Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

make things for those who did not understand, or did not want to understand.

People unique amongst others. Necessary people playing a crucial role, behind the scenes, beneath the radar. The world needed people like that. If nobody showed an interest, then the machine would simply stop, if the interest was ever there in the first place for it to have been created. Malcolm tried to be interested, but felt like a youth who wanted to kill the enemy in computer games, who wanted to blast away at anything that moved, but did not care for how it was made, how the software behind it worked. He put pen to paper again, but it did not move.

 

A few moments later, he was in his parent’s bedroom, looking at a framed photograph of his father at a holiday camp. He wore large, plastic glasses upside down, and a balloon hat. Malcolm looked at it as though all the answers would be revealed, but his father just stared out at him with eyes that captured everything within that moment. ‘Look at me, what am I doing?’. It would probably be obvious from just the photograph that his father never usually did anything of that sort, and that it was completely out of the ordinary for him to do that.

 

That was quite ironic, Malcolm thought, him doing something he would not usually contemplate. Yet, it was a holiday, a place where inhibitions vanished, where people who had worked day in and day out for months and years could let themselves go, could perform acts they would never dream of at home, because holidays simply did that.

 

A change of scenery for a few days or weeks would sometimes mean a change of personality, where pent up frustrations caused by stress at work or within a social circle could be breathed out like a sigh of satisfaction. People ‘let their hair down’ on holiday, like Peter Selden was displaying in the photograph, so his change in persona could not be linked to his recent drastic change. Malcolm decided that there was no connection, and didn’t give it any more thought.

 

The room was heavy with silence, the room frozen in time. The bed was made, curtains drawn, and all items left as they were. A hair-dryer next to the bedside cabinet. A pinstripe suit hanging on the cupboard door handle. A pair of skew-whiff slippers beside his father’s side of the bed. He almost felt as though he was being watched by his parents. He looked around to see, but saw only the dark side of the room.

 

He had switched on the bedside lamp when he had came in, and the red lampshade gave the room a maroon hue, and cast muted shadows. He turned back, but still felt eyes watching him. Maybe his mother was trying to tell him that it was fine, there was no need for him to worry, she had forgiven his father who was stood there also, trying to apologise for the thousandth time.

 

He had a moment of insanity, his mother had understood, and that was that, no more madness on the other side. Or maybe it was all in his mind, maybe he wanted them to be there, when in fact it was his subconscious trying to reassure him. He gripped the top of the photograph, and laid it face down. He then switched off the light, and left the room.

16

 

Tom had parked approximately one mile from Ryvak, around a corner of a country lane as much onto the verge as possible. It was situated in Landican, 300 metres from the M53. He had managed to turn it around, so that driving away would be easier when he had to make his getaway. It was 01:06am, and he had brought with him a torch, a crowbar, and a pair of pliers, infiltration not his strong point, but he did not think he would be doing it. Even on the electronic superhighway, nothing went to plan all the time.

 

The sky was flecked with stars, but there was no moon to light his surroundings. He had to use the torch as he walked in the middle of the lane. Previously, he had turned a corner, and knew that the building had been in view, so had pointed his light at the ground. The place looked further away than normal. It was basically a rectangle silhouette against a dark sky. Onwards he had walked, in the cold, in the slight wind. There was the occasional spot of rain that hit his face, but he knew now that there was no turning back. He’d come this far.

 

He now stood on a grass verge, wondering how far he had left to walk, pointing the torch downwards so any guards or security didn’t pick him out and vaporise him where he stood. It wouldn’t have surprised him if they could do that. He’d read and heard enough to know that a lot of conspiracy theories were based on fact.

 

Tom wasn’t surprised by anything any more. If secret government agencies were at work behind the scenes, they were no doubt working on weaponry, according to him, to combat any threat to the shores, to the destabilising of the hierarchy. He guessed that paranoia was not a part of the human make-up, but rather acquired depending upon levels of belief. They could watch people from the sky, and gather as much data as possible about a person, but they themselves had to be paranoid about each other. Who could trust who? Who was watching the watchers?

 

He walked further, and eventually his torch picked out a wire fence. Walking quickly across to it and switching off his torch, he was soon finding it difficult to cut through, knowing he should have sharpened the blades before he left, but thought they would be fine, should he need them.

