The Midas Game E-Book

Abi Silver

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

WAS VIRTUAL KILLING JUST THE BEGINNING? When eminent psychiatrist Dr Liz Sullivan is found dead in her bed, suspicion falls on local gamer and YouTube celebrity Jaden 'JD' Dodds. Did he target her because of her anti-gaming views and the work she undertook to expose the dangers of playing online games? And what was her connection with Valiant, an independent game manufacturer about to hit the big time, and its volatile boss? Judith Burton and Constance Lamb team up once more to defend JD when no one else is on his side. But just because he makes a living killing people on screen doesn't mean he'd do it in real life. Or does it? Another thought-provoking courtroom drama from the acclaimed author of the Burton & Lamb series.

Leseprobe

Praise for the Burton & Lamb series…

The Burton & Lamb series always provides excellent courtroom moments and a thoughtful exploration of an area of life where technology is likely to make a big difference in the not-so-far-off future

Crime Review

Intelligently conceived and cleverly constructed – topical, relevant and engaging

Ted Childs, creator of Kavanagh QC

An evocative and gripping thriller, where the present day meets the technology of the near future. Abi Silver raises startling questions about the dependence and interdependence of technology in our lives in this pacy courtroom drama

Maha Khan Phillips, author of The Curse of Mohenjodaro

A refreshing debut from a former lawyer – a first-rate courtroom drama

Daily Mail

Abi Silver has carved a niche exploring the moral and practical issues thrown up by technology, and how the law responds. She is adept at turning complex legal debate into compelling legal thrillers... If The Cinderella Plan finds its way onto your holiday reading list, expect to deliver a favourable verdict

Jewish Chronicle

You may not have heard of Abi Silver, but if her new book, The Pinocchio Brief, is anything to go by, you soon will have done

Jewish News

A quirky and charming debut novel that combines modern technology with a good old-fashioned courtroom drama

Irish Independent

Was the man in the driving seat or the car itself responsible for the fatal accident? And is it the AI or the flaws of the humans involved in creating it that poses the greater danger? Tense thriller wrought from a cutting-edge subject

Times Crime Club

An enjoyably elaborate and distinctive variation on the courtroom thriller

Martin Edwards, author of Gallows Court and the Lake District Mysteries

Raymond Maynard, a precocious 15-year-old schoolboy, is accused of the brutal murder of one of his teachers. Silver, a former solicitor, conjures up a shock for his defence team: the boy’s testimony will be judged by a machine. If this sounds far-fetched, it’s not. Swingeing cuts to legal aid budgets around the world are resulting in ever increasing digitalisation. Silver’s taut thriller provides ample food for thought as the defence team confront the implications of machines dispensing justice

The Times

Like a chess grandmaster, Silver expertly manoeuvres the pieces of her plot to craft a tense, intelligent mystery

Chris Simms

Pinocchio is the name of a newly developed device that detects lies and which the government has decided to use in law courts. It is supposed to perceive and interpret facial expression and body language, its conclusions providing more accurate judgements than any jury could reach. Regarding this machine as infallible is a dangerous and plausible idea that is central to this fascinating tale... This is a good read and an excellent first novel

Literary Review

An intense and compelling legal drama – quite wonderful

Geoffrey Wansell

A legal thriller with a neat angle and loads of twists: I cannot tell a lie, this is an excellent read

Sunday Sport

An ingenious and compelling whodunnit

The Times

A sparklingly clever and entertaining mystery with a juicy helping of courtroom drama

Daily Telegraph

It is Abi Silver’s imaginative touches as well as her thorough legal knowledge that make her courtroom thrillers stand out

Jake Kerridge

Rumpole of the Bailey, Kavanagh QC, Perry Mason – now joining their ranks is Judith Burton

Jewish Chronicle

More a whatdunnit than a whodunnit...it is a good story which discusses factual issues society will have to tackle. Previous books by the author have won well-deserved praise

Law Society Gazette

Also by Abi Silver in the Burton & Lamb series:

The Pinocchio Brief

The Aladdin Trial

The Cinderella Plan

The Rapunzel Act

Published in 2021

by Lightning Books Ltd

Imprint of Eye Books Ltd

29A Barrow Street

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6EN

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 9781785632426

Copyright © Abi Silver 2021

Cover by Nell Wood

Typeset in Minion Pro and Brandon Grotesque

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

For Nao and Jen

Sisters, sistersThere were never such devoted sisters

Irving Berlin(and frequently sung to me by my Grandma Kitty)

‘Words can’t even explain it right now, I’m just so happy’

Kyle ‘Bugha’ Giersdorf, on winning the Fortnite World Cup Finals, in July 2019

Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY ABI SILVER

PART ONE

LONDON, NOVEMBER 2019

1

Steady, steady, keep my hands steady. Forward, forward, ease my way forward.

Which way now? Straight ahead, I’m exposed. Left or right, I’m a sitting duck. Stay here? Not an option.

Need a strategy.

Stay alive, that’s a strategy. Ha! But how?

Keep moving to stay alive. That sounds better.

Heart rate’s up. Take a breath. Look around. I’m going out there, across that wasteland.

So, here goes.

Moving fast, cover the distance in double time.

I’m fast, but they are too. Need to get to the higher ground. If I’m stuck down here, I’m a goner.

How far to the big hill? Read the map. Breathe.

Not too far. Pace myself. Take it in stages.

Almost at the first buildings, check they’re empty. Check.

Take refuge inside. Check.

Mission accomplished. Easy peasy.

Refill ammo. Clip it on, turnaround. Check location.

How’m I doing?

Eighty-seven left and I’m closing in. Seems quiet for now. Oh God.

One to my left. Bam! Got him. Ew. One more behind that pillar. He’s a crafty one. No rush. Wait for him to poke his head out and then blow him away.

How’s my ammo? Needs refreshing. Not till I get him though.

Come on baby, rise and shine. Come on! My finger’s itchy on this trigger.

There he is. Bam! Bam! Bam! Yesss!

Feeling good. Blood pumping.

Took a while for him to die. Pity, he had a cool bandana.

Take a look around. All alone. Then, I’ll have it. Anything else? His ammo too, and that nice little customised knife. Talk about grave-robbing.

How’m I doing? Eighty-one still standing. I’m doing my bit for the numbers. Where’s everyone else? Come on, if you’re hard enough [laughs].

Hey buddies, there’s a storm coming. Better get moving. Back to that plan. Move on up.

Check my health. I’m going to drop some cash and grab some armour.

Hm, mmmmmm [hums through teeth].

Moving forwards. Where’s that hill? Head for the higher ground.

Come on! Get those toned limbs moving. What’s the point of cardio, if you can’t get going when the going gets tough. Ha!

Tricky bit here. Like a rat run. Mustn’t get caught.

There’s someone behind that wall. If I wanted to hide, that’s where I would be. I was wrong. I’m slipping. Take a moment. Breathe.

Check the location monitor. Someone coming in fast from the left, again. Is that my weak side? Where are they, where are they, where are they? Bam! That’s where they were. Yeuch.

Time to use my grenade. Three of them ahead in that barn. Just pull the pin and toss it in. Whoosh. Wow. Look at those guys burn. Char-grilled. Sixty-three left. And I’m coming to terminate them all.

Taking stock. What did I forget? Bounty? I could try that. Why not?

Jump in the truck. Oops, my steering’s not the best. Which way? Good job I can use a compass.

Where are they? Over there, I think, behind the aircraft hanger. Out I get, running forward. My feet are pounding; thud, thud, thud. Feel the vibration all through my body. Ready for a fight. Breathe.

First one’s close now, I can smell him. There? No, false alarm. There? Missed him. There? Bam, bam, bam. Gone, obliterated. Bounty cashed. Kerching!

Feeling good. Everything’s pumping.

Seconds ticking down. Buy another grenade and something to boost my health to survive that storm. Not a second too late. Here it comes, from the East, destroying everything, bending low. Wait it out. Fifty-two left.

