He sighed, turned his gaze once more to the world beyond the glass. A sparrow picked at something on the road, fear gone as vehicles no longer thundered by, threatening to extinguish life. No more vehicles, no more people here in the West. A few essential ones – for the ones who made the decisions, the ones who maintained the gene-pool.

And the occasional servant. Many privileged citizens preferred a human being to a cybernetic clone with no emotion, no sparkle in the eyes. Others, such as diamond-miners, bio-fuel workers, wind turbine and wave engineers. Their job now to service the elite, to ensure continuance of luxury life-styles.

The sparrow hopped up onto the pavement and flew into a nearby tree. Wilson strained to hear its call, but could not. Nothing got past the glass. He sighed. “I'm thinking of going away.”

“Oh.” Sebastian stepped closer.

Over his shoulder, Wilson peered at his son. “Somewhere far. Different. A place where I can clear my mind, be more subjective. Perhaps the Rockies. I hear it's beautiful there. I need the peace, the cleanliness. You understand?”

“I understand the words.”

Wilson closed his eyes. What the hell was the point? “Sebastian, why do you think I asked you never to come in here?”

Taking a moment to view the stark, naked walls, the lack of furniture, the tiny spy hole in the door, the forgotten electrical fittings, all lifeless now, Sebastian shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Haven't you ever considered the reason why?”

“Is it important?”

“To understand 'why'? Of course. It's the fundamental principle of life – to ask questions. Find the answers.”

“I thought the fundamental principle was to serve?”

“Serve?” Wilson shook his head. “Dear God. Serve who?”

“Oneself. The State. To contribute, maintain, improve.”

“You sound like a text book.”

“We do not have text books, father. In fact, I do not think I have ever seen a book, let alone read one.”

“Reading improves the mind, equips you with the tools to unlock secrets, develop the imagination.”

“Those sort of things hold no interest for me.”

“It should. You need to ask questions, Sebastian. Not just glibly accept everything. Take an interest, ask the questions that need to be asked. This room is …” He squeezed his eyes shut again, but not with exasperation this time. Memories. Too many; they lanced through his brain. He opened his eyes and nodded to the window. “Below, in the street. Nothing of any interest for you? How the world used to be, what once went on down there?”

Sebastian frowned, the question clearly causing him some difficulty. “What used to go on?”

“Yes.” He pressed his forefinger and thumb into his eyes. “Jesus … Things like children, people living their lives, going from one place to the next.”

“Why go from one place to the next when everything you need is here?”

Wilson allowed his hand to drop. He gaped at his son. “But look at it, Sebastian, look at the bird in the tree! Do you see it?”

Wilson's son went up to the glass following his father's pointed finger, and shrugged his shoulders. “I see the tree. Is this bird an exotic species?”

“It's a sparrow. Don't you find anything interesting about it? Nothing at all?”

Sebastian followed his father's gaze again and caught sight of the little bird as it flew down onto the tarmac. The sparrow hopped across the road, joined by two more. A tiny moment of togetherness.

“I don't understand. Birds? They don't do anything, do they? Why should birds interest me?”

“Because they live.”

“So do I.”

Wilson winced as a stab of pain bit into his brow and he massaged his forehead. “Is that what you call it? What you do, what I do. All of us. You call it a life, or an existence? People used to have lives. They used to look forward to things, holidays, weekends away. Don't you ever hanker over anything like that, a longing for it to be the past?”

A long sigh.

“Father, I don't understand where all this is leading. I don't understand your questions.”

“Never mind. Neither do I.” He dropped his hand to his side. “In fact, I am finding it increasingly difficult to understand anything.”

“I've never seen you like this.”

“Well …” Wilson shrugged his shoulders. “Things change. Life. You know, suddenly you wake up one morning and realize you're old. You look at things in a different way, re-evaluate your accomplishments, what you've done, haven't done.” He winced again, kneaded his temple with the knuckles of one hand. “So little time, so much still to do.”

“But you've done such a lot – for all of us. Our lives, the way the world is, so clean, a paradise people call it. It's all down to you, what you've achieved. Salvation.”

