Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

They always asked me about that one in interviews, you know. I had to pretend like it meant something.’ He sits down on the bed. ‘That’s what we’re all doing, isn’t it? All the time. Pretending like it means something.’

‘Interviews?’

‘Oh, yes. I was a hot young writer.’ His smile turns bitter. ‘Years later, I realised no one ever said I was a good writer. Just hot and young. My hair started to turn grey when I was only twenty-four, so I shaved it off. I started moisturising. Exercising. None of it helped. No one wanted my second book. Actually, no one wanted my first book either. My poems were popular on Instagram but not in bookshops. The few copies that sold were given away as gifts to people who never read them …’

As he rambles, I feel an unexpected burst of contempt. By the time I was his age, I was homeless and starving. My parents were dead. My dreams were filled with blood. Cedric doesn’t know what problems are.

I keep my voice even. ‘So you found the site and offered to be one of the Guards.’

‘No. I wanted to be one of the prisoners.’

That throws me. ‘What? Why?’

‘I hated myself,’ Cedric says, his voice tinted with something like pride. ‘I thought I deserved to be punished.’

He wanted thousands of people to see him suffer. Part of me wonders if this was just a poorly thought-out way to promote his book.

‘They wouldn’t take me,’ he continues. ‘The Guards only imprison the worst of the worst. People who can’t be redeemed. But Fred saw my potential. He said my words could hack people’s brains, make them feel something. That’s a valuable skill, he told me.’ Cedric’s eyes finally focus on the laptop. He sees a picture of me on a major news site, right next to the headline: UNIVERSITY STAFFER SOUGHT ON CHARGES OF FALSE IMPRISONMENT.

‘Googling yourself, huh?’ He smiles sadly. ‘I used to do that all the time.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘At least they caught my good side.’

He stares at the article for a while, but I can tell he’s too high to concentrate on it.

‘You look tired,’ I tell him. ‘You want to take a nap while I finish up here?’

‘I really shouldn’t.’ But Cedric is already lying down. ‘I have so much work to do.’

As he closes his eyes, I glance down at the open page of his book.

Mesopotamia

Why shouldn’t my heart be a stone? A stone, forged in volcanic fire

Can bear so much

A stone will never be anything

Other than what it appears

A stone will always be here

For you

Doesn’t even rhyme. Maybe Cedric should be locked up with the other prisoners.

I save a screenshot of the doctored site. It might be useful later. Then I answer a few more support tickets. When I look back at Cedric, he’s asleep.

He’s thin, but not everywhere. There’s some meat on his upper arms, and his calves.

His breaths are shallow. It would be easy to stop them altogether. It would look like an overdose. I could steal the body after the Guards have examined it.

He volunteered to be tortured and killed, says the dark voice in my head. It wouldn’t even be murder. More like assisted suicide.

I close the door, and kneel next to the bed. I reach under Cedric’s robe and squeeze his thigh gently. He doesn’t wake up.

My heart is racing. I didn’t plan this. I haven’t prepared. But it’s too good an opportunity to waste.

I reach for the spare pillow—

And the doorbell rings.

CHAPTER 12

I am a hole, yet I’m not empty. Sometimes you can see right through me, sometimes you can’t. What am I?

I leap to my feet. Cedric stirs, eyelids fluttering, but he doesn’t wake up.

I quickly scan the room for signs that I was about to murder its occupant. There’s nothing, so I duck out and run towards the living room.

By the time I get there, Zara, Kyle and Donnie are in a panicked huddle.

‘Who the fuck is at the door?’ Donnie whispers. ‘Why didn’t our phones go off?’

‘I’ll check the cameras,’ Kyle says, hurrying towards the basement.

‘The cameras are all in the woods. This is someone on our goddamn doorstep.’

I share their unease. It’s a long driveway off a dirt road off a long-since bypassed highway. No one should be here by accident.

‘Where’s Fred?’ I ask.

‘Still out searching for the guy from last night,’ Zara says.

‘Maybe he locked himself out.’

‘He would never ring the bell. None of us would. The bell is a warning system. Someone is here who shouldn’t be.’

‘Where are Samson and Cedric?’ Donnie asks suspiciously.

‘Samson’s still out with Fred,’ Zara says.

‘And Cedric’s asleep,’ I put in.

Donnie and Kyle look incredulous—who could sleep through this noise?—but Zara doesn’t seem surprised.

The doorbell rings again. It’s not the gentle bing-bong that would suit a luxurious house like this; it’s a harsh buzz, like you’d hear inside a prison. This is followed by a sharp knock.

Zara has tiptoed over to the front door to check the peephole. Her eyes widen.

‘Police,’ she mouths at us.

A brief surge of relief. Help has arrived. Then I remember that if the cops arrest the Guards, I’ll go hungry.

Donnie turns and heads for the armoury.

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘How many?’

Zara holds up one finger. Not enough to arrest anybody. Donnie will just kill the cop on our doorstep. I can’t let that happen.

‘Donnie, wait,’ I say. ‘One cop isn’t a raid. We can convince him to go away, but not if you start shooting.’

Kyle comes back up the stairs. His voice is frantic. ‘The car came up the drive about two minutes ago.’

‘Why didn’t we get an alert?’ Zara says.

‘We probably did. Check your