Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

‘I had them with alcohol, for God’s sakes. If Gates was feeding her heroin this whole time, it’ll be hell.’

‘She’ll get through it,’ Violetta said. ‘She’s tough.’

‘I wouldn’t be tough enough for heroin withdrawals,’ Slater said, which said a lot. ‘We need to keep an eye on her.’

‘And then what?’ Violetta said.

King didn’t answer.

Neither did Slater.

Violetta said, ‘We have to be objective. This isn’t something we can keep doing. She can’t stay with us forever. What sort of example would we be setting for ourselves? That we take on board everyone who needs our help? We’ll be leading a cult before long. That’s not what we do.’

From an outsider’s perspective, it was harsh.

But it was the truth.

It’s a messy world, King thought.

He said, ‘I’ve got a plan.’

‘You do?’ she said.

‘Well, I’ve got the foundations of one. I’m working on it.’

‘Care to share?’

‘Not yet. It might sound insane.’

‘What doesn’t?’

King said, ‘Let’s make sure we get through the night first. Then we’ll talk about Melanie.’

‘And Elsa,’ Slater said. ‘And Josefine sitting in a cell. And the other kids.’

King sighed.

Violetta said, ‘It’ll be an awful lot of baggage.’

‘That’s what we signed up for,’ King said. ‘How long do we have?’

‘Eighteen minutes according to Gloria’s clock.’

King hung up.

‘Step on it,’ he said.

Slater complied.

67

To put it lightly, Icke wasn’t feeling good.

He kept shovelling fresh chewing tobacco into his gums, packing it in over the old saliva-drenched excess. Intermittently he’d spit a wad of the gunk into the trash can beside his desk, but he was chasing an unreachable high — his tolerance nowadays was something fierce, and he’d peaked on the back porch earlier that night. Through the half-hungover haze he recalled one of his Ataraxia boys ranting about something called “snus” — Swedish tobacco pouches packing a godly amount of nicotine.

Ataraxia, he thought, and laughed to himself.

The name always tickled his fancy.

Ataraxia Security was the private firm he’d used a shell company to purchase in a hostile takeover one year prior. Ex-SF operatives, serious players in the post-military civilian world, most of which had come to work for him after the buyout — no questions asked, no task too dirty. He chalked it up to an overall nihilism following their stints overseas. The realisation that the world is a dark place and that war is hell. After that, life often becomes meaningless, and a small chunk of highly skilled veterans were willing to do anything for a quick dollar, so they went into what they loosely described as “security.”

Always for the wrong people.

Always with a guilty conscience.

Ataraxia was what humoured Icke. A word used by the Epicureans in ancient times to represent peace, stillness and tranquility. He wondered if any of the men that served him ever truly thought about that, compared it to what they were actually doing.

He was sure they’d find a way to align the two.

People can justify anything.

Justification was a messy thing. He’d never given it a moment’s thought. The key to life, he figured.

His mind was wandering again. He stabbed a button on his phone because he didn’t have the energy to make it downstairs.

Bowman answered. ‘Yes, boss?’

‘You got snus on you?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Bring it up here.’

‘You said not to disturb—’

‘I changed my mind.’

He hung up.

Less than a minute later Jack Bowman appeared in the doorway, quiet as a mouse. He walked in and cast a glance off to the side, a slightly uncomfortable one. Icke thought, What’s that about?

He looked over.

Oh, yeah.

Elsa Bell sat cross-legged in the corner, her wrist handcuffed, the handcuff itself clamped on a radiator. Physically unharmed, but mentally distraught. Icke could see it on her face. She was a shell of the bright bubbly girl he’d scooped off the street months ago, but the buyers weren’t looking for bright and bubbly personalities, so that didn’t matter. They wanted flesh and flesh alone.

Bowman said, ‘What’s she in here for?’

Icke looked at his watch. ‘In exactly thirteen minutes I’m going to start getting answers from her.’

‘About what?’

Icke raised his eyes. ‘None of your business. Where’s the snus?’

Bowman was as slimy as he was ambitious. He tried to pass off the illusion of purity — for example, the grimace he’d sent in Elsa’s direction despite the fact he’d been the one guarding her the whole time — but it was all a ruse to climb the invisible ladder. He wanted power, he wanted a rep. He thought Icke was the fast-track to both. Icke didn’t care to enlighten the man as to the fact he’d be out on the street the moment he asked for a raise or a promotion.

Icke wasn’t here to distribute favours.

This was business.

Bowman handed over the plastic tub labelled “SIBERIA — EXTREMELY STRONG” and Icke fished out three pouches and crammed them into his upper gums. “Upper deckers,” he thought he remembered. They burned like hell.

‘Careful,’ Bowman said. ‘They’re strong.’

Icke rolled his eyes. ‘I think I’ll survive.’

Bowman shifted from foot to foot. ‘I think we should discuss—’

‘I’m done with you,’ Icke said, handing the tin back. ‘Gloria called ahead — she’s paranoid about getting intercepted. She wants a security cordon to accompany her for the final stretch. God knows why, but I’ll humour her. I’m in a giving mood. Take Ricardo, Usman and Jesse with you out to North Racetrack Road and wait for her to show.’

Bowman hesitated. ‘That’s unnecessary. It’s quiet out here.’

‘Did I ask for your opinion?’

Bowman nodded his understanding and walked out.

It had been at least a minute since Icke had packed the snus in. Still nothing. He pitched back in the desk chair and closed his eyes. Elsa’s shallow breathing was all that punctuated the quiet. It was a beautiful sound.

The nicotine hit him.

Hard.

His head spun.

He bathed in the buzz for as long as he dared, then opened his eyes and checked his watch.

Across the room, Elsa stared with a mixture of resignation and fear. Still fear, after all this time. You only feel fear if you still have hope. Most of his prisoners gave up within the first