Troll Page 18

  An announcement came over the train’s speakers, telling passengers that they mustn’t leave, that they must stay in their carriages, repeat, stay in your carriages, do not leave the train. Do not leave the train. There was a ripple of complaint, sighs and tuts and shaking heads, as people stood and considered and eventually sat down. The police were talking, standing, waiting. For what? Fortune watched them, his hand against his forehead, hiding his face as if he was blocking sunshine. Another train arrived, on the other side of the platform. The police stood to attention and turned to face it, forming a solid line. The train stopped and the doors opened and men stormed out, pouring out of the doors like soldiers going over the top, wearing blue shirts, full of purpose and energy. The police held their line and the men funnelled up the platform, singing, chanting, shouting abuse. Football fans. Chelsea, FA Cup, fourth round. Fortune breathed deeply, concentrating on his heart, trying to keep it steady. Relax. They’re not here for you. The supporter’s chants became fainter as they passed through the station’s entrance. The passengers stood again and Fortune with them. He couldn’t wait to get off the train. Christ, he needed a cigarette.

  *

  Fortune didn’t have much choice but to take a taxi and hope he wouldn’t be recognized, that his picture wasn’t all over the news. Embezzler. Murderer. He knew that he must be wanted, but at the same time he couldn’t make it feel real, couldn’t really believe it. It didn’t seem possible. He paid the taxi at the bottom of the drive and once again walked up the gravel, past a car he didn’t recognize, and rang the doorbell of the home that was no longer his. He hadn’t called, didn’t even have the number, had never learned it. It was stored on his discarded mobile. He didn’t even know the number of his own home.

  A man opened the door. He was around Fortune’s age, tanned and lean. He looked in far better shape than Fortune, not that that was much to boast about. Like saying he was more sprightly than a corpse. Fortune wanted to cough but tried to stifle it, keep it behind his lips, willing himself not to show any weakness. Not to this man who was in his home.

  ‘Yes?’ the man said.

  ‘I’m looking for Jean,’ said Fortune.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m her husband,’ Fortune said. He left a pause, then said, ‘Who are you?’

  The man’s eyes widened briefly. ‘You’re her husband?’

  ‘Yes. And this is my house.’ At least for the moment, Fortune thought.

  ‘Do you know the police are after you? They were here earlier.’ The man was slightly shorter than Fortune, wearing a red sweater that looked like cashmere, looked expensive. He had the bronzed skin and steel-grey hair Fortune associated with eighties American soap operas, Dynasty, Dallas. Well-fed, wholesome and healthy. Hale, that was the word. Fortune had never disliked anybody so immediately in his life.

  ‘Is Jean here?’ he said.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to talk to her,’ said Fortune. ‘Obviously.’

  The man shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You’re wanted for murder. No, you can’t see Jean. You’re a danger. Now, leave or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Spare me,’ said Fortune. ‘You’ll call the police anyway. Let me talk to Jean. Now.’

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ said the man. Fortune had to admit that he was no weakling, no pushover. Confronted by a sixteen-stone wanted murderer whose wife he was sleeping with didn’t seem to be fazing him too much. Fortune considered pushing past him, forcing his way in, but was saved by Jean, appearing behind the man.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need help. Somewhere to stay, and money. And I need a car.’

  Jean frowned. ‘I can’t help you. The police were here, they told us what you’ve done.’

  ‘I didn’t do it. Any of it.’

  ‘The victim was in your hotel room. You’d already attacked him, the police told us. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but …’ The man was watching Fortune carefully, as if prepared to step in if necessary. Standing in the doorway of the home that Fortune had paid for. Irritating wasn’t the word. ‘I didn’t do it,’ Fortune said.

  ‘And the money? You didn’t steal the money?’

  ‘No. No, it wasn’t me. None of it was.’

  ‘Please,’ said Jean. ‘Just go.’

  ‘I need money,’ said Fortune. ‘They’ve frozen my accounts.’

