2078- Shadow of a Doubt Read online

  2078

  Shadow of a Doubt

  By

  Florence Watson

  Thank you to my husband Jeff and my sons Marlon, Harry and Elijah for their input, their patience and their support.

  Also thanks to Beckie and Reece for their enthusiasm.

  A special thank you to Adam Ford for his fantastic artwork.

  Chapter 1

  Shadows possess the element of surprise. They’re trained to be silent and invisible. It's what makes them the ultimate guardians for anybody wealthy enough to afford one, and why I didn't get the feeling that I was being followed or hear any footsteps. Suddenly a large hand grips my left shoulder and I’m pulled back and sandwiched between two sets of oversized shoulders. In one swift unfussy move, I’m turned off the main street and into the narrow cobbled alley between the shops. Then the lights go out.

  The lights never go out. Occasionally there’s a fault and one or two of the bluish white paving slabs or wall bricks will flicker. But this is rare and usually lasts only seconds. The dark is unsafe; years of criminal research has confirmed that most street crime is the result of poorly lit gaps between buildings. So for the past forty years or so, no alleyway, twitten or path has been left unlit at night. So why is it dark now? There’s only one explanation; this is no ordinary Shadow.

  Though my mind ought to be on the gravity of the immediate situation; that I’m now pinned to the wall at the throat by the guardian of an unknown but likely important or even famous person also present, the fact that it’s dark is truly extraordinary. But as it dawns on me that nobody is likely to come to my rescue as no one in their right mind would turn down an unlit alley, muscle seizing terror strikes rendering my body useless for the purposes of kicking my way free, and I think I might pass out.

  'Why are you following me!' Bellows the throat gripper, apparently undeterred by the possibly that someone might hear him.

  'Can’t...talk.' I reply, with what feels like my last breath.

  'Put her down.' Says the other man. 'I'll get the facts.'

  'No, I've got this.'

  'Fine. But you won't get anything out of her while she's suffocating. Her oxygen levels are dangerously low.'

  Instantly I’m released and I fall to the ground. I gasp and cough as I'm assisted to my feet by the more reasonable of the two thugs, who then steps back out of the way. My eyes adjust to the dark and soon, the distant street light catches anything white. That’s when I see the jacket; the unusual white markings on the left side where a pocket should be. Coincidence? Maybe. If the man standing before me is him, I’ll know from the distinctive smell of leather. Nobody wears leather anymore.

  'Who are you? Who are you working for?' he shouts into my face.

  It's a strange question. I think as fast as my fright will allow whilst also searching the bricks for a camera. 'My name is Starla.' I reply, trying to control the shake in my voice. ‘I work at a warehouse, Govco. Packing fruit.’

  I see the bewilderment in his darkened face. Yes, it is him. That unmistakable jaw line, the scruffy hair and the brow firm like a steel bar over his eyes, too heavy really for the rest of the face. And he’s the right build and height, six foot four or thereabouts. I never would have guessed he’s a Shadow. But then that’s the point of invisible guards; they could be anybody.

  'That's where I work. I pack fruit into Bugs for delivery to homes....'

  'Yes, that’s where you work, but who are you working for? '

  'What do you mean?'

  'Oh come on!' He’s frustrated now; appealing for information I simply don’t have. A clear case of mistaken identity. This could easily be resolved with a simple ID check. If he can control streetlights, and I suspect cameras as well or I’m sure the police would be here by now, I’m certain he has the power to access my data. But I’m happy to volunteer it.

  'You've been watching me for two weeks.' he says, leaning further in.' Who sent you?’

  ‘No one! I swear!’

  ‘What do you know? Or should I say, what do I know that you don't want me to know?'

  'Huh? I don’t know anything, I promise! My name is Starla Carr. I'm nobody. Here, check.'

