He pulled back his foot and kicked hard, sending the ladder toppling to its side with a clank. The drop was not long enough for Graph’s body weight to sever his spine.Instead, the veins and arteries carrying blood to his brain slowly closed off, depriving him of oxygen and making his death a drawn-out affair. His legs flailed as his hands gripped the rope around his neck, desperately trying to release its grip. Ten minutes later, and Graph was finally dead. Before he left, Bruno firmly pushed a £1 coin deep into each of the man’s eye sockets.
Birdsong emerging from the treetops caught Bruno’s attention as he walked along a single-track country lane and towards the vehicle he’d parked there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard it. More often than not, the chattering of the Echoes blocked out all background and white noise. But today, they weren’t competing to be heard. Perhaps his brain was beginning to settle into its new form. Or perhaps murder was enough to silence the dead.
Bruno recalled the first time the Echoes appeared. It was days after the implant procedure and he was still feeling groggy. Whispering had been coming from consultants outside the recovery room, but no one entered. After a time, he’d opened the door and found the corridor empty. Yet the voices persisted. Panicked, he’d told Karczewski who told him not to worry; advising that they were temporary and his augmented brain was adjusting to the new information it was storing.
But soon their numbers swelled from a handful to more than Bruno could count. It was as if he was listening to every radio station all at once and couldn’t switch any of them off.
Fearing for his sanity, Bruno planned to inform one of his psychotherapists. However, outside her office and through an ajar door, he listened as she and Karczewski discussed Patient 0157, the number assigned to him. He clenched his jaw and toes tightly until his Echoes were under partial control, then listened.
‘I have my concerns,’ she began. ‘His chemical map and thought patterns are too random. They should be settling by now. He’s not responding like the others are.’
The others, Bruno reflected. How many more Minders were there?
‘He has completed every level of training and passed every test, bar none,’ Karczewski countered. ‘The Echoes have been proven to dissipate of their own accord in past subjects. We’ve increased and stabilised his dopamine levels and also reduced his norepinephrine levels so that his anxiety is manageable. I see that his epinephrine levels are higher than we would like, suggesting he has anger issues, but we have yet to see them act out in a negative way, which in turn suggests he can self-regulate his temper. Why are you so concerned?’
‘It’s a gut feeling, Edward. He has displayed the weakest synaesthesia despite solving the initial puzzle the quickest. This programme is so much more than just a brain accepting a foreign body implanted inside it. It’s about how he can live an ordinary existence and keep himself and the data safe. We cannot have a repeat of what happened last time.’
Karczewski’s tone shifted. ‘Adjustments have been made to ensure it won’t.’
‘Can we take the risk of allowing him back into the world with what he knows? Can you offer a cast-iron guarantee that he will put his duty to the country above all else?’
Her question appeared to irritate Karczewski. ‘You saw the initial results – someone with his skills is not leaving the programme unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
Bruno left as quietly as he arrived, deciding to keep his escalating Echoes to himself. He would rather live with them than risk being removed from the programme and having Louie’s care-home funding axed.
Karczewski’s colleague had been correct about his high anger levels. Since the procedure, he often felt rage bubbling under the surface ready to break through like lava from a volcano. But he trained himself to swallow it down andkeep it hidden from those lab technicians monitoring the sensor pads attached to his head and body.
He waited until he was released back into the world to allow his fury to emerge and direct it towards those who deserved it like O’Sullivan and, today, Graph. And there were still four more names on his list to suffer his wrath.
Chapter 26
FLICK, ALDEBURGH, SUFFOLK
Flick sat bolt upright in bed, her skin painted in a hot, thin film of sweat. In the hazy early-morning light, she threw the sheets off her body so that they landed in a heap on the floor. She made her way to the bedroom window, unhooking the latches and lifting it open as wide as possible. She tasted the North Sea’s fresh breeze on her lips as it wafted into the room and cooled her body. Slowly, her escalated pulse began to decline and return to something approaching normal.
Once again, as she’d slept, her knowledge had leaked into her unconscious, shaping her dreams. But it hadn’t been just one dream, it was a succession of them, all layered one upon another, and all playing out at once. And each was made up of a different secret she was keeping safe. She wondered whether the dreams were a valve, easing the pressure inside; and if that was the case, who knows what the consequences might be if she stopped dreaming?
It was just past 5 a.m. and now, wide awake, her mind was working twenty to the dozen. It fired in all directions as if someone had lit a box of fireworks inside her head. ‘It’s like a temporary form of anxiety that occurs when you sleep,’ Karczewski had warned the first time it happened.‘We’ve found that over time, it will pass. But to hasten it, take yourself out of the environment you’re in and go somewhere else. As your brain takes in alternative surroundings it’ll replace your dream images.’
Flick slipped on her jogging bottoms, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of trainers and, hoping not to wake Grace, tiptoed across the landing and down the carpeted stairs before leaving the house. She trudged across the pebbled beach before settling on a sitting position next to a stainless-steel sculpture of a scallop shell. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms protectively around them, as if she were trying to create an impenetrable shell of her own.
She realised that her job behind the bar of the Fox & Hounds pub often took her mind away from the burden of knowledge. But she was extra cautious about the topics of conversation she involved herself in. It wasn’t always easy when a sizeable proportion of the role was engaging customers in conversation. Her brain often worked at double speed, rechecking everything she wanted to convey before saying it. She was mentally exhausted by the time she finished each shift.
When she looked at her watch again, it was approaching 6.45 a.m. and she was surprised by how long she’d been there. Time moved much faster in the real world than in the solitude of her London flat where she measured it in cigarettes smoked and television programming.
As she made her way to a bakery to buy breakfast pastries for herself and Grace, she realised that Christopher hadn’t crossed her mind that morning. An hour at most might have passed at home before either his or one of his victim’s faces came to mind. Here, she’d slipped into a daily routine of running, yoga, bike rides, socialising and evening work, leaving no time for thinking about him. She was sure that the two months she had spent in Aldeburgh was the best decision she’d ever made.
A coach tour of drinkers dispersed from the bar, leaving an unfamiliar figure perched on a stool. He caught Flick’s attention as he doodled in a notebook resting on his lap. She assumed from his empty glass that landlord Mick had served him earlier when she was on a toilet break.
She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but there was something a little offbeat about this man. There was nothing flashy about his fitted T-shirt, jeans, branded trainers and chunky silver bracelet, but it hadn’t been absent-mindedly assembled. It was as if he were trying to blend in when by nature, he was too distinctive to be assimilated by his environment. By the faint lines framing his eyes and stretching across his forehead, Flick guessed they were of a similar age. His light brown hair was flecked with strands of grey and his darker beard was highlighted by white wisps protruding from below the centre of his bottom lip. His eyes were the bluest she had ever seen and she wondered if he’d had them coloured. But if he was that vain, he’d have likely had his wrinkles smoothed out too.
Conscious that she was now staring at him, she looked away. But each time she tried to fix her attention elsewhere, it invariably returned to him. He, however, had not looked at her once. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her and she approached him.
‘Can I get you another drink?’ she asked, taking his empty pint glass away and placing it inside the dishwasher. She was surprised by the timidity of her tone. He smiled as he looked up.
‘I was going to have another Adnams but you’ve taken my glass.’
Flick’s cheeks flushed.