“Really?” Wilson found it hard to believe. He'd sat in front of the interactive screens, at home and in the stadiums, images of his smiling face beamed across the sky, people cheering. Salvation. Even when they had cleared the last tenement block of the decomposing bodies, he'd experienced no joy, no sense of triumph. How could he, now that he was the biggest mass-murderer in the history of mankind? Estimates varied. Some said ten billion, others said it was closer to twenty. Whatever the truth, they were almost all dead and the earth breathed a huge sigh of relief. But not Wilson Frement. He shook his head, turned away. “I'm not so sure.”

Frowning, Sebastian made as if to touch his father's arm, but stopped. There were rarely signs of emotion between them nowadays. Perhaps there never had been. “They want you to meet them in the Parliament building.”

Wilson didn't meet his son's stare. “I had no right to play God.”

“The world was dying. Someone had to make the decisions, otherwise everything would have gone. We would have become like beasts, father. You know that is the truth.”

“But so many …”

Silence. Wilson stared into space and after a short while, Sebastian moved away, pausing at the door to say, “I'll tell them you are coming, shall I?”

Staring out of the window, Wilson could hardly bring himself to croak, “Yes.” Then the door hissed shut and he pressed his forehead against the cool glass and watched the sparrows hopping across the empty tarmac. A simple life for them, but a life nonetheless. A life with meaning.

“Jesus,” he said as the first tear rolled down his cheek, “what have I done …”

Some Years Before

Bombs and Bombers

He awoke from the dream with a start, mind alive with scenes from burning rooms, searing heat, the stench of singed hair and flesh. Sitting bolt upright, bemused, disorientated, a scream catching in his throat and from somewhere a voice shouting, “Bremen, Bremen for Christ's sake, wake up!”

A hand gripped his shoulder and shook him. “Wake up!”

Bremen turned towards the sound of the voice, unable to focus, an impenetrable film of smoke and dust preventing him from making out shapes or form.

Only when the water splashed over him did he snap out of his confusion. Coughing and spluttering, he wiped a palm over his face. “What the bloody hell?”

The figure moved around the periphery of his vision, slowly emerging from the murkiness. The duty sergeant. “Get your coat, Bremen. A call's just come in, a fire down in the Manchester barracks.”

Bremen swung his legs over the side of the camp bed and leaned forward, clawing his fingers through his hair. “What time is it? I feel like I've been asleep for five minutes.”

“It's quarter past three. You've been flat out for over four hours.”

Stretching out his arms, Bremen yawned, smacked his lips and stood up. He reached for the holstered automatic slung across the back of a nearby chair, and put it over his shoulder. He pulled on his jacket and pushed his feet into his shoes. Yawning again, he shuffled across to the door, “I need a drink.”

The duty sergeant shoved a mug of coffee into Bremen's hand. He took a sip, pulled a face, “Shit. How many sugars have you put in this?”

“Two.”

“Jesus.” He took another mouthful and handed it back to the sergeant. “I take four.”

He went to the door and pulled it open, peering down the silent corridor towards the main exit. There was nobody else around, the collection of desks strewn with papers and over-full ashtrays reminding him, if he needed reminding, the day shift worked far harder than he seemed to. His was a small enforcement office, well away from the city centre, one of the quietest in that part of the country. He shivered.

“You forgot your mask.”

He looked back to the sergeant, who dangled the mask by the strap between finger and thumb. Bremen smirked and went down the corridor without taking it.

“I'll send you the details to your onboard computer.”

Bremen didn't say anything. He felt like shit, his knees ached, the back of his throat already coated with something metallic and unpleasant. He coughed, fished out a cigarette and lit it.

He found his car in the holding bay and got in behind the console. The red lights blazed and almost at once, the soft, lilting tones of the computer's female voice greeted him, “Good morning Detective Bremen. I have the details of your destination. Manchester barracks, Eastside dock business complex. Estimated time of arrival is seven point three minutes. Traffic is light this time of day, I doubt if you will have to change to—”

Bremen turned down the volume and leaned back in his seat, staring at the ceiling as he blew out a stream of smoke. He'd been on duty for three nights, with one more to go of his shift. All he needed was another quiet night, not a case of arson that would probably lead nowhere. Questions to ask, reports to fill in. He blew out his cheeks and stubbed the cigarette into the dashboard, “Let's just get on with it, shall we?”

Cutting through the night, he peered down every now and then, to watch the occasional civil disturbance, the gunfights, the assaults. He saw rapid response bikes swooping down over gangs of citizens breaking open whatever shops or warehouses remained in operation. Across the tarmac, several bodies lay surrounded by black pools. Blood flowed, as it always did.

