Cucumber Coolie (14 page)

Martha and I, completely enshrouded in darkness, didn’t speak until we were absolutely sure the door had creaked shut.

And then: “Can we budge yet? Having boobs and being stuffed in a tiny locker maybe wasn’t a great idea after all.”

I pushed open the locker door, and so too did Martha. Martha panted. Brushed herself down.

“So, you were saying…” she said.

I took a few deep breaths of the waxy, damp air. Cleared my mind, as I listened to the sounds of footsteps in the house above, the sound of my watch ticking.

“We aren’t going to the police.”

“Oh yeah. That idiocy. Swear you get more stupid the—”

“But I’m not sitting around and twiddling my thumbs. I’m setting some rules of my own. Playing James Scotts’ game by my rules.”

I walked across the tiled floor. My speech might’ve sounded smooth if I hadn’t bumped into James Scotts’ wax doppelgänger on the way.

“Your game? Your rules? What you spouting, babe?”

I turned around. Squinted at Martha in the dark, and wished it was light so she could see how damned action hero I looked.

“What do you say to making a viral video?” I asked.

TWENTY-FIVE

“No way. There’s no frigging way you’re not cutting that bloody part where I stutter.”

Martha grinned as she clicked around on my MacBook Pro. We were both lying on my lounge floor after recording the video.

The video that would hopefully change things.

The video that would turn the tables.

“Babe, it’s only got to be the message that counts. Doesn’t matter if you mumble from time to time.”

I sighed. Shook my head, as I battled to select the chunk of footage that I’d stuttered in. “Reckon Invisible Children said it’s only the message that counts when they spent a billion on that Joseph Kony stuff?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, hun. You’re hardly an international superstar. Now come on—give me help with a title here.”

I listened to the sound of my watch ticking away. I knew it must be around 4.30, which gave me nine and a half hours to save Danielle, but I wasn’t keeping track anymore.

I was playing my own game. A game that James Scotts was gonna have to deal with, whether he liked it or not.

And sure, there was no guarantee that what I was doing was going to work. But it was better than running around and wasting hours chasing his cryptic little clues.

“Alright, let’s watch it back now. One final time.”

Martha tutted. “Jesus, you’re obsessed. You look
fine
, hun. It’s a public appeal, not a beauty pageant.”

“Would you trust a YouTube star who looked like a greaseball?”

Martha shrugged. Clicked away on the MacBook touchpad. “Fair point.”

She started the video again. The video opened with me sitting on my kitchen stool. That was bloody hard enough in itself—I hated those stools. Got right up in my ass.

“I thought about writing a script, but I figured the best way to speak would just to be honest…”

“Jesus,” I said, as I watched myself. “I sound like I’m reading a bad wedding speech.”

“Definitely not being my best man.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

I continued on the video.

“… At two a.m. this morning, my girlfriend, Danielle, was kidnapped by the killer going by the name of Hose. This is Hose’s third kidnapping, but I am determined to make sure that Danielle doesn’t become Hose’s third victim…”

“You’re good, y’know?” Martha said. She jabbed me in my arm. “Should go into news reading when the smoothie trade goes AWOL.”

“Shh!”

“… As you’ll know from information leaked to the press, Hose doesn’t like the partners of the abducted going to the police. But with the information and the footage I’m about to show you, I don’t think I am going to the police. I’m asking for your help…”

I held my breath. The next part was where people were gonna have to show a bit of faith in me.

“… I believe that James Scotts, husband of the first victim, is Hose. Now I know I sound like a crazy conspiracy theorist, but I have my evidence. First up is this picture, a wax model of James Scotts found in chief pathologist Damon Watts’ basement…”

I went on to explain the situation with José’s Waxwork Route, with Damon Watts on Jared’s CCTV, and with his fingerprints on the fifty pound notes handed over for Ecstacia.

“I can’t order you to help me. That’s not what I’m doing. But I can, and I will, ask you to help me. I need to know if anybody has seen this man…”
Cut to James Scotts.
“This man is not dead. He is alive. He is Hose. Any word on his whereabouts, or whether you’ve seen him with Damon Watts at any point, please call me on 07572 474927. And don’t call the police. I wouldn’t want to break Hose’s little rules.”

The clip ended with me thanking any potential viewers, followed by a full recording of the tape Hose had sent me. I struggled watching him jab the Ecstacia syringe into Danielle’s neck. But I didn’t feel worthless anymore.

I felt like I was acting.

Like I was actually doing something.

“Ready to upload?” I asked Martha.

She scratched her head. “I, er… I think I deleted it. I empty Trash to get deleted stuff back, right?”

I lunged over to the Mac to stop her emptying Trash.

She chuckled. “Just kidding, you fool. Uploading as we speak. Got copies going out to all the local and national papers and news sites, too. Blake Dent, you’re about to become YouTube famous again.”

I stood up and walked over to my kitchen. My back was aching. In fact, I was aching all over. It felt like I hadn’t slept in forever, my mouth tasting of stale coffee even though I hadn’t drank any. Jesus, today had been the longest day ever.

And I still didn’t know how it was going to end up.

“So what do we do now, bossman?” Martha asked. She got up from my lounge floor, too, and walked over to me. “Seeing as you’re on the reins all of a sudden.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and tried to figure out what other productive shite we could be doing. “Um… I suppose there’s José’s Waxworks. Could do worse than checking out James Scotts’ studio. Find it hard to believe he’d leave no clues around there. Something we could go on.”

Martha nodded. “Be good to get a good look before the police figure out to go there, anyway. Hey, you do realise you technically are involving the police with all this viral video shit, right?”

I shrugged. “Not actively. The police can involve themselves if they want. I’m not breaking any of James Scotts’ rules.”

“And what makes you think he’s a man to stick to the rules?”

I smiled. “Like you said. He’s a game player. Shall we get going?”

Martha nodded. She wandered over to the lounge and picked her leather jacket from the floor. “Probably best to check it before the police. Shit, not looking forward to seeing old sugartits on reception again, though.”

“I’ll find a way to charge myself past her.”

Martha held up her breasts. “A pound a suck! A pound a suck!”

I grinned and shook my head. Felt weirdly relaxed.

Martha crouched down and clicked around on my Mac.

“Is there a reason you’re using my computer without my permission?”

She clicked on the touchpad a few more times. That was getting annoying—I had tap to click on for a bloody reason. “Just checking if there’s anything on YouTube. Anything from the papers.”

I looked at my watch. “It’s twenty five to five, Martha. That video’s been online five minutes. Give it an hour at least.”

I turned to my front door. Grabbed the handle. Opened it.

“Wait…”

I sighed. Even though I was all for Martha’s support, “wait” was hardly the word I wanted to hear when every second counted. “What?”

Martha was staring at the Mac screen. Her eyes were wide. Her jaws were loose.

My heart picked up. I felt knotting in my stomach. Had something gone wrong? Had… had I broken the rules without realising?

“Martha?” I walked towards her, my legs weak. My mouth cried out for menthol. “What is it?”

She looked at me. Looked at me with wide, bloodshot eyes.

And then she smiled.

“It’s gone Twitter viral, hun. It’s… Look.”

I shook my head. Couldn’t believe what Martha was saying. “What you on about? You’re having me on, right?”

I crouched down. Looked at Twitter.

Holy shit.

There was a full page of tweets. Tweets like,
“If you watch anything today, please watch this.”

Holy crap. A tweet from Gary-bloody-Linger, top football pundit:
“Pass this on to everyone you know. #SaveDanielle”

“I’ve… it’s gone viral,” I said.

Martha smiled. Placed a hand on my back.

“If anyone has ANY information on the whereabouts of James Scotts, PLEASE HELP! #SaveDanielle”

“Fuck Hose. Blake helped us once. Let’s return the faith. #SaveDanielle”

“It’s… it’s working.”

TWENTY-SIX

It is only when James Scotts finishes a thrilling session with his prized hose and Subject C’s neck that he discovers Blake Dent’s a viral video sensation again.

He sees it when he sits down with an ice cold glass of water in one of the rooms next to where Subject C is. Sees it totally by accident, and almost spits out his water when he does.

BBC News. Front page. Breaking News.

Kidnapped Woman Sparks Nationwide Manhunt.

He clicks. Clicks, more because he is curious about what is hidden between the lines. Intrigued to hear how the media are talking about him—whether they are giving him the respect, the adulation, he deserves.

When he sees Blake Dent’s viral video that has garnered over a hundred thousand retweets from celebrities and the general public in a matter of minutes, he doesn’t feel so thirsty anymore.

His cheeks heat up. He tries to gulp, but he can’t shake the lump in his throat.

Blake Dent is playing with him. Fucking with him. Blake Dent isn’t supposed to be the video star. This is supposed to be James Scotts’ time.

His
time in the spotlight.

And now he was being mocked.

He was being made a fool of.

He didn’t like being made a fool of.

He throws his glass of ice cold water onto the floor. Sends shards of glass smashing all over the tiles. Dammit. He’s going to have to clean those up. He’s going to have to clean up all of this mess.

Deep breaths. Keep your cool. You’ve got this.

He can’t help but feel a knot in his chest as the sound of Blake Dent’s voice continues to play, as the barrage of tweets publicises his viral video.

One of his favourite authors, Bill Swigg, tweets in favour of Blake.

Mark Romanek—shit, one of his all-time favourite directors.

All laughing at him.

All mocking him.

All exposing his real identity: James Scotts.

But then he sees the glass on the floor. Through the reddening in his eyes, his hazing vision, he sees the glass and he knows what he has to do.

He stands up. Kicks back the plastic chair.

So Blake Dent wants to play? He wants to fucking play?

James Scotts lifts up a sharp shard of glass from the floor. Squeezes it so tightly that it digs into his palm, slices his hand, sends blood dripping to the floor.

He smiles. Smiles as the fizzing pain works its way through his body.

He smiles because he has a new plan.

“Thank you, Blake Dent. That’s—that’s it. That’s it!”

He can’t help but laugh as he squeezes the glass tighter, as warm blood trickles down his arm. Blake Dent is a genius. He’s raised the bar. Showed James Scotts how things should be done.

So now it is time to raise the bar even higher.

He stops squeezing the glass.

Sucks on the metallic tasting wound on his hand.

And then he opens the door back to where Subject C is.

Stares at her bruised neck, her shivering naked body, her glassy eyes.

Time to return the strong return of service.

Time to become a star.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Martha pulled up outside José’s Waxwork Route for the second time today.

Only this time, I was even more of an internet sensation than ever.

“Jesus, Blake—James-bloody-Clarks is even tweeting about Danielle. You know how big this is, right?”

I stared at the dusty, worn-down entrance to José’s. Listened to the sound of my watch ticking away, the sickly taste of anticipation building in my mouth. “Now might not be a good time to tell him I didn’t enjoy the latest series of First Gear.”

“Gotta hand it to you, hun,” Martha said, as she tapped around on the screen of her new smartphone. She looked like an elephant playing piano. “I thought this might work, but… but this. It’s crazy. Shit—look.” She pointed the phone so close to my face that I had to back away to refocus.

I looked at the red dots spread all over Britain, most of them around Preston. “What’s this?”

“Heat map sort of thing. With James Scotts’ known locations. And… shit—look at this.” She prodded the phone in my face again. Banged the screen against my nose.

A blurry, dark zoomed-in photograph. “What’s…”

And then it clicked. She didn’t need to tell me.

The two men outside the police station. One of them with a bald head and wide eyes, the other with dark, floppy hair.

“James Scotts and Damon Watts.”

“So we know they were in contact. Hell, why don’t the police put out public enquiries more often? Viral hashtags could resolve crime forever.”

I opened up the side door to the Audi TT. “Because people on social media only care about good causes for about nine hours. Which is fortunate, because that’s about all I’ve got to save Danielle. See you in a bit.”

“You be okay?” Martha asked, as I stepped out of the car and into the rain. The air smelled earthy, fresh.

“Yeah.” I lifted a pound coin and showed it to Martha. “In case Granny Sugartits wants a bribe.”

Martha shook her head, and I closed the door.

I stepped back inside José’s Waxwork Route. I knew what I had to do. I had to get inside James Scotts’ studio. Preferably before the police even clocked on that he
had
a studio.