 

They worked, but cost him some exhaustion. After around ten minutes, he managed to squeeze through, and found himself ankle deep in grass and weeds. They could use a lawn mower, he thought, but then, when it was up and running, they probably would. Cutting grass was certainly not high on their list of priorities at the moment. He decided not to turn the torch back on.

 

The building was around seventy metres away, so he hurried as quietly as he could, and soon yelled out in surprise as he hit another fence. He felt around, and discovered that this was not the same as the other barrier, but could still be breached by the wire cutters.

This was even more difficult, but was compensated for by there being less wires to cut through. After around fifteen minutes, he squeezed through. Had he switched on the torch, he would have discovered a sign on the fence that read: ‘Power line. Danger of death’. With their security still not up and running, they were not ready to activate it yet. The building was only forty metres away, and Tom found his footfalls had changed. He was walking on gravel.

 

He saw a light further away, above what looked like a shed, and Tom guessed that a security guard would be there, or maybe two. One thing he had not accounted for, and knew he should have, was guard-dogs. Maybe they could smell him, maybe they could smell fear. Maybe there were no dogs. He hoped so, and walked slowly across to the building, his hands outstretched until he touched the wall.

 

He leaned back against it, pausing for breath. After a few minutes, he decided to walk to his right, away from the security station. He hoped sooner or later to come across a door. As he progressed, he discovered pieces of wood propped against the wall and two large tyres that must have come from construction vehicles which he could not see nearby.

 

Some of the wood clattered to the floor and he had to stop and look back in fear for signs of movement. All was quiet, and he continued. Moments later, his foot hit a step and he collapsed forward, the loud noise seemingly amplified. He froze, looking back again, but nothing moved.

 

Standing up, he discovered a steel door. It was a fire exit. He guessed his crowbar would have a difficult job in opening it, but he fumbled around and managed to get it wedged tightly in the frame. He pushed once, and that was all that was needed. The door slowly opened, and invited him into a silent, black corridor. Security really is lapse, he thought, then the thought struck him that maybe there was nothing worth stealing.

 

Maybe they hadn’t installed computers yet. The rooms may be bare. Was security too lapse? Or were they just careless, with everything in disarray before being furnished? Someone had forgotten to lock one of the doors, or maybe all of them.

 

The attraction to thieves was when they knew there was something inside worth stealing, worth bothering about. To make the effort to come all the way out to break into a building on speculation made no sense to the intelligent thief.

 

To the drug user and opportunist, all buildings were targets. Ryvak had minimal protection, but with the building not being set to install the staff, its security equalled it in readiness.

 

However, Tom knew that door still should have been locked, but did not hesitate to enter. He wondered about security cameras. They could only be using night vision if they were active. He thought that it was unlikely, and decided to turn on the torch. A long, linoleum floored corridor spanned away in front of him. It was wide, at least fifteen feet, and what he deduced were offices lined either side at regular intervals. All had windows, and some of those had blinds. He walked slowly, pointing the beam in to all of them as he went. Most of them were bare.

 

Some had tables and chairs, but none had any computers. He reached a pair of doors at the end, and slowly pushed them open. There was a wall just ahead of him. The corridor continued left. He pointed the torch right and saw stairs leading up.

 

He decided to try there first, and hoped he didn’t have to search the whole building all night, but he knew he would, as he was here, and could not leave until he had got what he had come for.

 

As he walked slowly up the stairs, the only thing he could hear was his own nervous breathing and muted footsteps. He reached the first floor and walked through another set of double doors into a passage that must be above the other, left corridor. Doors along here were not as frequent as previously, and some did not have windows. He discovered that some of these were locked.

 

Further he went, into the gloom, and discovered two rooms similar to those downstairs on the left. The room nearest him had nothing inside it, but the other, had what he sought. The torch beam picked out several computers on a table. He tried the door, but it was locked. It was however, wooden, and susceptible to the crowbar. A sharp, loud crack reverberated throughout the corridor, and Tom froze once again.

 

After a few moments, he entered the room. The computers were not set up. Wires were wrapped around keyboards and monitors looked at him blankly, as though they had never been used. He sighed, and positioned the torch on the table so he could get to work. It took him twenty minutes, but eventually he managed to set one up and get the information he required.

 

With his face cast in a white hue, he scribbled down the IP address, and all other information he thought he might need, just in case, and shut it down. He unplugged everything, and put it back the way he had found it. He didn’t want them to know he had been here. Then he remembered the door, and the large crack near the