Lights blazed from the tenements. He did not dare lower the windows, for fear of contamination, but he thought he could hear the constant drone of screams, an unending symphony of despair. To his right, the grey streak of the river, the lights of the far bank flittering over the surface. Over there, the violence and depravation were the norm. The bad side of town, where night time was a trip down abattoir lane. Bremen closed his eyes and wished it all away.

The engines wheezed into reverse and he brought himself awake, shaking his shoulders, putting fists into his eyes. The descent proceeded slowly and he leaned forward and turned the console volume up. “We have arrived, Detective. Did you enjoy the ride?”

Bremen grunted and clambered out before the door had fully opened and cracked his head on the rim. He cursed, holding his scalp, and fished out his cigarettes. The pack was empty and he threw it away in disgust and trudged through the grime and the stink towards the vast, red-bricked building looming up before him.

He stopped and peered skywards. A hundred black windows gazed down at him, not a light anywhere. Fire? Where the hell was the fire?

Close by, arc lamps lit up everything with an insipid light. Bremen shivered.

A cold breeze came up from the river and he pulled his coat tight around his throat and walked up to the doors, which were at the top of a broad set of steps. Waiting there were two men, uniformed, with black berets set at a jaunty angle. There was nothing jaunty, however, about the huge, menacing looking automatic rifles they held close to their chests.

The first guard did not look at him as Bremen drew closer, waving his identity card in front of the man's nose. “Bremen. Local investigation squad. Where's the fire?”

Taking his time, probably deliberately, the guard turned and looked down at Bremen. There was no emotion in his face, nor in his voice when he rasped, “You're not allowed inside.”

Bremen blinked, “Eh? What did you say?”

“You're not allowed inside.”

“I haven't said I wanted to go inside.”

“But you will. And you can't.”

Bremen stepped back, allowing his jacket to fall open as he put his fists on his hips. “Says who?”

“Says me. The building is in quarantine.”

“Quarantine? Against what?”

“Against any possible threat.”

Bremen coughed and for the first time noticed neither guard wore a mask. “Jesus Christ, you're bloody androids.”

“We are government agents, Detective Bremen. This area is off limits to law-enforcement personnel.”

“Why?”

“I've already told you.”

“I don't believe you. I was sent here to investigate a fire. It was reported.”

“There is no fire. It was a false-alarm. Good night, Detective.”

Bremen leaned forward and looked deep into the lifeless eyes, “So how come you're here?”

“Good night, Detective,” said the second guard, as unemotional as the first, but by swinging the automatic rifle in his direction, Bremen got the point.

He clumped down the steps and looked left and right before seeing the emergency response vehicle and the three men sitting around chatting. They all wore heavy-duty masks so they weren't androids. Bremen felt sure he would at least gain some information from them. As he drew closer, the men stopped talking and became tense, measuring him with their narrowed eyes.

“Which of you is in charge?”

“I am,” said a squat, balding man, considerably older than the others. Even in the dark and the mask Bremen could see how sallow faced the man was. Bremen flashed his identity card. The man shrugged. “Thought you might be some sort of investigator.”

“That's precisely what I am. I need to ask you some questions.” The man sighed, the sound amplified from behind the mask. “I was told there was a fire. It came through to the station, so somebody must have thought there was one, but from what I can see it was all a hoax.”

“It was a bomb.”

For a moment, Bremen didn't register the meaning of the man's words. He stopped, holding his breath, and frowned, “A bomb? You mean, terrorists?”

“Do I? I wouldn't know.”

“But, it exploded?”

“One of them did. We were called after it had gone off and taken out the entire floor. We found and diffused the other two. If they had gone off, the whole bloody place would have come down.”

“I've got to go and take a look. Is it safe?”

“Pretty much, but those two lovely boys won't let you inside, no matter who you are. You've had a wasted journey, Detective.”

“Seems so.” Bremen looked back towards the two men at the top of the steps who stood as still and straight as statues. “Government agents? What the hell is the government doing here?”

“Search me, maybe it was terrorists, who knows. I didn't ask and if you've got any sense, you won't try and find the answer to that particular question, old son. Best keep your nose out of it.”