Taking stock. Slow my breathing. Where was I before all this? The bounty, the storm. The hills. That was it. Run for the hills, the higher ground. That’s what they said. That’s where I’m going.

Getting hot. Really hot. Should’ve opened a window. Too late now.

Focus, focus. Hot, hot, hot. All that blood making me hot.

Can’t have sweat rolling into my eyes. Flick my head back, just for a second and it should splash off. Don’t take my eyes off that doorway. There’s sure to be someone behind it.

Oh God, oh God, I need to speed up. They’re catching up on me. Higher ground. Need to get to that higher ground. How to get there faster? Come on, come on. Use my brain. Think. No time to think. Breathe. No time to breathe. There, over there. A microlight. Can I fly it? Let’s have a go.

Side to side, wobble, wobble, pull back on the joystick, harder. Now I’m getting the hang of it. I’ll need to rise quickly. Shots coming from the ground. What was that? Too close for comfort. Check location. I’m getting away. Yay. You can’t catch me. Five hundred, 1,000, rising still. At 2,000 feet I’m safe.

This is crazy. Fly like a bird. I could get used to this.

Whoa. Don’t look down. Gun battles galore, blood and guts spewed over the corpse-strewn ground. Take my time. Still my pulse. Exhale.

Only twenty-two left. I’m doing pretty well for a rookie. I should buy a life. That’s what they said, but nowhere to cash in, not up here. But where to come down? Can’t stay up here for ever.

Time to land then. Those rocks should give me cover.

Grenade from the right. Shakes the ground. Shakes the world. A flash and another. And now, my legs won’t move. I’m down in the dirt, horizontal, prone, prostrate. Down but not out.

Get up! Get up! Get up!

Rushing, pounding, thudding.

Hot, hot, hot.

I’m fading fast. Was I hit? Don’t think I was hit.

There’s no blood. It’s in my ears, in my head; bumping, pumping, thumping.

It’s getting dark. Two more hours of daylight, but it’s getting dark.

No air. I’m outside but there’s no air. Breathe. I can’t breathe. I can breathe but I can’t breathe.

Am I alive or am I dead?

I just need to get to the higher ground.

2

Constance Lamb stood opposite Hackney police station, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her breath freezing in the cold November air. She hadn’t been told much about why she’d been summoned: another youth in trouble, eighteen years old, burglary, they’d said and she’d considered staying home and letting the job pass to the next in line. But then she’d heard her own voice, detached, some distance away, agreeing to take this one, even as her outstretched hand drew back the curtain and she saw the frost glistening on the pavement outside.

Cross with herself, confused as to the precise mechanism by which her mouth had said yes when her brain had said no, she had zipped up her boots, thrown on her thick coat, turned off the oven – her dinner would have to wait – and walked briskly to her destination. Except now she hesitated, on the threshold, taking a moment to gather her strength. Not her physical strength; it was less than half a mile’s walk from her flat, although she’d moved quickly to keep warm, tucking her scarf in tight, her hands thrust deep into her pockets, and she was hardly bothered by the distance.

No, it was inner strength, resolve, determination that was required on these occasions; assimilating information calmly, efficiently and from disparate sources, the need to act professionally, the requirement to gain and maintain the trust of a total stranger and the necessity to make the right decision about next steps, when so much depended on it.

She made a tunnel with her mouth and blew out three short breaths, tipping her head back and watching the white plumes stretch forwards and up. Then she crossed the road and went inside.

The policewoman on duty – uniform too tight, hair scraped back in a high ponytail – nodded to Constance and waved her off down the corridor.

‘Number five,’ she said.

‘I don’t have any details yet,’ Constance called out, over her shoulder.

‘You do now.’

Constance turned at Chief Inspector Dawson’s voice. He was thinner than the last time they had met. Was it a deliberate health drive or had he been unwell? His eyes were fine points of light, his cheeks were sunken and his hair, cut short at the sides, was greyer than she remembered. And it had only been a matter of weeks.

