Minions (33 page)

“So what was so special about Derrell?”

“You understand that I’m telling you this happy in the
knowledge that you’ll surely pass all of this onto Conrad and the Detective. 
But I have nothing to hide.”  The leather on Glen’s armchair creaked as he
wriggled in an effort to get comfortable.  “The fact is that Derrell
represented the changing of the guard.  The readers before him were different
to those who followed.”

“Does that include me?” Devlin asked.

“I hope so.  But anyway.  Derrell.”  Glen took a mouthful
from a bottle of beer that he’d held inconspicuously on his lap.  “Derrell
believed in the law.  Father was a cop, grandfather was a cop.  I thought he’d
be perfect.”

“So what happened?”

“He started passing information to his family, which
essentially, indirectly, meant the police.  That in itself didn’t concern me,
but it had all the makings of others, like Casey and Alun.  I didn’t want that
to happen again.”

Devlin kept watching Glen.  He’d grown accustomed to a
lack of eye contact, or at least a lack of reciprocated eye contact, but still
he tried.  If nothing else, it made him
feel
that Glen was being
honest.  He also sensed sadness in his tone, like he was peeling the scab from
a wound that just wouldn’t heal.  “So what did you do?”

“Nothing,” Glen replied indignantly.  “I spoke to him.  It
wasn’t like I read him the riot act or anything.  I just tried to explain his
role in the greater scheme of things.  You’d understand, of course.  And I
actually thought I’d hit a chord.  He stopped.  Just like that, he stopped.  He
broke contact with his family, his life, everything.

“’
Kindred spirit
’ sounds so, so … inappropriate. 
But at the time I was sure I’d found someone who was more than just an
employee.

“For a time it was just him and I.  He was younger than
me, and I saw him as being someone who’d continue when I moved on.  So I broke
my own rule and explained a little of my technology.  I knew my system was
secure, and telling him was as much a measure of my trust in him as my trust in
my system.  And it was good for me. 
He
was good for me.  A friend who I
trusted. 

“Gradually, he became more and more fixated on watching
TV, or the bank of TVs as I am now.  At the time I remember feeling a little
put out that his watching TV was interfering with our friendship.”

“Was he an employee when he died?”

“He became very moody.  Highs and lows so bad that I
suggested medication, which he fought I might add.  Then he grew more distant,
more aloof.  He started spending more and more time out of the office, and we
drifted apart.  I resented the fact that he knew so much about LastGasp’, and
for a time I wondered if he was going out on his own, potentially as a
competitor.  Eventually I confronted him on the matter.”

“Was he going it alone?”

“Can I say that until Derrell came along, I believed that
my system was perfect.  I’d seen competitors come and go, and fail, all because
LastGaspStore was perfect, for what it was intended.  I’d weathered god knows
how many attempted infiltrations, legal furore, bad media.  But Derrell found a
way to exploit it.”

“How?” Devlin asked, but Glen said nothing in reply, as if
he was thinking either what to say or how to say it.  “How’d he get in?” Devlin
asked again.

“He didn’t.  But he discovered that LastGasp’ was geared
for the truth, and I wasn’t prepared for misinformation.  Ikel and the others
would have explained ghosts, for which I have a protocol.  But when is a ghost
not a ghost?”

Devlin was beyond riddles.  “Can’t you just tell me?” 

“What happens when you have real people, but fake
messages?”

“That would have to depend on the message.”

“So what happens if you received a message from a
relative, a friend, who described their involvement in some crime?  Would you
believe it?”

Devlin considered the question.  “Yes.”  Though it made
him think, and he was still thinking when Glen continued.

“The trouble was that the messages didn’t change anything,
and in themselves they didn’t make things happen.  It was some time later that
he killed himself.”

“Lori told me how sad you were to hear about …
that
.”

“It was before Lori’s time.  I might add that Carson was
worse.  And if ever there was a period when I was legitimately concerned, it
was then.”

“What did Carson do?”

“Other than demonstrate a failing in my judgement?  Where
Derrell was disappointed with waiting for the messages, Carson couldn’t wait.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Glen glanced Devlin’s way, and then turned on the bank of
televisions, each a different channel.  He said nothing.

Infuriated, Devlin considered stepping outside for some
fresh air, where he was sure that the Detective would be waiting when his phone
rang.  He fumbled for it as he stood and left the lounge.  The displayed number
wasn’t known or familiar, but he was beyond caring and answered it anyway. 

All the Detective needed to say was that he’d found Ikel. 
Devlin left Glen without another word.

                                                                                                                                                        
Chapter - 69.
               
 

Malcolm was nestled into the corner of a well-lit booth in
the bar with a novel in his hand.  There were others with books, a few
business-men, presumably travelling away from home and weary of the surroundings
of their respective hotel rooms and associated sterile confines.  They sat
lonely, one person per table, reading fat paperbacks.  Malcolm’s book was
nothing special, and if the truth be known, he would have struggled to recall
anything of the preceding twenty or so pages, but he wasn’t there to read. 

He wasn’t there to drink either, though he had sampled a
few designer beers interspersed with iced water and a single coffee.  The
coffee was decidedly average, even for a bar, and promised to leave him unable
to sleep for hours, but sleep was the last thing on his mind.  The evening was
not supposed to be recreational.  He just watched Tania, unobtrusively but not
covertly.

Tania was in ‘
life of the party
’ mode, and as such,
she dominated the majority of the bar patrons.  She was putting on quite a
performance too.  Most watched and laughed raucously, laughing at her, not with
her, though it seemed that she was either incapable of, or beyond telling the
difference. 