Bremen frowned again. “But why a bomb? What was in there?”

“Haven't a clue, and those two weren't about to let us sniff around. As soon as we did our job, they frog-marched us out.”

“Didn't you ask why?”

The chief gave Bremen a look of utter contempt, “Are you a rookie, or just plain stupid? Nobody asks government agents anything. We just did as we were told.”

“But the first bomb, the one that went off? Where was it?”

“Third floor office. It blew out every window in the place, and everything that was inside. All we faced by the time we managed to smash our way through the rubble was a ruin of furniture, ceiling debris, holes in the walls.”

“Nobody killed?”

“Nobody was in there, not this time of the morning. Look,” he glanced around, ensuring he was well out of ear-shot, and pulled Bremen away by the elbow, “you'd do well not to ask any more questions, yeah? I'll tell you this much; this is weird. They were here before us, those two goons, seemed to know everything, so that means maybe they were given a tip-off or …” His eyes held Bremen's.

“Or what?”

“They planted the bomb.”

Some ten minutes from the station, Bremen set down next to an all-night food kiosk. The man behind the counter almost filled the entire space. He had a repeating shotgun in his hands, and wore a look that proclaimed to the world that no one had better mess with him. Bremen avoided eye contact and scanned down the menu hanging on the side of the kiosk. “What's in your burgers?”

“Nuts.”

“Eh?” Bremen looked up, frowning. “Just nuts?”

“A bit of rat meat. This ain't no five-star restaurant, bub. So, make your choice and then fuck off.”

To give meaning to his words, he hefted the big shotgun in his paws. Bremen shook his head, slid his payment card across the checkout monitor, and said, “I'll try one.”

A sudden scream from behind made them both jump. Bremen turned to see a woman, dressed in a shredded black dress, bare-legged and bare-footed, bursting out of a tenement block, taking the entrance steps three at a time. A couple of seconds behind her came a large guy, totally naked, wielding a broken bottle. Blood spewed from his mouth from some sort of blow.

“Come here, you bitch.”

Bremen watched it as if it were a film, leaning back against the kiosk, thinking whether he should intervene or not. But the business at the barracks continued to play out in his head. This was the B-movie, of little interest, despite the fact he thought he recognised the naked man. Forcing himself to concentrate on the man's face, not the rest of him, he yawned at the normality of it all. Even when a black hover-car settled down in the middle of the street and three guys in uniforms bailed out, two of them with black, evil looking automatics, which barked loudly and riddled the big naked guy with half a dozen bullets. The man's chest and abdomen exploded and he fell back against the steps, dead. The woman, sobbing, with face in hands, staggered over to the car. One of the uniformed men helped her inside and within seconds, the vehicle lifted up into the still dark sky and was gone.

“Pimps and whores,” mumbled the kiosk owner and slid the burger across to Bremen.

“Nice neighbourhood”

“Better than most.”

Bremen swung around and took a bite of the burger. He munched through the stringy filling and shrugged. “Could do with more onion.”

“That's ersatz, bub. Ain't no such thing as onions round here.”

“Ersatz? What's that, German?”

The man pushed the shotgun aside and took a wet cloth to wipe down the counter. “I'm German. So are those burgers. You don't like it, you can fuck off, like I said.”

“No, no,” Bremen peered at the burger with appreciation, licking his lips, “it's fine. Will someone come and take the body?”

“Dogs will do that.”

Bremen nodded. This truly was a great neighbourhood. “Tell me, you know anything about the Manchester barracks?”

The man stopped cleaning and gave Bremen a dark look. “Only that it used to be a barracks and it's not in Manchester.”

“Yeah, but have you heard of anything going on there?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you.”

Bremen shrugged. “What if I scanned in a couple of hundred?”

“I'd tell you to fuck off.”

“Five hundred?”

The man's mouth curled upwards slightly. Probably as close to a smile as he could manage. “Scan it in, bub.”

Bremen did so and popped the last piece of burger into his mouth.

“All I know is there are a lot of people working in there. But not low-lifes. Professional people. They get took in there every morning by a bus, which picks them up again late at night. They pass right by here every day.”

“What is it they do?”

“I have no idea. Must be important though, as there are armoured cars and other heavy duty shit all around that place. Anyone gets anywhere close, they are told to leave. If they don't,” the guy put his forefinger against his head and used his thumb to fire the make-believe gun. “Bang!”