He handed her a wedge of papers and accompanied her to the interview room. Constance sat down without removing her coat, and her eyes skimmed over them, the words ‘murder’ and ‘robbery’ shouting out to her from the page, before settling on the name of the victim.

‘They told me burglary,’ she said, knowing, as she spoke that her complaint was meaningless.

So what if she’d expected some trumped-up petty theft, which would occupy her for half an hour? She was here now and she would have taken the murder charge anyway; she always did. Dawson shrugged and she noticed him wincing at the involuntary movement; the tiniest twitch of one corner of his mouth giving him away.

‘What’s the connection? Between my client and the victim?’ Constance asked.

‘That’s what I’m hoping he’s going to tell us.’

‘I mean, what evidence have you got?’

Dawson sat back and his eyes found hers. ‘We’ve got fingerprints, his prints in her apartment.’

‘Anything else?’

‘We’ll have the post-mortem results shortly.’

‘What makes you think she was murdered? Two days ago, you thought it was natural causes. I saw the headline. Eminent psychiatrist slips away in her sleep.’

‘You noticed it was her.’ Dawson’s tone was conciliatory.

‘Elizabeth Sullivan. There can’t be two of them, both dying on the same day, on the same street. I do keep up.’

Dawson smiled. ‘That’s why we have post-mortems, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘And the burglary?’

‘Her handbag was stolen. There may be other items too. We’ve yet to locate any family who can verify what’s missing.’

‘You’ve found the bag since?’

‘Not yet.’

‘All right. And my client – Jaden Dodds?’

‘We picked him up this afternoon. Like I said, his prints match. He’s a neighbour.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘But no signs of violence.’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Was the news report wrong then?’ Constance suddenly felt tired and hungry and conscious that her need for sleep and food were unlikely to be satisfied for some time.

‘I can’t disclose anything. But I’ll let you know what I can, when I can.’ Dawson stood up.

Constance tutted. This was useless.

‘Can I see Jaden now, please?’ she said.

‘Sure. I’ll have him brought in.’

***

Jaden Dodds entered the room and sat down opposite Constance. He was wearing an expensive-looking bomber jacket, with an orange camouflage pattern, a crisp, white t-shirt with ‘King’ printed on it and a beanie hat. On his feet, he wore striking canary-yellow trainers; the right one had the word ‘human’ written on it in black lettering and the left, the word ‘race’. He crossed one foot over the other and rested his hands on the table. He had a cut above his right eyebrow, just starting to crust.

Constance waited till the police officer had gone, then picked up her chair and moved it around, tucking it in at the table end, so she was seated to his left side.

‘Hello Jaden.’

Jaden didn’t respond. Constance also leaned forward, her fingers almost reaching his.

‘My name’s Constance Lamb. I’m a solicitor. You spoke to someone at my office earlier, Julie, I think it was. I’m here to advise you.’

Jaden shifted his hands from the table top to his lap and blinked lazily.

‘I didn’t do nothing,’ he said, staring straight ahead.

‘Did you know Dr Sullivan?’

‘Who?’

‘Dr Elizabeth Sullivan. The lady who’s been killed.’

‘I don’t know no Dr Sullivan.’

‘Dr Elizabeth Sullivan of 38 Dunloe Close, E2, found dead on Saturday morning, at her apartment. You don’t know her?’ Constance took out her phone. ‘It was in the papers. OK, not the top story and more local. Here’s a photo. Why don’t you take a look?’ She held her phone out to him. He turned his head, scanned the image and then he focused on Constance for the first time.

‘She told me her name was Liz. I didn’t know she was no doctor,’ he said. And, for a second, the mask of bravado slipped, his voice quivering as it tapered off. Constance allowed him to recover his composure before pressing on. Exposing him too soon would not help build his trust.

‘You knew her well?’ she continued.

Jaden didn’t reply.

‘How did you get the cut over your eye?’

Jaden shrugged.

