I lift the insulation, pull out the warm envelope, and open it.
There is no USB. It’s not there. The stubby object I felt through the plastic earlier is just the long-empty casing. The USB itself is gone from inside it. Gone.
I stare, bewildered. What does it mean? I stand in the attic, winded by the run from the tube station, sweat rolling down my skin, gasping for breath. Where has it gone? Have they already come for it? No, they can’t have. They’d have taken the phone too. They’d have done something to us. I remind myself that no one else has been in the house but Mark and me. It must be Mark. What has he done? Has he thrown it out? Has he hidden it elsewhere? In case I listened to the message and tried to find it? What has he done with it? I turn on my own phone and check the time. He’ll be on his flight now. I can’t reach him. I feel another wave of nausea and slump down on one of the attic beams. I should take it easy. Less running.
I look down at the screen of my phone again. I’ll text him.
I heard the voicemails!
Why didn’t you tell me?
Where is it?
I stare down at the message, thumb posed over send. No—this isn’t right. Too furious. Too panicked. He must have a pretty serious reason why he hasn’t told me—and I haven’t told him a lot of things too. I delete the message. And type instead…
Mark call me when you land.
I love you xxx
I press send. That’s better. He can explain later. He’ll have hidden the USB in case I try to do something stupid. I think about where it could be. I wonder if he knows what’s on it. I want to know what’s on it. It’ll be in the house somewhere. It has to be.
I start in the bedroom. I try all his usual hiding places. We’ve lived together for four years now and I’m pretty sure I know them all. I check his bedside drawer, the small combination box inside it. The code is his birthday, but there’s nothing inside apart from some foreign currency. I peer under his side of the mattress—he once hid some Patti Smith concert tickets there for my birthday—nothing. I fish through the pockets of his grandfather’s overcoat in the wardrobe, old shoeboxes in the top cupboard.
Then I move to the bathroom, an aftershave box at the back of the bathroom cabinet, his desk, his old briefcase—nothing, nothing, nothing. He’s hidden it well. Or maybe he’s taken it with him. Maybe he doesn’t trust me at all. But I know he wouldn’t have taken the USB with him; if there’s a chance he might lose it, he wouldn’t take it. If he’s hidden it from me, it’ll be here—somewhere in this house.
And that’s when I get angry. I turn the house upside down. I search every inch. I pull out everything. I empty full bags of rice, I strip beds, I check the linings of curtains and bags.
Nothing.
I stand sweating and disheveled in a house torn apart. I’m dizzy and nauseous. This is not me taking it easy. I need to raise my blood sugar, right now, if not for me then for what’s trying to grow inside me. I plonk down where I am in the middle of the living room and drag a Liberty of London bag full of wedding gifts toward me. I fish down to the bottom and grab a tin of truffles. Rose champagne truffles. They’ll do. I prize off the lid and dig in. And then I find it. Just like that. Nestled on the bottom deck of the truffle box. Fuck, Mark. What are you playing at?
Exhausted, I eat my truffles in triumphant silence. The USB as company. The daylight fading around me.
At some point in the darkness my phone starts to bleat. I fumble it out from under the detritus of my search. It’s Mark. He must have landed.
“Hello?”
“Hi, honey? Is everything okay?” He sounds worried. Could he know I found it?
“Mark. Why did you hide it?” There’s no point beating around the bush. I’m drained. I’m hurt.
“Hide what? What are you talking about?” He sounds amused. I can hear bustle in the background behind him. He’s on the other side of the world.
“Mark, I found the USB. Why did you lie? Why did you hide it? Why didn’t you tell me about the messages?” I can feel my eyes welling. But I will not cry.
“Ah, right…I was wondering when this might come up. You found it? Have you looked at what’s on it?”
“Yes. No. I only just found it.” I stare at it in the half-light, sitting innocently in the palm of my hand: a mystery.