  I hold up a trembling left palm. The jacket wearing throat gripper then steps aside and to my surprise, the other man comes forward and takes my hand. He presses his huge, warm palm against mine and then reads my data which instantly rolls across his eyeballs in blue text from right to left. I don’t recognise him. Now I’m confused; which is the Shadow and which is the employer? After a few seconds:

  'Nothing. She's clean as a whistle.' He says, dropping my hand.

  'What does that mean?'

  'It means she is who she says she is. Nobody.'

  'Did you check for Outernet access?’

  ‘Denied.’

  'Right. So she really does pack fruit?'

  'Yep.' Answers the man who just scanned my Chip. I see now that he’s quite a bit taller and wider than the throat gripper. He must be the Shadow; a man his size does not need protection. The light comes back and the one in leather becomes completely visible. I’ve never seen him close up before. He’s even more striking with eye contact. He looks me over carefully, awaiting an explanation. I don’t have one, at least nothing that would sound sane or respectable.

  'Well?' He says eventually.

  'Well what?' I reply.

  'Why have you been following me?'

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘My Shadow has footage that’s tantamount to stalking. You do know that stalking is a crime, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I say, finally catching the scent of leather as the wind blows through the alley. ‘I know that stalking is illegal, which is why I wasn’t stalking you.’

  ‘So what were you doing? Are you a LOSER?’

  ‘No!’ I look desperately up at the Shadow; a brawny, olive skinned man with magnificent green eyes. He has at least two inches in height on the throat gripper. I'm an average six foot female, but I feel like a midget.

  ‘She’s not a LOSER.' He answers with absolute certainty. 'Besides, there’s no evidence to suggest that LOSER’s stalk.’

  ‘See?’ I say, more pleading than persuasive. ‘I’m not a LOSER. I have everything to live for, I swear! I mean you no harm.’

  ‘So what do you want with me?’

  I suppose it was too much to hope that having been cleared of any wrongdoing or ill intent, he’d simply let me go. 'Alright.’ I sigh, glancing up and down the alley and briefly contemplating making a run for it. ‘I was...' But then I can’t bring myself to say it. It’s too embarrassing.

  'What were you?'

  'I was...’ But still the words won’t come.

  'Trying to make my job more difficult than it already is? What, damn it! What were you!'

  'I was checking you out, okay? There, I said it!'

  Chapter 2

  Two Weeks Previously

  I live on the twenty-seventh floor of a thirty storey tower with my father and virtual pet parrot, Honey. We moved here seven years ago after my mother died. It was a recommended downgrade. With just the two of us, we didn’t need the extra space we had in the old place and we managed to stay local, not that it would have mattered if they’d put us anywhere else. The British Underground Shuttle (BUS as it’s known) is the fasted way to travel and what gets me thirty miles to and from work six days a week, in around fifteen minutes. It’s replaced almost all overground passenger vehicles with the exception of bicycles, man powered taxis, and the occasional driverless cars and cabs that share the road with the Bugs. Bugs are black or chrome, dome shaped vehicles, varying in size depending on their use. The road ones are mainly haulage. The smaller, off road bugs do everything from s
treet cleaning to home shopping deliveries. As a child, I thought they looked like giant woodlice and centipedes.

  The district of Shoreham is characterised by three pedestrian bridges over the river Adur, and boasts one of the largest statues of our last Prime Minister Jon Myers. He was MP for the district a long time ago, before the surrounding suburbs were swallowed up. Like a lot seaside towns, it still has a handful of historic cottages dating back to when it was a fishing village, but most of the old dwellings are gone now. Those remaining aren’t lived in; they’ve been turned into juice bars and sports shops like any other place. But the old flint and tiny wonky doorways are quaint, discerning imperfections that give the district its character.