Bremen blinked. “What, you mean they shoot people?”

“I've seen it happen. So, as you can imagine, no one goes anywhere near that place now.”

“The guards, they actually shoot people?”

The man cocked his head, “You deaf, or something? I said, bang! Anyway,” he took up cleaning the counter again, “that's all I know.”

“How many workers in the bus?”

A shrug, a moment's thought. “Thirty or forty, maybe more. They sometimes come in two loads, usually at night. So, maybe eighty. And they work in shifts. The place is never quiet.”

“It is now.”

“You been?” He shook his head, running the cloth over the counter top again for something to do. “You must have a death-wish.”

Bremen wiped his fingers of a napkin and looked back across the road to the dead man lying there in his blood and guts. “You must love it here.”

“You said it, bub. A paradise on Earth.”

As he stumbled into his apartment, eyes gritty, the stench of the street thick in his nostrils, the news came through on the holo-vision. There had been yet another terrorist outrage. An important government official gunned down outside a friend's house, and a nearby refreshment kiosk blown up. The owner, one 'Leonard Karpernov' left dead at the scene. Security services did not believe the two incidents were connected.

Bremen slumped into his chair and gaped at the scenes in front of him, unable to move, even when the vomit rose up from his guts. He retched, doubling up, and sat for a long time, staring down at the mess, not knowing if he should ever set foot outside his apartment again.

An Unfortunate Discovery

The following morning, when his shift was due, he got the phone call from his Superintendant. “Take the night off, Bremen, it's quiet.”

Bremen, who had emerged from the shower and stood pressing a towel against his damp hair, frowned at his chief, whose image flickered grey-green in the centre of the room. “What was that, boss?”

“It's quiet. We don't need you to come in, so take some down-time. Go out for a meal, or watch a movie. Take some recreationals, but don't come in. Not tonight. I'll see you next Friday.” He smiled, leaned down behind his desk and, a moment later, returned, dangling Bremen's mask by the strap. “And you left this, you dumb bastard. Perhaps it might be better for you to stay indoors. I'll send you some sushi.”

“I don't like sushi.”

“Rat burger then.”

Bremen froze in the act of drying his hair, and his eyes bored into his chief's. “What did you say?”

“Bremen, I read your report. I've deleted it. You weren't anywhere near that kiosk, you understand me?”

“No, not really chief.”

The man ballooned his cheeks, exasperated, “Jesus, you really are as thick as everyone says.” He leaned forward, filling the room, face hard, unflinching. “I'll spell it out to you, so listen up. You went to the barracks and found it had all been a mistake. A nuisance call. You came straight back to the station, signed off, and went home. Nothing else.”

“But I didn't. I spoke to the—”

“I know what you did, Bremen. And so do they.” He smiled, without humour. “You understand my meaning, Bremen?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Now, you sit on your fat ass for the next three days and you never, ever mention any of this again to another living soul, you understand?”

Bremen nodded and his chief's face disappeared, leaving Bremen to stare across the room to the door. He should go straight out, get down to the station and speak with the chief personally. But something prevented him from doing just that.

Just who the damned hell where 'they'?

Some hours later, Bremen called up the duty sergeant, whose face fell when he saw who was calling. He leaned on his counter, covering his face with a grey, gnarled hand. “What the hell do you want, Bremen?”

“The call log. I want to know where the call about the fire came from.”

“Why?” He dragged his hand away and he appeared tired, resigned to another tedious night full of rapes and fights and killings. “I thought the Super told you to back off?”

“No, he told me not to mention it again. I'm doing just that, sarge. I'm not mentioning it, I'm asking. That's all.”

“You're a fucking idiot, Bremen, and besides, I can't help you.”

“Because it's deleted.”

“Perceptive. As far as this station is concerned, last night didn't happen. None of it. Now leave it alone, Bremen.”

“I saw a man shot, and I spoke with the owner of the kiosk. Now he's dead and I want to know why.”

“I'm not telling you.”

“It was on the news, saying it was a terrorist attack, but I know it wasn't. I saw it all.”

“No. I'll tell you for the last time – you didn't see anything.”

“Just the number, sarge. The number of the caller.”

“I can't remember.”

“Can't … or won't?”