“I’m sorry, Erin, honey, but I know you too well. I listened to the message. I had to after what happened to the Sharpes. In the voicemail he said he wanted just the flash drive, nothing else. I needed to see what was on it, why it meant so much to him. So I looked and, Erin, what I saw really worried me. All of it scared me. I just wanted to protect you. But I knew that sooner or later you’d look too, and if you heard that voicemail you wouldn’t be able to not look at the USB. So I hid it.” He gives me a second to process what he’s said. “But obviously not well enough,” he jokes, and laughs. He’s struggling to lighten the mood.
“Erin. I’m sorry, but will you promise me you won’t look on it, honey? Please. Just leave it alone until I get back. Can you promise me that?” I’ve never heard his voice sound so serious, so worried. “Promise me. Just put it back where you found it, honey. And once I’m back we’ll burn it together. Don’t do anything. We’ll put the phone and the USB in the fire pit and together we’ll watch them burn. Okay?” he says soothingly.
God, he really does know me so well.
“All right,” I whisper. I feel sad and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I can’t be trusted. “I love you, Mark.”
“Great. Listen, Erin—I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. Maybe I should have told you?”
No, he was right. I would have done all those things.
“No, you did the right thing and I love you,” I say again.
“I love you too, honey. Call me if you need anything.”
“Love you.” And then he’s gone.
I’m broken, confused, and incredibly thirsty. I pour myself a tall glass of ice water from the fridge door. I stare at our beautiful kitchen. The handmade work surfaces, the integrated wine refrigerator, the slate tile floor, radiating underfloor heating up through my socks. I look at our kitchen decimated by my crazed search, pots and pans, packets of food, and cleaning products scattered everywhere. And there among it all is my laptop. I don’t stop to think; I stumble across to it and I flip the lid on the computer, pull the USB out of its wrapping and slide it into the port.
A new device icon flashes up on my desktop. I double-click. A window opens. Files. I click on the first. It opens. Text.
Encrypted. Pages and pages of encrypted text. Files on files of encrypted text. Nonsense stares back at me. I don’t know what it says. I don’t even know what it is.
I don’t understand it, I can’t make it work, and it terrifies me. Perhaps Mark knows what it means? Perhaps it’s a banking thing? A numbers thing? But why then warn me away? I don’t know what I’m looking at. But my breath is shallow now because even I can tell that this is important. Even I can see that. We shouldn’t have this USB. It’s not for people like us. And I can’t tell Mark I looked. Now I know with crystal clarity that I am completely out of my depth.
Who are they? And what is this? Is this what they killed the Sharpes for? Why is it so important to them? Why aren’t they concerned about the money or the diamonds? Why is this worth two million euros?
Are we going to die for this?
I need to think. I eject the drive and place it carefully back into its plastic. Breathe, Erin. Think.
Okay. What should I do?
First of all, I really need to know what is on this USB. If I can find out, I’ll know the kind of people I’m dealing with. I remember the emails I saw in Bora Bora. The shell companies. The papers floating in the water. Who are these people? What are they capable of? How much danger are we in? If somehow I can get these files unencrypted, I’ll know. If it’s something awful, maybe I should go to the police? Maybe I should go now? But I want to know. I need to know what this is.
I haven’t the faintest idea how to decrypt files. But I think I might know someone who does. I stuff the USB into my pocket, grab my coat. Eddie’s mobile number is scrawled on the back of the card that came with his bouquet this morning. I, Erin Roberts, have direct access to Eddie Bishop’s illegal prison burner phone. And what’s the point of having contacts if you’re not going to use them? I pluck the card from the flowers as I pass them in the hall and dash out of the house.
There’s a smashed-up phone box on Lordship Road. I’ve driven by it enough times to wonder (a) why no one ever sweeps up or repairs the broken glass and (b) who on earth uses the terrifying-looking thing. Well, I realize as I stride purposely down the long stretch of suburban road toward it, today that lucky someone is me.
I honestly can’t remember the last time I used a pay phone. Maybe school? Calling home with my ten-pence pieces lined up along the shelf in the booth.
