Chris Brookmyre [Brookmyre - Want You Gone

Also by Chris Brookmyre

Quite Ugly One Morning

Country of the Blind

Not the End of the World

One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night

Boiling a Frog

A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away

The Sacred Art of Stealing

Be My Enemy

All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye

A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil

Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks

A Snowball in Hell

Pandaemonium

Where the Bodies are Buried

When the Devil Drives

Bedlam

Flesh Wounds

Dead Girl Walking

Black Widow

WANT YOU
GONE

CHRIS BROOKMYRE

LITTLE, BROWN

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Little, Brown

Copyright Christopher Brookmyre 2017

The right of Christopher Brookmyre to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-4087-0719-7

Little, Brown
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

For Nick Witcher, Steve Finn and Kerry Fraser-Robinson.

CONTENTS

Hes never known such cold, such merciless, pervasive cold. It is enveloping him completely, like the embrace of a wraith, and he is being crushed in its grip.

His limbs are useless, still twitching in spasms, tiny echoes of the convulsions that rendered him helpless, and he can see his stilted, strangled breaths escaping from his mouth as tiny wisps. Pain is still pulsing through him, a pain he can feel from his internal organs to his every extremity. There is a buzzing in his ears, tiny explosions dancing in his eyes like a miniature firework display.

The temperature is so low that it feels as though the air itself is biting him, but worst of all is what lies beneath. The floor is like a giant radiator in reverse, draining warmth from every point of contact, and given he is lying flat on his back, that means close to half the surface of his body.

His assailant is standing over him, staring down from the blank smiling face of a Guy Fawkes mask.

He thinks he sees a fleeting gleam in a black-gloved hand, there for a twinkling, then its gone. Its hard to tell among the flashes hes seeing, the after-effects of the electroshock device.

I want you to know why this is happening to you, and I want you to understand why its happening now.

There is such anger in the voice, an anger that speaks of years of hatred; years of waiting.

Why didnt he see this betrayal coming? How could he have walked so blind into the jaws of a trap?

You thought you had reinvented yourself, didnt you: turned your reputation around. I wanted you to touch that better future. I wanted you to believe you could once again be what you used to... before I took it all away.

High on the wall he sees the dark glass of a CCTV camera lens, and with it comes a realisation colder even than the floor. Too late, he understands the significance of the mask, and that it is practical rather than symbolic.

It is the mask that confirms what he thought he glimpsed is indeed a blade.

It is the mask that tells him he is about to die.

I was always afraid that this story would end with me in prison. Turns out I was right.

Not exactly a major spoiler though, is it? I mean, we both already know that part, so its how I got here that really matters.

Im going to tell you everything, and Im not going to hold back to spare anyones feelings. I have to be totally honest if Im looking for honesty in return. Ill warn you up front, though. Much of what Im about to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but there are things about me that I need you to understand. Youre not going to like me for some of what I did and said, and the way you personally come across isnt always going to be flattering either, but its important that you get a handle on how everything looked from my point of view.

It doesnt mean I feel that way now, or that I was right to think what I did back then. Its just how it was, you know?

There are a lot of places I could start, but I have to be careful about that. Certain choices might imply Im pointing the finger, and Im not. I know whos to blame for everything that happened. No need for any more deceptions on that score. So Im not going right back to childhood, or to when my dad died, or even to when the police raided the flat and found a shitload of drugs and a gun. Because this isnt about any of that stuff, not really. To me, this all starts a few weeks ago, with me sitting in a waiting room, looking at a human time-bomb.

I know the man is going to explode several minutes before the incident takes place. It is only a matter of time.

He is sitting opposite me in the waiting area, shifting restlessly on the plastic bench, his limbs in a state of constant motion: sudden jerks and twitches beating out a code I can read only too clearly. His head is an unkempt ball of hair, his matted locks merging with enough beard to kit out a whole bus full of hipsters. He looks across at me every few seconds, which makes me scared and uncomfortable, though I know hes not picking me out specifically. His eyes are darting about the room the whole time, not alighting on a single sight for more than a second, like a fly that wont land long enough to be swatted.

I am afraid of catching his eye, so I keep my gaze above him, where a row of posters glare back at me from the wall. They all seem intended to threaten, apart from the ones encouraging people to grass on their neighbours. Were closing in, says one. Benefit thieves: our technology is tracking you, warns another. Do you know whos following you? asks a third. They feature images of people photographed from above at a steep angle, making them look tiny and cornered as they stand on concentric circles. To drive the point home, another poster shows an arrow thwocking into a bull-seye: Targeting benefit fraudsters.

I have done nothing wrong but I feel guilty and intimidated. I feel like a criminal simply for being here. I have rehearsed what I am going to say, gone over it and over it in front of the bedroom mirror. I know my arguments, and have tried to anticipate how the officials might respond. I was feeling ready when I left the house, coaching myself all the way here, but now I think Ive got no chance. Im wasting my time. I want to leave, want to run, but I cant. I need the money. I desperately need the money.

I glance towards the counter. Above the woman on reception there is a poster stating In the UK illegally? Go home or face arrest. Bold text proudly announces there were 86 arrests last week in this area. There are no people on this poster, but if there were, I know what they would look like. They would look like me.

One nation, I think. The Big Society.

I know the poster theyd really like to print. It would say: Are you white enough to live here? If not, fuck off back to Bongo Bongo Land.

A woman emerges from the interview rooms and shuffles towards the exit without looking up. I can tell things didnt go well for her. She is followed shortly by one of the staff: a grey-haired white bloke.