Troll Read online

  Next, chemical symbols. FL could be fluoride, or fluorine, or fluorescent, or … who was I kidding? I knew as much about chemistry as I did about how aeroplanes work.

  Next, countries. GA could be Gambia, AK could be Afghanistan, if Afghanistan had a K in it, which of course it didn’t. Oh Christ, I thought, oh God, it must have been ten minutes already and I had no idea what these letters meant. None at all. My mind was turning fast, but turning nothing, just this churning vacuum of cluelessness. I felt like I used to in maths when I was asked a question on quadrilateral equations and all I wanted to do was run away. That feeling of time passing and my mind a blank. I shuffled the papers on the floor, put them in different combinations, hoped something would leap out. Hoped that some obvious connection would reveal itself and I’d go, oh yes, of course. Duh. But it didn’t.

  And of course the troll came back and through the door and he said, well?

  Well, I haven’t got a clue, I said.

  Oh. He sounded surprised, and disappointed. Really? You didn’t work it out?

  Nope.

  He sighed. Then I’m afraid there will be no supper.

  He didn’t say anything else, and I had nothing to say in response. What was there to say? So after a while he gave up and said, put the sack over your head. And I did, and the door opened, and he led me back to my cell and locked the door and I took the sack off and tried not to think about food.

  And guess what? I didn’t get any supper. Or breakfast. I didn’t get diddly. And the next day it was the same thing, and by this time I was starving and really, really wanted to eat. I was fantasizing about Big Macs and kebabs and Indian takeaways; I’d kill for one lousy prawn cracker. And yes, I was thinking about those letters, and what they could mean. Thinking and thinking and thinking. And maybe it’s because I was hungry and slightly delirious, but I got it. I got it, even though it seemed impossible, crazy, unreal.

  AK. Anthony Knight. Banker, boring, drove a Ferrari, acted like that conferred some special status on him, gave him carte blanche to act like a dickhead. What was I thinking?

  TF. Ted Fulbrook. Not the brightest. Or the best, come to think of it.

  SS. Steve Smith. Seemed nice at first, but he had these awful tattoos, and it turns out he used to be a football hooligan. Nice.

  OM. Ollie Matthews. About the loveliest guy you could ever meet, but just when it was getting serious, he tells me he’s going round the world for a year. Didn’t invite me. I cried for days.

  GA. Gary Allen. Tosser, basically.

  FL. Frannie Livings. Nice guy, ended amicably because we had, as far as we could tell, and we did discuss it, absolutely zero in common.

  That’s right, the troll took the six people I’ve slept with (except for two he doesn’t know about, nobody knows about, and I’d rather forget about) and asked me to put them in order. How did he find out? Is there anything he doesn’t know about me?

  The last thing he said to me was that he hoped I’d get better at it, get better at his games. He said I still had six days to go, so there was plenty of time.

  Oh God. Six days. What’s he going to do to me? What has this sick bastard got planned?

  thirty-four

  ONE THING, FORTUNE THOUGHT GRUDGINGLY, ONE SMALL redeeming feature, was that he could smoke in the house, due principally to the fact that Georgi obviously couldn’t care less about what went on inside it. His bedroom was half a room, small to begin with and now boarded in the middle to make two narrow spaces with a single bed in each, nothing else, open at the end to a communal door. He could hear his neighbour snoring on the other side of the intersecting wall as clearly as if he was in the same room. Which, Fortune realized, he technically was.

  After he’d been shown his room, which was on the second floor, up uncarpeted stairs covered with paint stains from previous owners, he’d dropped his bag and gone downstairs to the communal kitchen. It had been full of men, smoking and drinking and cooking, large men who looked tired and spoke to each other in languages Fortune did not recognize. They had watched him with suspicion when he had said hello, had stopped talking amongst themselves, and Fortune had left the house and found a McDonald’s. At least that was something. He had eaten. When he got back, he washed in tepid water in a bath with a rust stain beneath the taps. The light in the bathroom didn’t work, so he’d made do with the light from the corridor, shining weakly through the glass above the bathroom door. No radiators worked. The house was gloomy and cold and strange, filled with so many nationalities, and Fortune felt as if he had stepped into a different world, a dark, dismal, Soviet version of Britain.