  We live in a ‘Beehive’, one of hundreds of hexagonal housing blocks erected in last fifty years. ‘Hexagon Homes’, their real name, are built close together so from above they resemble honeycombs, hence the term ‘Beehive’. Thousands of outdated and inefficient buildings were demolished to make way for them. Our housing complex, called ‘Minerva’, like many others across England was constructed on the site of an old grave yard. With the exception of royals, politicians and other notable individuals, no one has been buried since the 2050's. It’s a waste of land, and the general consensus is that cyber cemeteries take the morbidity, as well as the maintenance out of remembering the dead. Bodies are cremated and the ashes compacted into a little bottle, or for those who can afford it, compressed into a diamond keepsake. Thereafter, a virtual headstone is erected online. Clicking on a dead person's stone will take you to their profile where you will find photos, videos, and just about everything you'd ever want to know about their life. So it’s a memorial as well as a public records library, which is far more useful and much less spooky than a garden full of buried bodies. All Beehives have five, six sided glass elevators in the centre leading to the front door of every flat, which open straight into the living room. The sixth elevator in the high-rise leads to a fire escape, stairwell. The lifts can move sideways, as well as up and down. For safety, front doors automatically lock when the lift is not present outside. Only the kitchen has natural light flowing into lounge via the door, and there’s a little light from the glass bricks on the elevator side of the room. The two bedrooms and one bathroom are seldom occupied during the day so artificial lighting is sufficient. There are no hallways or other unnecessary areas, and storage is high up on sliding cupboards so reducing the amount of floor space required. Our Beehive flat is very stylish in black, white and burgundy and almost completely bare. I took the opportunity to de-clutter when we left the old place.

  'Do you want anything with that Dad?' I call from the kitchen.

  'No thanks love. Come and see this.'

  ‘What is it?’ I say, collecting my cup.

  'It's the anniversary special.’

  He’s forgotten that only five minutes ago we decided we would sit together to watch it. Honey flies past my head as I carry my raspberry tea to the sofa, and then settles on his perch. I still flinch at the sound of wings, even though I could walk straight through him and not feel a thing. The emerald green plumage is as beautiful as any real bird. Occasionally he’ll ruffle his feathers and one or two will fall out, and gently float nearly to the floor before disappearing. Simulated shedding and moulting is one of the many advantages of virtual pets. I sit on the sofa, mindful of my tea and Dads dinner on his lap.

  'What's this?' He says, suddenly looking down at the plate as if he's only just noticed it there.

  'It’s broccoli and leek, crustless, baseless quiche.'

  He raises one bushy eyebrow. 'So vegetable omelette then.' He says, prodding it rudely with the fork. ‘If there’s no sides and no bottom, you can’t call it quiche.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ I say, re-examining what I made. ‘Quiche is what it said on the recipe.’

  ‘Where’s the meat?’

  'There is no meat.’

  ‘Cheese?’

  ‘Not necessary. Egg is protein Dad, you know that. There’s a vitamin pill on the tray as well. Everything you need that’s not in that meal is in the pill.' I reply, as if I haven't said this every day for the past year.

  He frowns, then pouts childishly before picking up the capsule, inspecting it closely like he always does, then throwing it into his mouth. ‘I like real dinners.’ he says irritably, then trying to slide the tray across to my lap. I resist by blocking it with my free hand.

  ‘Call it omelette if you want, but you have to eat it. You can’t carry on like this; you’ll starve. You didn’t eat the lunch I left for you either. I can’t go out to work all day you if refuse meals or can’t remember to put food in your mouth.’

  ‘Don't you worry about me.’ He says indignantly. ‘If I eat, I eat. If I don’t then that’s my problem. Leave it to the Health Visitor to sort out. When is she coming again?'

  ‘You don’t even like the Health Visitor. Besides, she won’t recommend anything other than what I give you now. I know it’s not what you’d rather to eat but it's all good stuff.’

  He turns to me and stares. After a few seconds, I’m not sure he even remembers what we’re talking about. He’s somewhere else; perhaps in one the restaurants where he was chef years ago. Or worse still, back in prison where quiches without cases were standard. I wish I’d just called it omelette now, but I know it’s a trigger for bad memories which is why I didn’t.

  ‘Ok, I’ll tell you what.’ I say, sounding resolute. ‘I’ll start coming home during my break. Would you like that?’

  He nods uncertainly.