‘All right. I’ll tell you what I know and you join in when you can. Two days ago, this lady, Dr Elizabeth Sullivan, was found dead at home, in bed. You live directly opposite at Montagu Court, flat 31. The police believed she had died in her sleep and that’s how it was first reported. Like I said, more local interest than national. Now they’re looking at it again, thinking she might have been killed and your fingerprints are inside her flat. That’s why you’re here. What were you doing in her flat?’

Jaden shrugged again.

‘What were you doing there?’

‘I just helped her with some shopping.’

‘You helped her with some shopping?’

‘Yeah.’ The bluster had returned, but that was all right. At least he was talking.

‘Did you know her?’ Constance asked.

‘To say hello to, that’s all. She had some shopping in the car. I was walking past. I asked if she wanted help.’

‘And you took the shopping into her apartment?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can you remember what was in the shopping?’

‘Nar. Just shopping. Tins and stuff.’

‘What supermarket was it from?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked at her again, this time for longer, his mouth closed tight to emphasise the finality of that response, his eyes challenging her to contradict him, goading her on. Constance chose, instead, to take a step to the side, rather than engage in full-on combat.

‘Was that the only time you’ve been in her apartment?’ she asked. Jaden registered the shift away from a full confrontation. His shoulders relaxed.

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘How long did you stay?’

‘I just dropped the shopping and that was it.’

‘You were there, what, one, two minutes?’

‘That’s it, yeah.’

‘But you didn’t know she was a doctor, a psychiatrist?’

‘Why would I know that? Why would I care?’

‘She might have told you.’

‘Nar.’

‘What did you do after you helped her with her shopping?’

‘I went home.’

‘And then?’

‘I was home all night.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘Yeah. Nathaniel can.’

‘He’s a friend of yours?’

‘We live together.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He’ll be at home.’

Constance made a note. ‘What do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a gamer.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Gamer, gaming, online gaming. I have a live stream on Twitch and a YouTube channel.’

‘That’s what you do for work?’

‘Something wrong with that?’ Jaden uncrossed and then re-crossed his legs, the word ‘human’ now taking a solid stance on the floor and ‘race’ nodding agreeably at Constance.

‘How would I find you on Twitch?’ she said.

‘JD & Nath. Take a look. We have 120K followers. It’s totally legit. We did a live show that night. Lots of people tuned in. Maybe you want to talk to them all, too, to…corroborate my alibi.’

Constance sat back. She was the one who had shifted her chair close to Jaden in the first place, to be friendly, to gain his confidence. That was one of her usual tactics, but it was having no noticeable impact on him. The story he was telling, whether it was true or not, was not recounted especially for her. The same words, the same gestures would have been churned out for anyone occupying her role.

Now she wished she had remained more distant, asserted some authority. That might have worked better, might have paved the way for Jaden to confide later on, when it finally dawned on him that he needed her help. It was like those mothers who constantly told their kids they were their ‘best friend’. Didn’t they realise that was not what kids needed from a parent?

‘How did you get the cut above your eye?’ Constance asked again, trying to harden her tone.

‘I cut myself shaving,’ he said.

‘Would you like me to tell any family you’re here?’

Jaden shook his head. ‘No one to tell, thanks. Just Nath. And he knows where I’m at.’

***

‘You haven’t got anything on him,’ Constance tapped on the window of Dawson’s office. He was sitting staring at the screen of his PC. He beckoned her in.

‘What was that you said? He’s ready to sign a full confession?’

Constance sat down and scrutinised Dawson. In the artificial light of his room, his skin had taken on a sallow hue.

‘Hardly,’ she replied. ‘He lives locally. He helped her with some shopping, end of.’

‘He has a record.’

‘Possession, I’ve seen. It’s nothing.’

‘We’ve got neighbours saying there are lots of young people hanging around the flat. He’s probably been dealing.’

‘Probably? You know that means nothing, either. He’s a celebrity, that’s why kids hang around him.’

‘A celebrity?’

‘YouTube. Twitch. He has lots of followers.’

‘Blimey, he’s pulled one over on you, all right. In how long? Twenty minutes.’ Dawson stretched his arms up above his head, exposing two dark patches beneath his arms. Constance looked away. ‘There was also a caution for theft. Did he mention that one?’ he said.