When I reach the phone box, it’s worse than I remembered. The booth is a hollow plastic cage carpeted with milky shards of glass, and clumps of weeds have burst through the cracked tarmac. There are spiders suspended from the empty windowpanes, slow and befuddled in the wet air. At least the open air diffuses the stale stench of piss.
I rattle my coat for change. A fat two-pound coin hits my palm. Perfect. I dial Eddie’s number.
When he answers he’s chewing something. I look at my watch: 1:18, lunchtime. Oops.
“Hi, Eddie, sorry to bother you. It’s Erin. I got this number from the flowers; I’m on a pay phone, so…” I think that means we can talk safely but what do I know; he’ll be the judge of that.
“Oh, right. Hello, darling. You all right, sweetheart? Problems?” He’s stopped chewing. Somewhere in Pentonville I hear Eddie wipe his mouth with a paper napkin. Do the guards know about Eddie’s burner phone? I wouldn’t be surprised if they did and they just looked the other way.
“Um, no, no problems really. But I’ve got a question. I don’t know if you’d know—or if you know someone else who might know—but…” I stop. “Can I talk on this?” I don’t want to incriminate myself. I don’t want to make things worse.
“Uh, yeah, should be fine, sweetheart. Anyone near you? Watching you? Street cameras?”
I scan the tops of lampposts along the residential street, my breath catching in my throat. I chose this road because it’s the emptiest road near us, hardly any passersby, but now I start to wonder: do all London streets have CCTV in some form? But the angled cameras or small circular pods I’m searching for are nowhere to be seen here.
I think we’re safe. “No people, no cameras,” I say into the receiver.
“Then it’s fine.” I hear a smile in his voice. I’ve caught his interest.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, it’s just I’ve got a slight, well—a situation. Um, do you know anything about file encryption, Eddie? Do you know anyone I could talk to about it? It’s important.” I need to mask the urgency in my voice. I don’t want to scare him off. I don’t want to seem overly familiar either. At the end of the day, I’m asking for another favor and this time I really have nothing to give in exchange for it.
“Computer stuff, right? Yeah, we’ve got a guy. Here, look, tell me the gist and I’ll give my guy a ring and we’ll go from there. You like those flowers, by the way, sweetheart? I asked ’em for something nice and tasteful but you never know with those places, do you?” Eddie’s a very sweet man. I think of my monstrous bouquet back in the hall. Under different circumstances I think Eddie and I would have really gotten along.
“Sorry, Eddie. Yes, yes, I did. They were gorgeous, very tasteful, thank you so much. I’m just glad I could help out.”
“You did, sweetheart, you did. My daughter means the world to me. Now, what’s the problem then?”
“Okay, so, I’ve got an encrypted USB. In a nutshell, I’m not really sure what I’m dealing with here. I need to know what’s on that stick.” I lay it out for him. A problem shared…
Eddie clears his throat.
“Where did you get it?” His tone has turned serious.
“I can’t say. I’m not sure who exactly I’m dealing with. I need to know what’s on the USB in order to know what I need to do now.”
“Listen, Erin, I’m going to stop you there, sweetheart. You don’t need to know anything. So, do everyone a favor and drop that idea. If that thing belongs to someone else and they’ve gone to all the trouble of encrypting it, you don’t need to know what’s on it. Because it’s bad, it’s bad stuff they don’t want people reading.” Did Mark read it? I wonder. I think of the pages and pages of scrambled text. Could Mark have figured out what they meant? Does he already know too much?
Eddie continues: “My gut says you copy what you’ve got. I’m guessing you’ll be handing the original on? Exchanging?”
“Umm…yes. Yes, I will.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. For a second, I feel so much relief I’m dizzy. Calling Eddie was the right thing to do. He knows how to deal with these kind of people.
“Right, well…You exchange one-on-one. You take backup in case they don’t want to play nice. You do exactly what they say. And don’t hand anything over until you’ve got the money. You made that mistake the other day with Simon; I heard all about it. It’s very endearing, sweetheart, but it’s not the way things get done. You exchange after the money’s gone into your account, not before. You understand?” The question hangs on the line between us.