  Now, lying in bed, he tried to get some sleep and ignore the sounds from his neighbour, the voices outside the door, the feet on the stairs, constant, up and down, doors opening and closing. He was used to hush, muted sounds, warmth and comfort. He wouldn’t find it here.

  The next morning, he was woken by the sun through his curtainless window, the cold starting a coughing jag he couldn’t seem to stop. His neighbour knocked on the partition between them and said something that Fortune didn’t understand. Fortune sat up, rubbed his head and looked through his luggage. His daughter’s computer was gone. And the phone, the phone that had been left in his hotel room, the phone he’d received a message on. Gone.

  He put on his shoes and took a moment to collect himself. Then he walked around the partition. The man in the bed was half asleep. He had dark hair, and he wasn’t either small or especially big. Fortune bent down and got his face right next to his. The man wasn’t expecting it, and his eyes opened wide, scared.

  ‘Where is it?’ Fortune said.

  ‘What?’ said the man. ‘What?’

  ‘Computer. Understand? Computer. Phone. Where are they?’

  ‘Don’t know, don’t know,’ the man said.

  Fortune frowned, shook his head. ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the man said again. Fortune watched him for a moment, then stood up and looked around the man’s side of the room. There was nothing but a bag, the strong kind you use for shopping. He picked it up and emptied it. There were clothes, a bottle of shower gel, a book in a foreign language. Nothing else. Fortune pulled away the man’s sheet. He was wearing all his clothes, even shoes.

  ‘Get up,’ Fortune said.

  The man stood and pushed himself back against the wall, trying to get as far from Fortune as possible. Fortune lifted the mattress and looked underneath. Nothing there.

  ‘Arms up,’ he said. The man looked confused and didn’t move, so Fortune patted him down, moved the man’s arms out of the way, felt his body, worked his way down each leg. The man had a phone in his jacket pocket but it wasn’t the one Fortune had found in his hotel room.

  ‘Police?’ said the man, and Fortune realized that he had no idea who Fortune was, didn’t realize that he’d been the man sleeping next to him all night, waking him with his coughing.

  ‘No,’ said Fortune. ‘Yes. Doesn’t matter. Go back to bed.’ The man blinked, moved towards the bed and stopped, looking at Fortune for permission. Fortune stepped away. ‘Yes. Bed. Go back to bed.’

  He went back next door and sat down on his bed. He put his head in his hands. Think. Your only lifeline to your daughter’s been stolen. The phone, you need to get the phone back. Think. Somebody in this house took it. You can’t intimidate them all. You’re a fifty-four-year-old man with cancer. You need to find someone who can help, make them help. The landlord. Georgi. Put the pressure on him, he’ll put the pressure on the rest. You need to find Georgi and force him to help.

  How? Bribe or bullshit, thought Fortune. Bribe or bullshit. What did he have? Just over five hundred pounds, and he needed that. Plus, five hundred, even for a slum landlord, wasn’t that much money. No, bribery was out of the question, wasn’t going to work. He clenched his fists against the sides of his head. Think. Every second you sit here, the harder it’ll be, the further away that phone, that computer, will get. You need to move.

  He
looked through his luggage and found his daughter’s wallet, put it in his pocket. He left his room and took the stairs, one flight, two, down to the kitchen. There were men in it, but fewer than the night before.

  ‘Has anybody seen Georgi?’ Fortune said.

  They looked at him and didn’t answer. There were three of them, all standing. Two were drinking coffee and one was drinking a can of lager, a brand he didn’t recognize. They were dressed for work, building work, boots and overalls. They were all smoking, so Fortune took out a cigarette and lit it, reckoning it might establish a bond, warm them to him. He inhaled, exhaled, smiled at them. They didn’t smile back.

  ‘I need to speak to Georgi. You know? Georgi? Need to speak to him.’

  They still didn’t answer, and Fortune reverted to Plan A. Bribe. He took out a twenty. ‘Come on. Where is he?’ They looked at the twenty but didn’t react. ‘Come on,’ Fortune said again.