Constance was silent.

‘And did you ask him whether he carried the shopping into her bedroom?’ Dawson tried again.

‘What?’

Dawson smiled and lowered his arms and, for the first time that day, he resembled the Dawson she knew.

‘Dr Elizabeth Sullivan, found dead in bed, bag stolen; money, keys, mobile phone. Your client was seen with her, chatting, going into her flat. No shopping was mentioned. And his fingerprints were everywhere, including in her bedroom…all over her bedroom. I think you need another word with Mr YouTube Celebrity Jaden Dodds,’ he said. ‘And once the post-mortem is complete, I think we’ll all be sitting down together for a nice group chat.’

3

Thomas Sullivan sat in his room, his window open, the last scrap of a cigarette hanging from his fingers. Normally, they wouldn’t let him smoke; no one was allowed – not even teachers – but they were hardly going to argue today, two days after his mother’s death.

He took a final puff and then stubbed the cigarette out on his history book. It left a brown hollow in the cover and gave him a momentary pang at his unnecessary act of vandalism. Then he sank his finger into the dip and allowed it to rest there. He looked across to the two beds, one neatly made, the other a testament to his disrupted night, its covers flung back, exposing his flamingo-patterned pyjama bottoms.

The pristine bed belonged to David, his best friend, but David had been evicted, temporarily, on the basis that Tom might want his own space for a few days. He shook his head. They really hadn’t a clue. Granted, they probably didn’t have a dedicated ‘how to deal with traumatised orphans’ policy, but he would have expected some common sense. Anyone with an ounce of empathy would not have left him alone for hours on end.

As he turned away, he caught a fleeting glimpse of his mother’s face, smiling at him in that wistful way of hers. Sometimes, he wondered if it was regret for all the things she’d lost; a husband, those early milestones of his, her youth. Catching her in one of those moments, he’d asked her once, ‘Why do you look so sad?’ But she had shaken her head and held him close. ‘I’m not sad,’ she’d whispered, her fingers tangled through his hair, pressing his face against her neck. ‘I’m never sad. Not when you’re here.’

Tom reached for the cigarette packet; only two left. It hardly mattered. There’d be more if he wanted them. You could get most things you wanted, most of the time, and no one would deny him now, in his hour of need.

‘Pleased to see you’re awake and up. How are you today?’

If Mr Jenkins had knocked, Tom hadn’t heard him. But then all sounds were muffled to him, as if he was hearing underwater or through dodgy headphones, the rise and fall of familiar voices all siphoned into a monotone of sameness.

‘Will you come down for breakfast?’ Mr Jenkins enquired.

Tom wondered if his headmaster really was relieved to see him alive and dressed, or if he would have preferred to find the room empty; Tom run away to join the circus or splattered on the ground immediately below his second-floor window. Maybe that was the real reason he had declared Tom should be left alone; to allow him to do ‘the honourable thing’, so as not to be a burden to anyone.

That made Tom think of the poem they had studied in English on Friday, before he heard the news, about Liz, his mother, before his world turned upside down and inside out and topsy-turvy. ‘Kamikaze’ it was called, all about a Japanese man in the 1940s, who had so loved life, that he had aborted his wartime suicide mission, only to return to shame and ostracism. Mr Docherty had asked Tom to read it aloud to the class. The last line, the one where the man wonders whether his heroic soldier’s death would, ultimately, have been preferable to his ‘dishonourable’, miserable life – that had caught in Tom’s throat.

If Mr Docherty had noticed, he hadn’t said, the class had continued with their analysis and comment: simile, metaphor, alliteration. Mr Docherty had told them that the word ‘kamikaze’ translated as ‘divine wind’, that, in the thirteenth century, Japan had been saved from invasion by a typhoon and that its soldiers engaging in their gruesome assignments, in more recent times, had claimed the romantic title. David had piped up then, said he thought it was ironic, that ‘wind’ was usually associated with life, not death. Stephen Wilson, sitting behind him, disagreed. ‘Wind’, he said, ‘often brought destruction’ and whipped up fire too. Mr Docherty, pleased with the lively discussion, added that wind often moved at great speed; ‘Ride like the wind’, ‘fly like the wind’.