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Eddie,” I say. It feels weird being this honest with a criminal. I can tell him more than I’d ever tell Mark. I know he’s right. I should just take the offer. Make sure I cover all my bases and go for it. It’s what Eddie would do.
“Do you need anyone to help you with the handover? I could get Simon round to help out?” he asks, his voice soft now. I feel like this is personal. Eddie’s worried about me.
“Um, I think I’ve got it covered, Eddie. But can I let you know?” I’m aware I sound fragile. A damsel in distress. I’d like to say it’s a deliberate manipulative move to garner assistance, but it’s not. As I’ve said, I’m just way out of my depth. But I can’t let Simon and Eddie help me. I can’t take on more than one front at a time. I don’t know if I can trust Eddie and his gang with this. He’s a criminal, at the end of the day. I understand the irony of that statement, but you know what I mean. I need to figure this out myself first, alone.
“Okay, sweetheart. Well, you know where I am if you need me.”
“Oh, Eddie, do you know where I could get, um, you know, er, protection?” That’s probably the least persuasive request for a firearm ever uttered, but I think I might definitely need it now.
He’s silent for a second.
“You know how to use one?” he asks, businesslike.
“Yes,” I lie. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, well, I said you were full of surprises. Not a problem, sweetheart. Simon will drop what you need round tonight. Look after yourself, sweetheart. Stay safe. You need to talk again, next time you call use a different box, different area. No more Lordship Road. Mix it up.”
How does he know where I’m calling from? For an instant, I feel sick. “I will. Thanks, Eddie. Really appreciate it.”
“All right, love. Ta-ta.” The line goes dead.
I’m going to end this situation. I’m going to end it for both of us, Mark and me. We can’t hide from what’s coming. Mark doesn’t know what he’s doing. We can’t just squirrel the USB away in chocolate boxes and hope for the best. We need to finish what we have started and properly, because now I’m absolutely certain that they won’t stop until they have the USB. We’ve turned the phone on two times now; they must know we’re in London. Now it’s just a question of when and where we meet. And on whose terms.
I think of the Sharpes: of their fate. Those last desperate gasping breaths of seawater, and then—nothing. But the difference between the Sharpes and me is that the Sharpes weren’t expecting what happened to them, they weren’t prepared, they panicked. They didn’t stand a chance. But I do.
I head to St. Pancras Station and in the crowd below the giant clock I turn on the phone. Passengers spill from the Eurostar through the glass in front of me. I tap on messages, tap on the text box of the most recent message, and write:
I HAVE FLASH DRIVE.
HAPPY TO EXCHANGE.
MEETING INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.
I tap send, turn off the phone, and slip it into my coat pocket. Now I just need somewhere to meet.
At home I spend the night trawling YouTube videos to prepare. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s doing my research, and it never ceases to amaze me what you can learn off the Internet. I watch videos on handgun assembly, specifically Glock 22 assembly and disassembly.
Simon dropped off a Glock 22 with two boxes of bullets two hours ago; I made him a cup of tea, and he left with the cup.
I’ve been watching the videos ever since: Glock cleaning, how to handle a handgun, Glock safety features, how to shoot a handgun, how to make your handgun safe pre- and post-usage. And two hours in, I’m happy to say that it is about as hard to take apart a handgun and reassemble it as it is to change a Brita water filter. If you’re interested.
Apparently WD-40 is an acceptable substitute for gun oil as long as you intend to re-lube and clean after a three- to four-day period. My gun only needs to work for one day and I’m hoping that it doesn’t actually need to work at all. I can’t risk going into a Holland & Holland in Piccadilly tomorrow morning and buying gun oil. Just in case. Just in case SO15 is watching. Or Patrick. Or someone else entirely.
I miss another call from Phil. He’s already rung twice today to argue with me about why I’m dropping the Holli stuff. He’s been fuming since I told him and I’ve got the voicemails to prove it. I still haven’t called him back. He can wait. Everyone can wait.