His eyes grew cold. “Bremen, have you got some sort of screw loose? How close are you to retirement? Three years? Why not just do as they say and forget about last night, suck in your gut and dream of holidays in the sun, eh?”

“Who are 'they', sarge? I keep hearing about them. 'They' this, 'they' that. Enlighten me.”

The sergeant looked left and right, “Government. Okay? That should be enough for you to realise this is not some fucking tea-party, Bremen. What happened last night no longer concerns you.”

“I spoke to the bomb disposal guys.”

“You did what? When?”

“Last night. They told me, it wasn't a fire. It was a bomb. They'd been called to deactivate it, but got there too late. The explosion took out one of the floors of the building. They found two more and managed to make them safe.”

“Jesus, Bremen. I don't want to hear this.”

“Too late, I've just told you. Now, give me the fucking caller ID.”

Two hours later, he'd managed to locate the origin of the call. Sitting on his sofa, his third cup of coffee next to him, he simply stared in disbelief.

The call originated from the private residence of Wilson Frement. From that point, Bremen thought it best to forget it all, at least for the time being.

But, as with everything, he didn't.

He waited until dark, then dressed in black polo-neck and dark grey jeans. A dirty brown leather jacket completed his garb and, as he considered his reflection in the full-length mirror, he pulled on a woollen cap and grunted in satisfaction.

He drove through the night to the area around the Manchester barracks, settling the vehicle in a deserted side street. The night pressed in all around, silent and sinister. Huge, towering buildings loomed over him and from every darkened window and closed door he expected black-clad government agents to emerge at any moment and drag him away. He shivered, pulled his coat closer and, keeping himself close to the wall of the opposite building complex, crept down to the corner. He took a quick glance down the main road.

Manchester barracks stood quiet. The government agents had gone. The news reports made no mention of any bomb going off there, another curious omission in this ever more bewildering case. Checking again, he slipped into the road.

Here, in the more open space, he was conscious of being exposed. He was in a square, the centre dominated by a large fountain, decorated with a massive bronze statue of fighting men, commemorating some long forgotten conflict. Around the perimeter, other nondescript buildings stood, impressive corporate headquarters. He realised, with a jolt, this was the beating heart of the city, albeit well away from the centre. Here, the men in grey suits beavered away unnoticed, earning their fortunes, whilst all around the world gasped for breath and starved.

Something moved behind him. He span, dropping to one knee, reaching for his gun. A collection of refuse bins rattled and moved and he froze, holding his breath, waiting.

He let out a long sigh as a cat slinked out from between the large, plastic containers, gave him a disgusted look, and disappeared into the night. Bremen glanced down at his gun hand. It was shaking and he laughed, forcing himself to calm down. What would he have done anyway? He couldn't remember the last time he'd fired his service weapon, save for the bi-monthly practise sessions. 'Three bulls out of twelve shots, Bremen,' Cosgrave had said the last time, pulling a face, serious as a corpse. 'Not good enough. I'll have to tell the Super.'

Holstering the automatic, he peered to the upper storeys and decided to try his luck around the back. So he dashed across to the furthest corner and crept towards the rear of the building.

He believed it would be alarmed, but something about this almost deserted edifice gave him cause to doubt this assumption. So when he came to the shuttered rear entrance he didn't hesitate in stooping down, gripping hold of the underneath and hauling it up.

The aluminium concertina screeched horribly and he stopped, panting, listening out for any sign of alerted security guards racing to investigate.

There was nothing. No alarm, no guards, only the stillness of the night.

He took a deep breath and strained every muscle to bring the tired entrance door fully open.

He peered into the darkness and took a sniff of the stale air. The stench of abandonment and decay, proving, if he needed any proof, no one used this place any longer, perhaps not gracing it for years.

Fishing out his old Zippo lighter, he tried three or four strikes before it sparked into life. He held it out before him, swinging the flame from left to right as he made his way deeper into the interior. The feeble light managed to penetrate some of the surroundings, but not much. The place seemed to be filled with packing crates, and the floor littered with sheaves of paper, smothered in dust which blew up as he padded across, causing him to stop every few paces to cough.

He needed no more proof. The place was deserted.

He closed the lighter cover and waited. Plunged in darkness, he took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. He turned and groped his way towards the entrance again but before he had taken two steps, he heard it. A low metallic thump, from deep below in the bowels of the building.