All Tom could think then, was that it was easy for these boys, his friends, his companions to talk glibly; to speak, with apparent inside knowledge, about the quality of the returning soldier’s life, to shake their heads and sanctimoniously judge him: ‘deserter’, ‘double-crosser’, ‘traitor’ even. Tom understood everything about the Japanese man, that he’d gazed down at the shimmering sea, reflected on the life he loved and vowed to cling on to it for as long as he humanly could. For his family and community to fail to understand that, to place so little value on his life and the meaning it gave them, to reject him – that was the real disgrace.

But today, this morning, this minute, he was no longer sure of the feelings which had swelled inside him on Friday. Perhaps he had been too idealistic, perhaps there could be honour in death, especially when the alternative was a truly empty life.

‘If you’re not feeling up to it, I can get David to bring something up for you. Would you like that better?’ Mr Jenkins said.

Tom dug at the hole in the cover of his book, pressing his thumb into the groove and gouging at the fleshy paper beneath with his nail.

‘I’ll ask him to do that, anyway; keep your strength up. Then, maybe after breakfast, you’ll come down. We could have a walk. Fresh air is always welcome.’ Mr Jenkins wrinkled his nose. Evidently the smell of Tom’s cigarette, lingering in the air, prompted his invitation. ‘Is there anything I can get you in the meantime?’ he offered.

Tom heard Mr Jenkins clearly this time and a shiver travelled through his body from his head to his toes. He had dreamed of those words on Jenkins’ lips, but had never thought he would hear them in real life. Every cloud has a silver lining, so they said.

He turned towards the jittery man and their eyes met for the first time. Tom thought Jenkins appeared genuinely concerned. Whether it was for Tom or for himself he couldn’t tell. So it would be good to ask for something, wouldn’t it? He’d read a bit of psychology and wasn’t that right? That you should take people up on offers of help; it made them feel good about themselves. If you just said no thanks or I’m fine, as so many stoic people did, then the person offering felt deflated. He should do this for Mr Jenkins, as well as for himself.

‘I’d like my laptop please,’ he said. ‘Not the spare one, my laptop.’

Mr Jenkins hesitated a moment, then he nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll get David to bring it up to you, with your breakfast.’

And just like that, Mr Jenkins was gone, obligation fulfilled, back to the day job of presiding over meals and assemblies and, no doubt, endless planning meetings. They said he used to teach, that he’d been a pretty good teacher. Geography was his subject or was it maths? Tom couldn’t remember.

He pulled another cigarette from the box and held it to his lips, hunting around for his lighter. None of it really mattered now: geography, maths, any subjects he’d been forced to study these past eleven years. None of them any use to you. Who needed to know the names for all the different ways the Earth’s plates moved? Either you were at the other side of the world, in which case it was a total irrelevance. Or, you were there at the epicentre, and you would get the hell out, rather than be occupied with the appropriate terminology for what was happening hundreds of miles below your feet.

And maths? Who needed a graph to show how an object was accelerating as it fell to Earth? If it was large, like a meteor, surely what was important was that it would make a great big hole and you’d better get out of its way. If it was small, then you were probably OK.

Locating the lighter in his desk drawer, he lit the cigarette and drew its smoke deep into his lungs. He visualised the cloudy vapour rolling through his body like tumbleweed, unfurling its fronds like a fern in time-lapse, extending deep inside him. He coughed once, deliberately, to close his internal passageways, before the fog reached the pain which consumed him and sought to salve it.

He exhaled and flicked his ash onto his desktop and remembered what Mr Jenkins had just promised him. A frisson of excitement sparked his fingertips. Soon he would be out of here and this tired little room, this stale environment would be a distant memory. He, ‘Sully’, was going places. If David would just hurry up and bring him his laptop, then the fun could begin.

