Damian’s Story (cont.)
Damian Gross watched Maggie Roberts nod to the raised container as she asked, ‘What is it?’
‘None of your fucking business! If you’re not off these premises in sixty second, I’m pressing criminal charges.’
‘Press away. We’re both criminals. It might be fun. When did it start for you? School? Were you the bully or the bullied?’
‘What? Who the hell are you?’
‘The bully, I think. You see, I’ve known all manner of monsters. Psychopaths, sociopaths, MPs. But I’ve studied you, and you have absolutely zero empathy. It’s remarkable. No soul. No kindness. No inkling of what it is to be human. Actually, aside from your biological make-up, I don’t think you even qualify as human.’
He had been fixed on the woman’s face. Appalled by her words, not due to their inherent meaning, but because they meant this individual held no fear of him. The realisation horrified Damian Gross, and as she finished dismantling his identity, he noticed she was holding a Colt Mustang XSP. The small but powerful sidearm was levelled at his chest.
‘You’ve got me wrong. I’ve . . . I’ve faced hardships. That’s what made me the way I am.’ He suddenly realised why the woman might be here. ‘Oh God, if I’ve caused you hardships in any way – I’m sorry! If you think I’ve wronged you in any way . . .’ He spread his palms. ‘I can put it right. How much do you want? I’ve a million in cash in the safe in my bedroom. I can get you that now. Right now. And you can walk away.’ He heard himself adding, entirely out of habit, ‘I won’t even need a receipt.’
‘You cannot get out of this with your blood money. Your sins are too great, Damian. Too heavy. They will crush you. Entomb you.’
‘We can sort this out.’
‘Confess your sins. It’ll make you feel better.’
‘My sins?’ Gross’s strained laughter made him sound like a terrified child. ‘Look, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Confession isn’t for God, you know. It’s for the sinner. It’s an unburdening.’
‘I can give you whatever you want.’
Without looking down, the woman snatched a duffel bag from the floor and tossed it across to Gross.
‘Fill that with the contents of your eye-catching little container.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Then you can’t be saved.’ She extended her right arm as if making to shoot.
‘OK! I’ll do it! I’ll do it.’
Gross shoved the files, recordings and other paraphernalia into the bag and tugged it tightly shut.
‘You’ve missed one.’
Gross glanced at the single file he’d left in the container. ‘I can’t. That one’s—’
‘Now, Damian. A job half-done is as good as none.’
He gripped the red file and shoved it into the duffel bag.
‘Now your phone.’
He complied, whimpering.
‘That’s a good boy.’
‘You’ve got what you came for!’ He threw the bag onto the sofa; Now leave me alone. Please!’
‘You want to be left alone?’ She gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Oh, Damian. I didn’t come for these things.’ She took a step towards him. ‘I came for you.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s in there can make you a bloody fortune!’
‘I don’t care.’
‘That’s not . . . natural.’
‘Nature. Yes. Let me tell you something about nature. Nature abhors a vacuum.’ She gestured to the raised container using her Colt. ‘Get in.’
‘No!’
‘I’ll give you three seconds to comply. If you fail to do so, I’ll shoot you in the head. I don’t want to. I really don’t want to, largely because I know I’d enjoy it, which feels wrong.’
‘We can discuss this!’
‘But only a little bit wrong.’ She raised her pistol.
‘All right! All right!’
Gross hauled himself into the container.
‘Now lie down! Just like you’re going to beddy-byes. That’s right, Damian . . .’
He complied, and as his body lay supine in the unit, its resemblance to a coffin became uncanny.
‘When Red Fort updated your security pano last week, I had a poke around. Gave myself a few user privileges. I thought you’d approve.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I know you’re a big fan of privilege.’ She paused, then, as though addressing the room itself, added, ‘User D3225. Security rights of Damian Gross are revoked. This order cannot be countermanded.’
‘I am begging you . . . Please!’
‘Retraction authorised.’
Gross screamed, ‘No!’
She pointed the Colt directly at Gross’s head.
He was weeping now. ‘I will do anything you want. Anything! I can give you money!’ The container’s supporting metallic struts began to retract, lowering the unit until it rested fractionally below floor level. ‘How much money do you want? Tell me and I’ll make it happen! You’ll be rich!’
The woman stood to one side of Damian Gross, gazing down on him. The thick Perspex slab began to slide across the container.
‘I’ll give it you all! Do you understand? Money! Money! Mon—’
The slab sealed shut, cutting off Gross’s final word and every sound from his confinement.
The woman put away her gun and stood over Gross. He was trying to batter the Perspex beneath her shoes with his fists, but it was clear the soundproof covering was far too thick and sturdy for his blows to have any effect. As she studied him, he paused and pressed his palms together, as if literally praying for salvation. Sympathy. Anything.
‘You asked me who I am.’
Gross’s eyes widened. With exaggerated slowness, he desperately mouthed, ‘I can’t hear you!’
‘Well, Damian Gross, I’ll tell you.’
She took a step back. The previously displaced section of parquet floor was slowly sliding over the container. Gross, realising he was about to be trapped and completely hidden, redoubled his useless efforts, pounding on the Perspex.
‘I am Nemesis.’
The wooden flooring completely slipped across the unit. The woman’s final sight of Damian Gross was a chilling vision of his understanding.
He was trapped. And after spending so much energy and time to ensure he was entombed in his home, alone and unreachable, his aim had been achieved.
The quiet and neat electromagnetic poltergeists finished their job, sliding the sofa and chair back into their customary positions above the hidden container.
When Dugdale and his men would search for Gross and check this room, they would find nothing. And later, when the police would reluctantly be called in to investigate, they would go through the study, riffle through the bookshelves and desk and drawers but find nothing, although, in truth, their hunt for Damian Gross would not be conducted with their usual levels of care. Care was something that, even in his absence, would not be afforded to Mr Gross by anybody that knew him, no matter how slightly.