  The man drinking lager finished it, put the can down and walked to Fortune. One of the other men spoke to him, what sounded like a warning, but he just laughed and took the twenty out of Fortune’s hand. He walked out of the kitchen and stopped at the door, lifting his chin for Fortune to follow him. He walked down the stairs to the basement, stopping halfway down and gesturing Fortune past. At the bottom was a large room with a leather sofa and a wide-screen TV. There was a huge aquarium along one wall, full of tropical fish. Fortune thought of Jackson, the aquarium he’d had in his wall. He might as well have wandered into a different house, this room was so luxurious, a nouveau riche Eastern European gangster imagining of a sophisticated bachelor pad. It was lit by recessed spotlights and Georgi was watching TV, his back to Fortune. On the TV a cowboy was riding a bull at a rodeo, trying to stay on as the bull bucked and leapt, one hand flailing in the air, the other clamped to the animal’s neck.

  ‘Georgi?’

  Georgi leapt up, a sudden movement, frightened, or just the reaction of a man used to unpleasant surprises. He looked at Fortune and frowned. ‘What you want?’

  Fortune walked forward purposefully, with as much authority as he could manage. He took out his daughter’s wallet and pulled out the card she’d been given by Environmental Health. He handed it to Georgi, who took it, looked at it, then back at Fortune.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Fortune. Give orders. Establish control. Don’t give him time to think. Georgi sat and Fortune walked around the sofa, looking down at him. ‘Turn it off,’ he said, nodding behind him at the TV. Georgi picked up a remote control and clicked it. ‘Right,’ said Fortune. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Georgi nodded. He didn’t look happy.

  ‘Good. So, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m working undercover, inspecting … hotels.’ He said the word with as much acid contempt as he could manage. ‘Yours, frankly, is a disgrace. I could have you closed down in forty-eight hours. Less. You’re breaking every regulation in the book: fire, immigration, hygiene, you name it. Understand me?’

  Georgi looked up at Fortune. He’d recovered a little, recaptured some of his belligerence. ‘Yeah?’

  Fortune took a moment to look around the basement, to let the tension build. ‘You want me to make the call now? I’ll make the call now.’

  ‘What you want?’ Georgi said. He caught on quickly, was probably used to corrupt officials from wherever he was from. Knew the game, and how to play it. Knew Fortune wanted something and that, maybe, he had a get-out-of-jail card.

  ‘I’ve had a computer stolen. From this house. A computer and a phone. On the computer are …’ Fortune pretended to weigh his words, to show that this, right here, was a delicate situation. ‘Are personal items. Material that I need to get back.’

  ‘Stolen? Here?’

  ‘While I was asleep. And I need it back. Now.’

  ‘What kind of computer?’

  ‘A Mac. This big.’ He held his hands apart. ‘And a phone. The two were stolen together, and I need them both.’

  Georgi shrugged. ‘Don’t know, man.’

  ‘Then you’d better find out,’ said Fortune. ‘I’ll give you …’ He pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch. ‘Five minutes. Five minutes, and if you’re not back with my computer and phone, I’ll make that call. You understand me?’

  Georgi thought for a moment, then stood up. ‘You wait here.’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ said Fortune. ‘Five minutes. Yes? Five minutes, and I make the call. Computer. Phone. Five minutes.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Georgi. ‘You wait.’

  He left, walking quickly up the stairs, and Fortune sat down on the leather sofa, sank back into it. His heart was beating quickly, his stomach churning with nerves. The only way to his daughter was through that phone. Jesus. Please, please, let me get that phone back. I need it I need it I need it. He cursed himself for being so naïve, for allowing it to be stolen in the first place. Ridiculous. He put his head back on the sofa, closed his eyes and willed himself to stay calm, not to panic. It’ll be okay. It probably won’t be okay. It has to be okay. Sophie, I’m coming for you. I’ll find you, I promise.

  thirty-five

  IN THE END IT HAD TAKEN GEORGI SEVEN MINUTES TO FIND Fortune’s phone and computer, but given that Fortune had nobody to call anyway, no way to back up his threat to close the place down, it didn’t much matter. Five minutes, seven, fifteen, what difference did it make? Georgi had clattered down the stairs, breathing hard, Fortune’s stolen items in his hands. That it had only taken seven minutes told Fortune one of two things: either Georgi had organized the robbery himself, or he knew exactly who had. That didn’t matter much either. Fortune had what he needed, and that was good enough.