The crowd around her was thinning.  Gradually people were
leaving, possibly because they’d had enough, or possibly because they were
tiring of watching the spectacle before them.  Not even increasing the
frequency of flashes of her breasts stemmed their departure, and her outbursts
as to their lack of staying power did nothing to endear them.  It was mid-week
and late at night, and soon only the sexual opportunists and very drunk
remained, but she showed no sign of slowing.

Malcolm enjoyed the show.  He knew it wouldn’t be long
now.

                                                                                                                                                        
Chapter - 70.
               
 

Devlin recognised Ikel’s car, or what was left of it, by
the licence plate.  He hadn’t noticed it before, but it was hard to miss a
plate ‘IKEL’ and he understood immediately that everything the Detective had
said en-route was true, despite his best efforts to convince himself
otherwise. 

He didn’t need to see the body, though Detective Reymond
would have possibly allowed it.  There didn’t seem much point.  The identity
had been confirmed adequately, but not formally, by the time they’d arrived,
and the ambulance and its crew was just keen to get on their way.  In any case,
there was too much blood on the wall for the body to be recognisable as his new
friend.

Detective Reymond spoke quietly with the attending
Police.  He looked unfazed as he mainly listened, alternating between surveying
the car wreck and looking at the uniforms as they filled him in, periodically
glancing at Devlin.  Eventually after what seemed an eternity, though it was
only a few minutes, Detective Reymond sauntered over to Devlin, seated on the
kerb with his legs stretched onto the road, away from shattered glass and
debris.

 “At least he died doing what he loved.  He loved that car,”
said Devlin, nervously slipping into banality.  “I’m assuming it was suicide.”

“Possibly.”  Detective Reymond eased his older body onto
the kerb beside Devlin.  He made no attempt to hide the fact that he wasn’t
comfortable.  “Traffic incidents aren’t my thing.  The uniforms are still
checking and looking for witnesses.  There’s an unsubstantiated report that he
might have swerved to miss a dog, so the write-up might call it accidental.  Of
course, we have a distinct lack of an animal, or carcass as the case may be,
and there’s no skid-marks to substantiate the report.”

Devlin said nothing.  He just sat staring into infinity.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Detective Reymond asked.

“I guess I’m wondering how this fits with my understanding
of what is going on at LastGasp’.” 

“Well.” Reymond braced himself, as if about to suggest
something unpalatable.  “Of course you have to consider that perhaps your
friend did just …
call it a day
.”

“Oh, please!” Devlin was incredulous.  “Another LastGasp’
employee on the list and you’re telling me that …”

Reymond interrupted Devlin at the start of what was sure
to be a nervous or scared rant.  “I’m just saying that perhaps the suicides are
real.  Pure and simple.  Of course, for the sake of argument, I’m not including
your friend here in this list pending the formal outcome of the investigation. 
But maybe the problem lies in your employer’s recruitment practices.”  Reymond
took a deep breath as if in anticipation of a rebuttal.

No rebuttal came.  Instead, Devlin was silent, thinking,
and for a few seconds he said nothing, until, “You know Detective.  I think
you’re right.”

                                                                                                                                                        
Chapter - 71.
               
 

Albert was so close he could taste it, but taste, like the
sense of smell, was little more than a memory.  He didn’t really miss the sense
of smell, and in his current surrounds, being able to smell anything would have
been more than he could handle.  To him, sloshing around amid puddles of urine
was no different really than walking around after fresh rains, except that
there wasn’t the intangible feel of renewal and cleanliness that accompanied
rain.  While he didn’t miss most scents and smells, he did miss the pervasive
odour of cleanliness, that, and the taste of a good steak.  Even just the
thought of the taste of some meat made him miss his life, or what was his
life.  But what he could taste now was better than the best steak at the best
restaurant.  He could taste sweet revenge, and it was both sweet and savoury,
and more than worth the wait.

It had taken forever to track Sam down, but faster than
the man could be identified, he could re-invent himself, assume a new identity
and disappear leaving the process of finding him back at square one.  Right now
he was using the name Malcolm Venn which hurt even more. 

He didn’t have all the time in the world for his quest
either.  Not only was the search wearing, but what was left of his lungs were
getting worse.  He was brave in the face of his own mortality, as fast as his
death was approaching, but he was scared that he mightn’t get to actually find Sam
in time.

The most important thing in what remained of his life was
that he find the guy.  He needed for Sam to understand what he’d done in the
last few moments of
his
life. 

He didn’t want to be too over-confident though.  He’d been
close, arguably this close before, only to have that bastard slip through his
fingers and disappear.  Most recently, only a few days ago, he’d tracked Sam down
to where he was hiding out with some bitch, but before he could do anything
about it, Sam was gone.  For her part, either Sam had briefed her very well, or
she genuinely didn’t know anything, but she didn’t concede any clues as to his whereabouts.
 

Albert bit his lower lip as he remembered meeting her,
frustration giving way to regret as he thought of how he’d lost his temper.  He
tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault, but it was no use.  He
could have walked away at any time, particularly when it was obvious that she
wasn’t going to talk.  He should have walked away when she voluntarily raised
her skirt, as if he would be that easily placated.  And when he saw the
bruises, that in particular should have appealed to what was left of him and he
should have run away for fear of becoming what he loathed.  And he was going
to, until she suggested that he’d never find Sam.  The years of anticipation,
the pent up resentment at looking for him and not being able to find him, and
the bottled aggression was suddenly uncapped.  He couldn’t even remember what
he’d done to her, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.  Not his finest moment. 

Albert wasn’t even sure if she was alive, whoever she is,
or was.  He’d left as soon as he’d heard a car pull up outside and made his way
back to his own noxious smelling cave.  Perhaps the only upside was that
irrespective of whether she lived or died, Sam would get the message and maybe,
just maybe, it would be enough for him to make a mistake. 

                                                                                                                                                        
Chapter - 72.