  The man said, ‘Wait there,’ put a hand on Jean’s arm and went back into the house. Fortune looked at his wife. She stared back, unflinching. Fortune wondered whether he should tell her about their daughter, about Sophie, about how she was still alive. Would she believe him? Probably not. Anyway, what was the point in getting her hopes up? He had six days to save her, and the police weren’t going to help. Money. Car. That was all he needed.

  ‘Please, Jean. I really need your help. Money and a car, and I’ll go, I’ll leave you alone.’

  The man came back carrying a hammer. Fortune recognized it. He was being threatened with his own hammer. How had things come to this?

  ‘You need to go,’ said the man. ‘Now.’

  ‘Please,’ said Fortune to his wife, ignoring the man. ‘Help me out. You can say I took it by force, I don’t care. I need a car.’

  ‘I’ve called the police,’ said the man. ‘They’re on their way.’

  ‘You idiot,’ said Fortune. ‘You …’ He stopped, didn’t have the time. ‘Jean, please, please believe me.’

  ‘Why?’ said Jean. ‘Why would I believe anything you say?’ She turned to the man. ‘You see? You see what he’s like?’

  The man nodded. ‘Now, are you going to leave?’

  ‘You realize this is my house,’ said Fortune, ‘and Jean’s my wife?’

  Jean laughed. ‘Don’t go there,’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare go there.’

  ‘Jean, come on …’

  ‘No. No, no, no. How many years were you sleeping with that woman?’

  ‘Can we not—’

  ‘Four years? Five? Practically had another family. You don’t get to lecture me. You don’t.’

  ‘Look,’ said Fortune, then stopped. He was suddenly exhausted and needed to sit. He looked around and walked to the car on the drive, rested up against it. He took out a cigarette and lit it unsteadily, inhaled, coughed. He had to put his cigarette on the ground while he coughed, both hands on his knees, wishing he could stop but unable.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ said Jean. Fortune heard her footsteps on the gravel, felt her hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re not well, are you?’

  He shook his head, stood upright. ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Serious as it gets.’

  ‘Oh Fortune.’ She looked at him with concern, and sadness. A real sadness, as if he was already dead, as if he was a visitation, a melancholy ghost come to remind her of what had been. But then, wasn’t that what he’d been during their marriage? A ghost, an occasional visitor, only half there? Yes. Yes, that was exactly what he’d been. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Any money you’ve got. And a car. I need a car. Please.’

  She blinked, wiped away a tear, then called to the man. ‘Jeff, how much cash have you got?’

  Jeff. He should have known, thought Fortune. The man was a hundred per cent Jeff, Jeff through and through.

  ‘Jean …’

  ‘Just do it. Please.’ She turned to Fortune. ‘Wait there.’

  She walked to the house and went inside. Fortune picked up his cigarette and stood smoking, listening for sirens. How long would they take? Five minutes? Ten? He had no idea. Jean came back out of the house, carrying notes in one hand, keys in the other.

  ‘Just over eight hundred. And you can take the car. But if anyone asks, I didn’t have a choice. Right?’

  ‘Right. Course. Thanks, Jean.’ He took the money, a thick wad of notes, and the keys.

/>   ‘Now you need to go.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look after yourself,’ said Jean.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He looked at the key and pressed the button with the open door icon, hearing the central locking engage. He picked up his bag, opened the back door and put it in. He got in the driver’s side and felt under the seat for the lever to rack it back. He started the engine and found first gear, wondering how long it had been since he’d driven a car. A long time. Never mind, it was like riding a bike. He felt the clutch bite and headed down the drive, catching sight of his wife in the rear-view mirror, holding herself against the cold until Jeff, wholesome, handsome Jeff, appeared and put his arm around her shoulders, keeping her safe and happy. What the hell, thought Fortune, looking away and concentrating on the road ahead. He’d do a better job of it than Fortune ever could.

  thirty-six

  WHEN DID YOU SAY, ‘I KNEW YOU WOULD COME AND FIND ME?’ That’s what the troll just asked me. Why did he ask it? Why did he want to know? It was with Dad, when I got lost on the Tube, that’s when I said it. But only Dad knows what happened, we never told anyone else. And he’s not the troll, Dad’s not the troll, he can’t be. So what does it mean? Does it mean that Dad’s out there, and he’s looking for me?