Of course, he cursed himself. The basement. Didn't the bomb disposal people tell him they had defused an explosive device in the lowest levels, or was he imagining that? As he stood, mouth open, listening, the whirr of metal cables told him exactly what was happening.

A lift. It was travelling upwards. And if it was working that meant someone must have activated it.

The Burglary

Avery was old. Not so old that he couldn't walk, or pee when he wanted, but old enough to remember when the world was greener.

Not much happened now. Life had become tedious, an endless string of meaningless days, but days which flew by. He would wake up, brush his teeth, take a few meals and blink. Bed time had arrived. Sometimes, lying in his bed, touch-pad glaring at him, words on the screen nothing more than a blue blur, he would try and recall what he had done during the day. A breakfast on the terrace at Gilbert's, a few words of idle chatter. Then a stroll along the seafront, to watch the builders piling up the stones. A useless exercise if ever there was one.  A little while later, lunch. A cocktail perhaps. He liked cocktails. They took his mind to a place before all of the crap. History. Personal. Mavis and him. How she used to laugh, hold his hand, take his face and kiss him. Memories. Then, dinner with Clement serving the food. No words, just the clatter of silver spoon on silver platters. Good food, well prepared. But he couldn't remember any of the details. The daily grind. The blur.

The night it happened, Avery sat at the dining table, and watched Clement ladle soup into a bowl. “How do you feel about being a servant?”

Clement, older perhaps than the hills, stopped, cocked an eyebrow. “Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Damn it man, I'm asking you.”

“But I don't understand the sense, sir.”

“How long have you been here? In this house, serving me?”

“Sir, that's …” Clement seemed troubled, rubbed his chin. “I don't rightly know, sir. I remember your father, sir. Remember him interviewing me for the job here, but how long ago that was …” He shook his head. “A long time ago, sir. That's all I know.”

“You remember my father? Jesus Christ, that makes you older than me.”

“I believe I am, sir.”

Avery shook his head. “Damn. My memory is going, Clem. Can't remember what the hell I did earlier today. Maybe that has more to do with the emptiness of it all. I need some … some reason to get up in the morning. You understand what I'm saying? I need a reason to carry on.”

“The business, sir. You have your business, that's reason enough surely?”

“That's my son's responsibility now. I don't have much to do with any of it.”

“You still have a lot to offer, sir. You can't be more than eighty.”

“I'm eighty-seven, Avery. How old are you?”

Clement took on that pained expression again. “Sir … I don't rightly know that either.”

“A guess, then. For Christ's sake, you must have some idea, an inkling.”

“Well over a hundred, sir. Maybe … maybe one hundred and twenty.”

Avery picked up his glass and swirled the brandy around the bowl. “You have a purpose though, don't you? A reason for carrying on.”

“To serve you, sir. Yes.”

Avery stared into his drink. “But what do you do in your spare time, in the evenings, Clem? How do you fill the space?”

“Not a great deal, sir. I eat, watch the old ball-games on the holo-vision, remembering how it used to be. Stuff like that.”

“Do you read, Clem? Books, I mean? I used to read so much. Fiction, history, anything really. Now, I find I can no longer keep my eyes open for more than two minutes before I fall asleep. The touch-pad becomes a garbled mess, words all blurred, making no sense. I loved reading once.”

A heavy silence fell over them.

Clement shifted his weight. “I don't think I've ever read, sir. No need. Everything I want is on the holo-vision.”

“But before the holo-vision, Clem? Didn't you read then, in the old days?”

“I can't remember days before holo-vision, sir. It must have been awfully boring.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Avery drained the glass, smacked his lips, studied the remnants of the brandy. “So. What's it like being a servant?”

“Like everything else I guess, sir. It's a job. I get up, do it, go to bed and sleep. The next day comes, and so it goes on.”

“And that's it?”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

Avery looked at his manservant. An understanding of sorts crossed between them. A link. Something. Master and servant sharing a poignant moment, acceptance of their respective roles. “I envy you, Clem. Knowing what each day holds. I'd find comfort in that, a sense of security.”

“But you have choice, sir. You can do whatever you want. That is a luxury way beyond my existence, sir.”