  ‘That way we can eat together, just like we do in the evenings.’ I give him a minute to process the suggestion. But he’s still lost. I can tell by the way he’s looking through me, as if he can see the bedroom door. ‘Dad?’

  Suddenly, like a switch has been flicked, he realises what’s going on. 'Come home? No! You'd never make it here and back again in time. Besides, I know you like a few minutes to yourself in the day. You're like your Mum; you need a bit of head space. I understand that.'

  'You're more important than headspace Dad.'

  'The hell I am! Silly girl! You just carry on and leave me to do my thing. I don’t want you fretting, do you hear?'

  ‘But...’

  ‘Enough. Start putting yourself first. I won’t have it any other way. You got that?’

  'Fine. I'll send you more reminders then. But if I come home and the food’s still sitting there like it was today, I will start coming home.’

  I doubt it would make much difference it I did, but I have to try. I decide to change the subject in the hope that he might forget that it looks like an omelette, then start eating without thinking about it. ‘Did you do your crossword today?’

  ‘Crossword! Crossword!’ Chirps Honey. He’s programmed to pick up words randomly. I haven’t got round to teaching him anything useful yet.

  ‘Yes. It was easy.’

  ‘Well, good.’

  I’m not so sure if it is good. He was prescribed them by the Health Visitor as part of his treatment. He has to keep his mind active to give the medication the best chance of working. If he’s doing the puzzles easily, that means he can remember more. But if they’re too easy, they’re not stimulating enough. I’ll mention it next visit. ‘Hey, I've got tomorrow off remember? We can go out if you like. Walk around town or sit in the park.'

  'Oh no, there won't be anybody out Star. And everything's shut. It's not a happy day.'

  'You said this last year Dad. I know it's not a happy day but we can still take advantage of no work can't we?’

  'But it's not respectful. People will be staying in, or making their way to London to pay tribute. We can’t be acting like it’s a jolly holiday.'

  'Ok, we won’t act jolly then. We'll walk about looking sad, alright?’

  He looks at me doubtfully. There was a time when any national holiday was a chance to skip hand in hand to the park, especially this one.

  ‘So are we going to watch this thing or
what?’ I say, bringing my knees up. He says ‘four' and the volume rises to the desired level.

  The holographic image is of our current Prime Minister stepping out of a black car, followed by his older sister who emerges from the other side. He's a slender, fair skinned man in his early forties but looks no more than twenty-five. He wears an immaculate pin striped navy suit, his trademark and uniform since his first day in Office. His sister Dita is equally youthful and smartly dressed in a red trouser suit, with her long dark hair tied in a bun. Both look appropriately woeful as they hurry to the most famous front door in the country. Our Prime Minister, Jon Myers II, is the son of our former Prime Minister Jon Myers, who died fifteen years ago tomorrow. His sister Dita is Chancellor of the Exchequer. They’re known as the Prime Family.

  Dad smiles as if the sight of him has jogged a beloved memory. 'Your Mum loved this kid. We always knew he'd follow in his father's footsteps. Our first democratic political dynasty.'

  I turn to him with a look of bewilderment. 'No Dad, she never liked him.'

  He looks back at me blankly.

  ‘Neither of you liked the Prime Family.’ I reply, shaking my head in disbelief. He’s getting worse. The medication isn’t working. He frowns, thinking it over carefully. They talked about the dynasty a lot but ‘love’ was not a word either of them associated any of the Myers family. We watch as they enter number ten, turning once to wave for the public and cameras before stepping through the door. Then the female news reader at the desk cuts in.

  'And that was the scene in London this afternoon, John Myers II with the Chancellor Dita, returning from Saturn Stadium where final preparations are being made for tomorrow's commemorative service on the fifteenth anniversary of their father's death.'

  'Saturn is the first stadium he had built.'

  'I know Dad. I did Contemporary History at school. Eat your dinner.' To my surprise, he cuts into the thick round omelette quiche, and takes a big mouthful.’