  No, don’t be silly. You haven’t spoken to him in months, he’s over in Dubai, doing what he does. Telling people what to do, working them to death, squeezing them dry. But then why? Why the question? I can’t work the troll out. Can’t get a handle on him. He likes to play games, that much I know. But what kind of game is he playing now?

  Yesterday he asked me if I needed anything. I said yes, I need to get out of this shithole and away from you, as far away as possible. He laughed at this, or made a sound that might have been a laugh. Who knows? He said that it was a shame, because he liked me and he wished that he had had a sister like me. He said that it would have been fun, that we could have made up stories together, played together, blah blah blah. I told him that he was crazy and that I’d rather have my toes cut off one by one. He didn’t laugh at that one. No, instead he told me to put my hood back on. Why? I said. Because, he said, we’re going back to the Games Room.

  I still don’t know what he looks like, but he’s young, I’m pretty sure of that. I didn’t see his face when he took me and he makes me wear the hood when I leave my cell, so he could be black or white, he could have one eye or two heads as far as I know. I wonder why he doesn’t show his face, and can’t help hoping, though I’m probably clutching at straws, that he doesn’t want me to see it because he’s going to let me go. In a few days, he’s going to say right, well, that was fun but the game’s over, so off you go.

  Yeah, right.

  This time, there was no paper, but on the wall was a number, written in chalk. Just a number, and a dollar sign:

  $89,917,042.

  That was it. And the troll said to me through the door, if you can tell me who that money belongs to, then you can eat. You have exactly ten minutes. Do you understand the rules? I didn’t answer, just looked at the number, and he said again, do you understand the rules? I was starving, I was so hungry I felt weak and my legs were trembling and I had these shooting pains in my stomach that made me double up in pain. Yes, I said. Yes, I understand. The troll went away, I could hear his footsteps, and I sat down on the floor. Come on, Sophie, I thought. Concentrate. Ignore the hunger, you’ve got this one. You can do it. Come on.

  What did he mean, who does the money belong to? It belongs to the USA, because it’s in dollars. It belongs to somebody who’s seriously loaded. Maybe it belongs to a lottery winner. No. Too easy, too vague. He plays games, games that need working out. All right. Think. The last time it was your boyfriends. It was like he was showing off, demonstrating his power, his knowledge of you. Making sure you knew that he was in control, there was nothing he didn’t know, nothing he couldn’t do. Okay. So maybe this game is about you too.

  So I sat on the floor, which was concrete and stained with rust-coloured marks I didn’t want to think about, and I tried to ignore the rings in the walls and the hook in the ceiling and the freaky standard lamp with the red lightshade that looked like it was stolen from a semi in Croydon, and I looked at the number. Stared at it. And pretty soon I read it backwards, because it seemed like a good idea, and I got it straight away. Well, okay, not straight away, but well inside the ten minutes. It belonged to me, because it was my birthday. The day I was born. Easy and not that impressive, I thought to myself. Anybody could find that out.

  I banged on the door and yelled, telling the troll that I’d got it, that I’d worked out his stupid game. The money belonged to me. I almost said, so where the hell is it? but I was scared he’d change his mind and keep me starving, so I didn’t.

  Did you solve it? he said.

  Yep.

  Did you find it difficult? he said.

  Not particularly.

  Good, he said. He sounded relieved, like he’d been worried that he’d made it too difficult. Maybe he didn’t want me to starve to death. Maybe things aren’t going to be so bad after all. Maybe it was all a big joke, just a game, nothing more. Maybe. Then again, maybe I should get real.

  I ate pizza and drank orange juice, and there was a packet of biscuits, and it all tasted so good, so, so good, I never knew pepperoni could taste so damn good. And after that I lay in bed and tried to sleep, which wasn’t hard, because I’ve got this new technique. What I do is, I imagine the troll coming into my cell and I jump on him and subdue him and hit him and hit him, and after I’ve finished hitting him, I hit him some more until he’s crying and whimpering and telling me how sorry he is. And then, guess what? Yep, I hit him some more.