“Existence. Yes. But, more and more I find myself questioning everything. The days, they blur into one. One, long string of nothing. I'm a spent force, Clem. I have nothing to offer anyone anymore.” He threw the last drop of brandy down his throat and placed the glass down on the silver tray. “I apologise. I'm becoming morose. Take no notice. Goodnight, Clem.”

“Good night sir.”

Avery went to bed, old bones creaking as he struggled into his pyjamas. The mattress sagged with his weight. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and wondered if Clem's life was a damn sight more fulfilling than his own. The more he considered it, the more he began to accept that, in actual fact, Clem's life was infinitely better than his own. The lack of responsibility, the weight of decision making, without any of that life had to be better. Certainly simpler.

He tried to sleep.

But he couldn't.

After fruitless hours, he went downstairs to get himself a glass of milk.

He padded across the large, cold kitchen, pulled open the door and caught sight of the shadow in the hall. He knew at that precise moment that life was about to take a whole new, unexpected turn.

They tied him to a stiff-backed chair in the centre of the room. One of the two intruders stuffed an orange in Avery's mouth, but the other one took it away at once. “How's he supposed to talk to us with that?”

The other shrugged, made a face, opened the fridge. Taking out a carton of fruit juice, he ripped off the top and drank the contents down in a single gulp. Smacking his lips, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and sighed. “Jeez, I haven't tasted that for over half a century.”

“How the better half lives, Sheldon.”

Sheldon glared. “No names, you fucking idiot.”

The other groaned, ran a hand over his face. He looked towards Avery. “You didn't hear that did you, Granddad.”

“You'll be vapourised for this,”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” said the man and slapped Avery hard across the mouth. The blow was so powerful it knocked Avery, together with the chair, backwards. His head cracked against the side of a cabinet. The skull opened up like a broken egg. Avery collapsed onto his side and lay still, blood leaking over the floor, speckled with tiny bits of brain matter. His eyes rolled.

He was dead.

“You fucking lunatic.” Sheldon slammed the fridge door shut, took the other man by the collar and threw him across the room. He hit the edge of the sink unit, swore loudly, and brought out a black stubby automatic from inside his coat. “You hit me again and I'll kill you, you bastard.”

Sheldon was down on his knees, feeling for a pulse on the old man. He looked up. “You've killed him.”

“So what? We can still find the stuff.”

“How?”

“Eh”

“How are we supposed to find the stuff with him dead? He was going to give us the combination of the safe, you idiot.”

“Stop calling me that, Sheldon. I'm warning you.”

“Grant, you are a total dick.” Sheldon stood up, reached over and took the gun from Grant's hand in a flash. Before Grant could react, Sheldon had turned the gun and stuck its muzzle into Grant's mouth. “I'll call you what the fuck I like, you fucking idiot.” He took some large breaths, trying to think what to do next. The plan had been simple. Threaten the old man, extract the safe combination, find the bonds and get the hell out. International bonds, worth a small fortune, together with some schematics. Technical papers. Their client wanted them. Apparently, he had tried to deal with Avery over the past few months in an attempt to reach a compromise, but the old man was past caring. So, when none was forthcoming he contacted Sheldon through an intermediary and laid out the plan. Get the bonds and the papers. Get out the house. Deliver them. Finish.

No one said anything about killing anyone.

No one mentioned that there might be another person in the house, and that he might have a gun of his own. Because that was exactly what Sheldon now saw standing in the doorway. A man, with a big gun. Winchester pump-action shotgun, circa Nineteen Eighty-Seven. Antique. Worked like a dream as the man slid the pump, feeding in the cartridge, and levelled the gun towards Sheldon's back.

“Move, you bastard, and I'll blow you in half.”

Sheldon didn't move until the mobile police unit arrived some twenty minutes later and took him and Grant away.

After the police left, looking bored with the whole affair, Clement sat in the kitchen, bent over the Winchester, staring at the floor. They had driven Mr Avery away in an ambulance. That would have been getting on for three long hours ago. Nothing since, only the stillness of the house. As the sirens disappeared into the night, Clement thought about all that had happened, how life had changed so totally. What was he going to do now, without Mr Avery? He realized, sitting, staring into space, his own life was now ended. Those bastards had taken away everything in the blink of an eye. There really was no point any more.

It took some doing, but he managed eventually to turn the muzzle of the Winchester on himself and wedged it under his chin. He held his breath, closed his eyes and blew his brains out across the kitchen wall.