4

‘You wanted to see me?’ Luke Smith tapped at Eric Daniels’ office window and hovered on the threshold. Eric waved him in and pointed at the chair opposite his desk, shifting his own chair away from his laptop and his four extra-large screens to face Luke. He smiled, but only with his teeth. Then he picked up one of the miniatures which adorned his desk and stared at it, before replacing it exactly where it had been.

‘Do you remember when you joined us here at Valiant, eight months ago, I made you sit through a film with key messages?’ Eric said, his eyebrows rising and falling as he spoke.

‘I remember, yes.’ Luke sat himself down and shifted his weight from side to side. It sounded like his newest design idea might not have hit the spot.

‘And there were some real “no nos”, do you recall? Things you absolutely must not do, in a Valiant game. Do you remember that?’ Eric’s index finger poked at the model again. Luke noticed it was the earliest iteration of Major Valiant, their namesake and champion of Valiant’s first successful online game. He’d changed since then, but Eric often talked about the need to keep sight of their ‘humble beginnings’.

‘No nos,’ he tested the words on the inside of his head. ‘No nos’, ‘mangos’, ‘yoyos’. Was Eric trying to patronise him? ‘Yeah, sure I remember.’ Perspiration broke out on Luke’s top lip. He didn’t want to look at the all-conquering Major Valiant. Instead, he focused on the Bruce Lee poster behind Eric’s head. Bruce Lee? Who had a poster of Bruce Lee on their wall these days?

‘Can you tell me what any of those were, those “no nos”, those bridges you mustn’t cross, commandments you mustn’t break, on pain of death?’

Luke’s throat was dry. He’d been warned that Eric could be like this, pushy, aggressive, dictatorial, but he had thought the others were pulling his leg. He hadn’t seen signs of it himself, before now. And he did recall the introductory film, but not verbatim. ‘No nos’, ‘avocados’, ‘peccadillos’.

‘Hm… No padding,’ he said.

‘Absolutely. No padding. That’s right. Why not?’ Luke focused on Eric now, his anxiety levels still rising. Eric was half out of his seat, his eyes large, one arm waving in Luke’s face.

‘Players lose interest in aimless tasks,’ Luke said.

‘Yes. Players like clear objectives. If we only have five minutes of purposeful play, we can’t set them a forty-hour game. What else?’

‘No repetition.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s boring.’

‘Yes, but sometimes humans like boring. When’s that?’ Eric’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

‘When they choose it.’

‘You’re good at this. You did listen. That’s why I don’t understand how you’ve fucked up so monumentally on this one.’ Eric’s fist came down onto his desk with a thud, on top of the drawings Luke had placed there early this morning.

Luke swallowed. For a second, he had wallowed in his boss’s praise, but it had been short-lived. Now he was in virgin territory.

‘OK, I’ll give you a clue, what we’re talking ’bout here,’ Eric was speaking again. ‘What’s the sixth commandment, in the Bible? Any idea?’

Luke was flailing around a bit. Religious studies wasn’t his thing and he had only been in a church twice – his brother’s wedding and nephew’s christening – and the Ten Commandments had not been mentioned on either occasion.

‘Numbers one to five – no interest for us. All that shit about “I am the Lord, your God” and “keep the sabbath day”. That’s not important. Although don’t tell my mother I said that. Number six, however, is key, crucial, fundamental. Numero Uno. Well, it’s not, cos it’s number six, like I said. But numero uno in significance. No? You give up?’

Luke still didn’t speak. But if it was number six, it couldn’t be that important. It could be the adultery one. He knew that was in the Bible somewhere and it was forbidden. That was why Jesus had to step in to save the prostitute. ‘Numero uno’, ‘gigolo’, ‘flamenco’. He almost giggled.

‘Thou shalt not murder. Do you remember now?’ Eric answered for him.

‘Yes.’ Luke could hardly make the shape with his mouth.

‘But what’s Valiant’s take on that? What’s our take on that?’ Eric prodded Major Valiant Numero Uno, one last time.

‘I don’t remember.’