Glock 22s are absurdly easy to use. Not many buttons. Not much you can fuck up. The thing about a Glock is it doesn’t have a safety catch. You know that bit in films when the heroine finally needs to use her gun and she raises it to the looming bad guy, squeezes the trigger, and click…nothing? The safety’s on. Well, that won’t happen with a Glock. With a Glock, his head explodes. If the magazine is in and it’s cocked, that’s it. Point and shoot. And it’ll only fire if a finger pulls the trigger. You can drop it, or snag the trigger, or shove it in your waistband, whatever, it won’t go off. The double-trigger system means your finger has to go into the trigger bed and pull all the way back. That’s the only way a Glock fires. But if you grab the gun out of that waistband and accidentally touch that trigger bed on the way, you’ll almost certainly never have kids. No safety means no safety.
My mobile bursts to life again. This time it’s Nancy, Fred’s wife. Goddamn it. I forgot to thank her for watching the house for us while we were on honeymoon, and for the food she left us. I haven’t got back to Fred either about the footage. They’re probably worried. Mark is right: I am forgetful. I let it go to voicemail.
If you ever find a Glock, you’ll know it’s a Glock because of the logo on the bottom right of the handgrip. A big “G,” little “lock” written inside it. If you find one, then here’s what you do: First, keeping your hand away from the trigger, pick up the gun. There should be a small button right by your thumb on the grip. That’s the magazine release. Place your other hand under the butt and push the thumb button. The magazine will pop out of the butt and into your hand. If the magazine is full, you’ll see a bullet at the top of the magazine. Now pop that magazine down somewhere safe. Next you need to check/empty the chamber. In other words, see if there’s a bullet in there and if there is, eject it. You do this by pulling the top section of the barrel backward away from the tip of the gun. The little window should open up on the top of the gun as you cock back. If there’s a bullet, it should pop safely up and out of the top as you cock. Cock back again to double-check the chamber is clear. Now your gun is safe. Then, to load it, pop that bullet into the top of the magazine you set aside. Slide the whole magazine back into the butt of the gun until it clicks, cock it again, point, and shoot. Practice that routine about twenty times and you’ll be as convincing as any actor in Full Metal Jacket. Besides, it keeps your thoughts from buzzing around the reasons you may need the gun in the first place.
Mark calls before bed to check on me. It’s the one call I do take.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just watching stuff on the computer.” Technically true.
“How are you feeling?” he probes. He doesn’t want to push it but he’s still uneasy, I can tell.
“I’m fine, honey, seriously. Don’t worry about me. I’m absolutely fine.”
I tell him I love him and he tells me he loves me too.
When I feel confident enough with the gun, I clean it thoroughly again and apply silver duct tape from Mark’s toolbox to the gun handle. The checked grip sections on gun butts can’t retain prints but the smooth areas at the front and back can. The Internet tells me that it will be easier to pull duct tape off after firing than it would be to wipe the gun down after an altercation. I know myself well enough to know I won’t be thinking straight after that happens. If that happens. The tape will help.
I leave Mark a note on the stairs in the hallway. He’ll get back from New York tomorrow night and I won’t be here. The note says I love him with all my heart, I’m sorry about the mess, I didn’t want to stay in the house alone, and I’ll be sleeping over at Caro’s that night. Not to worry. I’ll see him soon.
I start to gather what I’ll need from the shambles that is our home. I download a GPS coordinate location app onto my phone; I’ll need it to find the coordinates of the meeting location. I fill a rucksack with the gun, bullets, phone, and USB. I pack a change of clothes. Toiletries. An old yellow travel alarm clock I’ve had since I was a kid, my hiking clothes and boots, and a flashlight. As I wander the house gathering these items, I wonder at what stage all of this started. If I could wind it back, how far back would I have to wind? To before I turned on the phone? To before we opened the bag? To the circle of floating papers? To the wedding? To the day Mark called me from the men’s loo? Would that be far enough?