  He had taken the phone and computer without speaking to Georgi, not a word. He’d gone back to his room and sat down on the bed. There was a message, another message from Starry Ubado. He tapped the screen and watched the message appear.

  Are you ready to play?

  Fortune tried to breathe regularly, evenly, tried to keep his thinking clear and purposeful and forget what was at stake. Just like last time, the message disappeared after a few seconds. He replied:

  What do you want?

  He waited. He could hear his neighbour, hear his heavy breathing as he slept. There was the sound of a siren outside, receding, further and further, until he could no longer hear it, then the creak of a floorboard, feet on stairs, descending.

  A new message:

  It’s complicated.

  What kind of answer was that? Don’t be passive, thought Fortune. Don’t be meek, a pushover.

  Who are you?

  Another wait. Fortune stood and looked out of the window. A crow was pecking at something, what had once been a creature, maybe a fox, flattened by a car. Maybe a squirrel. Maybe …

  New message:

  That’s a good question. You’ve got six days.

  Six days. So it was true. He’d got it right. The date, the code in the stolen money. He had six days. Ready to play? Fortune had already been playing this monster’s games for days, weeks.

  How do I know you’ve got her? That she’s alive?

  He hit send and waited, unaware that he was holding his breath. This was it, this was the moment. The moment he found out whether his daughter was alive, that she hadn’t taken her own life, that she hadn’t been mad.

  Ask me a question.

  Fortune thought. He didn’t have to think for long.

  ‘I knew you would come and find me.’ When did she say that?

  This time the wait was long and he paced the tiny room like a tiger in a zoo that had long since lost its mind. He sat down. Got up again. Paced. Looked out of the window. Paced some more. Sat down. Stood up. Waited and paced and paced and waited. The mobile was on the bed. Don’t look at it, he thought. You know what they say about watched pots. Don’t look. He didn’t look. He looked. New message:

  She got lost. On the Tube. That’s when she said it.

  Fortune read it again, and again. He took a deep breath,
feeling the closest to joy that he could remember. His daughter was alive. Her soft hand in his, the weight of her on his shoulders. I knew you would come and find me. His daughter was alive. He blinked away tears and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He typed:

  What do you want?

  First things first. Who am I?

  I don’t know.

  You disappoint me. But no matter. That, then, is your first task. Find out who I am. Then the game really begins.

  Fortune gazed at the message, wishing he had pen and paper, some way to write it down, to keep a record. But it disappeared, like all the other messages. Then another appeared in its place:

  Six days. You’d better work fast.

  Fortune was on a train, in a window seat, the seat next to him empty. He watched fields blur by, catatonic cows, a lake, grey under the huge slate sky, leafless trees, the flat Essex landscape bleak and hopeless. He had nowhere to go except his house. His wife’s house. He needed money and a car. Shelter, and somewhere to think.

  Who am I? You’re Starry Ubado, you’re a mystery, you’re an evil bastard, a manipulator, a puppet master. I don’t know who you are, Fortune thought. He hadn’t spoken to his daughter for months, knew nothing about her life. Jackson, her non-existent boyfriend. They were the only people he knew of. And Jessica. It wasn’t any of them. But then, who?

  The train slowed and a female voice announced that they were approaching New Street. People stood and took down luggage, awkwardly pulling on coats with bent arms. On the platform, Fortune saw police, a lot of them, uniformed officers, some of them with dogs. He wondered how they had found him. He’d dumped his phone, so it couldn’t be that. CCTV? Facial recognition? Maybe they’d expected this, expected him to head home, back to his wife, and they’d just been waiting for him to make his move. The train stopped and he looked around, up and down the carriage, thick with people. Where could he go? He was trapped, nowhere to run. This was the end.