  Why did the troll ask me about what I said to Dad? I wish he was on his way to save me. I wish that he’d turn up and rescue me from the troll, just like he rescued me when we were on the Tube. But it won’t happen. He’s not that kind of person. He’s not really a dad, just somebody who used to pretend to be, until it got too difficult. Five days left. That’s what the troll told me, when he gave me my food. Five days until he does whatever he’s going to do. I’m so scared. I am so, so scared.

  thirty-seven

  HE LIKES TO PLAY GAMES, THOUGHT FORTUNE. IT’S WHAT HE does, whoever he is. Fortune had driven north, away from London, towards the coast and into Suffolk, keeping off main roads and away from CCTV cameras. He’d stopped at a caravan park, hadn’t been sure if it was open, but when he’d banged on the door of reception, a teenage boy had appeared and told him that yeah, it was open, if he didn’t mind being cold. The boy had called him ‘bruv’, which hadn’t impressed Fortune much, but he figured that if you were on the run, it was unrealistic to expect five-star treatment. He paid the boy a hundred pounds for a week, off-season rates, though judging by the state of the caravans, its on-season wasn’t a lot to write home about.

  He’d bought tinned food and a bottle of Scotch at a roadside store. He’d nearly finished his four hundred duty-free cigarettes and asked the man behind the counter for forty Marlboro. No way, he’d said, no chance, they couldn’t cost that much. Could they? Really? That much? He’d been staggered. If they’d been that expensive back when he was young, he’d never have started smoking. He’d bought a paper, too, and looked for a mention of him, or of Charlie Jackson, but there was nothing. It was probably too early. He’d probably be on the front page the next day.

  Now he was sitting in the caravan, the sky dark outside, smoking and drinking and searching through his daughter’s computer, trying to see if he’d missed anything within the chaos of her filing system. He likes to play games, he thought. Starry Ubado. The troll. Who am I? He must have left a clue, left Fortune some way of guessing. He tried to remember the messages on the phone, tried to remember the exact wording in case there was any hidden meaning. But he couldn’t remember, and anyway, the messages had been short and to the point. There’d been nothing ambiguous there.

  He looked bac
k at his daughter’s blog, at the comments the troll had left. Again, nothing. No ambiguities, no hidden messages. Bitch. Hope the driver rapes you. Hope you get Aids. Unpleasant, horrendous, but straightforward. Nothing to see here. Move along.

  The name. Starry Ubado. What did that tell him? That the troll was African, of African origin? Only he didn’t believe that. It was an invention, it wouldn’t be his real name. So why had he chosen it? Starry. Fortune poured himself more Scotch and tapped his cigarette into a mug because there was no ashtray, which was no surprise as there were signs all over the caravan warning the occupants not to smoke, no smoking, it is forbidden to smoke. He was wanted for greater crimes, Fortune figured, and almost smiled. Starry. Starry night, star signs, stars as in celebrities. Was that it? A celebrity, somebody in Sophie’s past, somebody she’d written about? But no, he’d already been down that road with Charlie Jackson. Whoever had killed Jackson, Fortune couldn’t believe it was another celebrity. Celebrities killing celebrities, some kind of internecine showbiz conflict. Christ. He rubbed his face. Come on, he thought. Think. Who are you?

  He wrote the name down on the margin of his paper and looked at it. Just a name. Just a weird name. There was a crossword on the back of the paper. Fortune used to do them, used to enjoy them when he was younger. Anagrams, that was what they were full of. He’d been good at working them out. He looked back at the name. Starry Ubado. He wrote each letter again, placing them randomly. He plays games, he thought. He started making words from the letters. Board. Darts. Dartboard? No. Only one D. Bay. Bat. Bury. Boat. Bar, bard, barb. Bastard. He stopped. Bastard. Leaving the letters r, o, y, u. He felt a big emptiness in his chest, felt his heart within it, like it was dropping, falling. R, o, y, u. Your. Your bastard.

  He picked up the phone that had been left in his hotel room. He wrote a message, his fingers trembling, and hit send. Five words: