Game Theory (27 page)

I have no plan and that is curiously liberating. Game theory has fucked me, filled my head full of stratagems and suspects, the illusion of being in control. What did Summerlee say about me? Something about my overwhelming fucking sense of superiority. She is right. I look back on all my pathetic game-playing, the logical processing of potential suspects, all of it underpinned by
the feeling, the certainty, that no one could outsmart me. Not me, Jamie Delaware, game-theorist and complete idiot. And where did it all lead? I still have no idea who is behind this. Probably a complete stranger or someone I don't know who Summer pissed off, just because she's Summer and that's what she does. But I couldn't accept that because it didn't involve
me
. I couldn't bear to be a bit player, a medium to take messages, a packhorse to deliver the money. I have to be centre stage.

So it has come to this. A decision based not on game theory, but on the logic of the gut. Leave it to the police or trust my instinct? Dixon had expressed it well. I was torn between two courses of action and no matter what I did I couldn't see what the future held. I have a gun. Yeah, big deal. And that turns me into Bruce Willis? I am sixteen years old, a high school student who excels at maths. Until this week, the height of my daring was planning to go to university in Sydney to study applied mathematics. I'm a kid, not a superhero. What did the careers counsellor say at school?
Always consider your skill sets
. Well, this is not my skill set. But I believed the kidnapper when he said if the police came, I wouldn't see Phoebe again. I
feel
that truth. So, in the end, I have to acknowledge a number of things. He
is
in control. This is the way he wants it to play out, so this is the most likely course of action to get my sister home safe. These are his rules, and game theory was never going to help.

But the gun is in the waistband of my jeans and I
will
use it. If necessary.

Dawn is gathering force. I glance at my watch. It's five-thirty; I have been walking for forty-five minutes. I have not passed another soul, though a few cars thread through the streets and force me to walk on the footpath. People starting their days. Just another day, another routine. Get to work, do the job, go home to wives, husbands, children. When I glance up, I see the sky lightening almost with every passing step. A few birds sing. One car passes with its window down, and a blast of song from the sound system washes over me. I notice the Doppler effect as it turns the corner and vanishes from my world. I take one step, then another.

I am not calm. I feel disengaged from everything around me, but also disengaged from myself. I'm defined by nothing but the taking of steps, one after another. This might be an advantage, this disassociation. But maybe it won't be. I retreat further into myself. I cannot feel the weight of money on my shoulders. I cannot feel the pressure of the gun against my back.

And then I see the site ahead of me. It's dark and full of shadows, despite the weak sun struggling over the horizon.

CHAPTER 26

The instructions were clear.

Approach the site from the south. There is a large perimeter fence about two metres high with barbed wire along the top. There is a pair of metal double gates and a faded notice that reads KEEP OUT about halfway along the fence. Go through the gates, which are not secured. Directly facing you are two buildings. The one on the right has a partly collapsed roof. Walk between the two buildings and into a clearing on the far side. To your right, about a hundred metres in the distance is something that looks like a water tower. It has no windows. Go into this tower. The door seems locked, but it isn't, though you might need to use force to open it since the frame is warped. Climb the stairs, which are directly opposite you. When you can go no further, you will find yourself in a large circular room with no fittings. I will meet you there. Even though there are no windows, part of the ceiling has fallen in and this will provide sufficient light
to help you see. Be in that room, with the money, at eight a.m. Come alone.

I have not come directly from the south, so I walk around the perimeter fence for about a kilometre until I recognise the double gates in the distance. It's almost like a film set, a post-apocalyptic landscape where the remainders of humanity light small fires against the chill of a nuclear winter. Parts of the fence sag outwards, a series of distended bellies. The ground is uniformly concrete, though tufts of grass have found purchase in cracks and potholes. In places the concrete has been pushed up by things growing below. It's easy to imagine how, in years to come, green will re-establish itself as structures decay. In time it will all disappear. In time it will all be green.

I walk away from the fence, fifty metres or so from the boundary but approaching a position directly opposite the central gates. The sign is there, but it has faded from what must have been bright red to a washed-out pink. The P in KEEP OUT has almost disappeared and the sign hangs at an angle. One gate is ajar about forty-five degrees, turned inwards. I can see the two buildings clearly, a couple of hundred metres past the fence and beyond another large expanse of cracked concrete. The structures have rows of metal window frames, three storeys high. Only a handful of the windows have glass as far as I can see, and each of those is broken. A factory of some kind. A place where people spent hour after hour operating machinery, churning out some
product, before returning to their real worlds. Exchanging time – entire lives, perhaps – for far less money than I am carrying on my back. Now all that labour has vanished and the skeletons of the buildings are reminders of futility.

I squat down on my haunches and watch the site. I am under an old tree and I don't think anyone watching from those buildings would be able to see me easily. But of course I can't be sure.

The sun is still very low in the sky, and patches of shadows shift across the buildings' facades, giving the illusion of movement. A bright flash to my left makes me turn my head. I see nothing. Maybe it was a ray of sunlight brushing a fragment of broken glass. Another movement, to my right this time. But it's only a pigeon scrabbling for something on the ground. I see no signs of human life. But wherever I look, movement occurs in my peripheral vision. It's unnerving.

I close my eyes and try to order my thoughts. I have no idea what I should do next. I am two hours early for the appointment but that affords no advantage as far as I can tell. It had been my only choice, since I was anxious to get out of the house before my disappearance was noted. Now I go through possible scenarios, but none are valid. I will meet him in that water tower, I will hand over the money and hope he keeps his word. And if he doesn't, then I have the gun. The last resort. I pray it doesn't get to that.

At seven-thirty I get to my feet and walk towards the gate. I am feeling light-headed and the sun hurts my eyes. I pass the faded sign and stop just beyond the gate. The huge expanse of concrete
must have been a car park at one time. The bays are marked out in faded yellow lines. I walk. The windows in the buildings before me seem to track my every step. The movements in my peripheral vision become more marked, but I try to ignore them and focus on the gap between the structures, a void draped in deep shadow. As I go further into the deserted site, the silence seems to gain substance and my calf muscles begin to cramp.

Between the buildings, it is cold and dark. There are no windows on the side of either building and the alleyway is rank with weeds and the smell of dog shit. I feel goosebumps on my arms. The feeling of being watched has increased and I can't tell whether it's that or the chill in the air that's making me shiver. I have this strong impression that someone will step out in front of me, at the end of the alley, and block my path. He will be large and dark – a silhouette against the backdrop of day – and all my fantasies involving guns and confrontations will dissolve in terror. But it doesn't happen. I step out into the pale sunshine and I am grateful. I glance behind me. There is no one there either. I shift the pack further up onto my back and take a couple of steps forward.

It's impossible to miss the tower. It's not a water tower – at least I don't think so. It's a bleak monolith, almost completely featureless, and made of brick. A central column stretches towards the sky and at the top, blossoms into a circular structure. It's like an attenuated mushroom. From its left-hand side a narrow metal walkway stretches across to a similar structure, though this one
has no cap at its summit. Despite what the kidnapper told me, there are slits along the sides of both towers, almost like arrow notches in medieval castles.

I wonder why he chose this location for the meeting. If I had brought police then he could have been easily trapped up there. It might be possible to get across the walkway, but that leads simply to another tower, with no escape. In fact, the more I look, the more the walkway seems derelict. In a few places a rusted metal bar hangs, dangling into space. If he is in that tower, he is trapped. But instructing me to go to the tower doesn't mean
he
is there. Logic tells me he is somewhere else entirely, watching from some vantage point, ensuring I am alone, that I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. No. Neither the kidnapper nor Phoebe are there. But I am not in control. I have no option except to follow the directions and see where they lead.

So I walk towards the tower, conscious now of the hard pressure of the gun against the small of my back. I wonder if that is something noticeable through a pair of binoculars. Everywhere is quiet. Even the few birds have stopped singing. The door to the tower is made of solid wood, though years of exposure have buckled and stained it. I put a hand against its surface and push but nothing happens. I try my shoulder next and it gives slightly. I can't help thinking that this door has not been opened in some considerable time.

It takes three good shoulder charges before the door finally gives way. When it does, a hinge breaks and the door tilts drunkenly.
I step inside. The air has a stale taste with an underlying tinge of rot, as if something has died in here a long time ago and been reduced to bones and a faint aura of corruption. It is very dark, and the doorway admits little light. I stand for a moment or two to let my eyes adjust. Within a minute I can see well enough to determine that there is nothing within, except a spiral metal staircase on the far side of the circular room. Somewhere, something clanks and I freeze. The noise is not repeated, though I stand for a further three minutes. I glance at my watch. It is ten minutes to eight. I am six hundred seconds from my appointment. I can't imagine it will make much difference if I am a few seconds early. I move towards the staircase.

Even on the first footfall it creaks alarmingly. I sense it swaying, though that could be my imagination. The treads are thick with dust but I notice that in the centre there is a clear set of shoeprints, pointing upwards. Someone has been here, though I cannot tell in the darkness whether the prints are recent. I can't see a smaller shoeprint, the kind that might be made by a small child.

I take the stairs one at a time, stepping up with my left foot then bringing my right up next to it. Kids' steps. I feel the narrow metal guard rail with my left hand and slide my palm upwards as I climb. It's difficult to tell if any steps have rusted away. I climb blind and trust. It takes much longer than I thought, maybe because of my staccato rhythm, or possibly because I have misjudged the building's height. I turn and turn and it seems I will never reach the summit, that I'm doomed to climb forever in a
bubble of despair and rising panic. Eventually, though, I see a glimmer of light above. I stop then and listen, but all I hear is the beating of my own heart. I turn one last bend and the room is ahead of me.

It is empty and just as described. Featureless walls, dimly lit by a couple of gaping holes in the roof. It takes less than a second to be certain I am alone. There is nowhere to hide. I gag, but manage not to vomit. I realise that I had been holding my breath, with every muscle and nerve tensed against a confrontation and a reconciliation. Seeing Phoebe. Seeing the monster who had taken her from us. Now, the emptiness sucks away hope.

My head drops, and that is when I see it. Writing in the dust.

Leave. Turn right. Building facing you. We will be there.

My first thoughts had been right. He would never come to an enclosed space. This rendezvous was a test to determine whether I had indeed come alone. A test I had passed.

I take the stairs down much faster than I did coming up. She is within a few hundred metres and time now is a burden, something to rush through until I see her face. I nearly stumble halfway down. My foot slips and I thump down a tread or two before catching my balance. I hear parts of the staircase, spots of rust probably, chink against metal as they fall. Then I am moving again.

The ground arrives sooner than I anticipated. I turn a bend and there in front of me is the door, a blaze of white light against the darkness. I move towards it, but I do not get there.

I am not aware of pain. All I know is that my legs suddenly give way and then, an instant later, there is a supernova in my head. Lights blaze and flash in brilliant arcs. They flood from a central point and for a moment bathe the world in glory, before reversing on themselves. Tracers fly back to the centre. I am aware of one bizarre thought – that this is how the universe came to be and how it will one day end – before the light implodes into darkness.

CHAPTER 27

I awake to pain.

It's still dark, but that's because I don't dare open my eyes. The pain is a fire, not just in my head but flowing throughout my body. It bathes me in agony. I don't know who I am. Nor do I care, because the pain admits no rival for my attention. I think I am groaning, but perhaps not. The blackness returns and this time I welcome it, pray for it to endure.