The Assassin Game (29 page)

Authors: Kirsty McKay

BOOK: The Assassin Game

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“Did you really trace Skulk to Alex?” I ask Vaughan. He laughs softly then sighs, leaning his head back on the wall of the hut.

“Nope. I've been sleeping in ditches for the last three nights. It's not exactly conducive to coding elaborate online traps. I only had time to hide Crypt from everyone but you and Skulk, so I could catch him online. Honestly? I wasn't totally sure it was Alex before he came out of the refuge and whacked me over the head.”

“Really?” I sit up, shocked. “But you've got his confession on the mini cam,” I say. “That was a genius move. You planned this, to record him like that?”

“Yeah,” Vaughan says. “Good idea, don't you think?”

“The best,” I say, leaning back again, shutting my eyes and breathing in the sea air.

“Thank you.” He clears his throat. “Except the mini-cam shut off before he actually admitted anything.”

“What?” I look at him. “How come?”

He looks sheepish. “I guess I couldn't figure out how the thing works.”

Chapter 27

I pack up my art things and hand in my sketchbook to Mrs. Ellington. She's no eye candy like Flynny, but to be honest I'm very glad about that.

“Want to grab a coffee?” the girl with the blond-and-pink hair asks me. I shake my head.

“Can't today. Tomorrow, OK?”

She nods. “Totally. I'll text you later.”

I pull on my coat and venture out, across the cracked tarmac of the playground, through the green iron gates, and onto the street. It's beginning to snow, but the flakes are feeble and dissolve as soon as they hit the damp London pavement. I check my phone.

4:15 p.m. Don't be late!

I grin as I pull my parka around my neck and hurry past the line of kids standing at the bus stop. I cross the street, threading through the rush-hour cars, and pass the tube station, where someone shoves a free newspaper into my hand. I take it without thinking, but then deposit it on a nearby bench. There will be something about him in there, and I don't want to read any more.

The movie theater is only a few bus stops up the road, but in spite of the weather, I choose to walk. The sense of freedom, the knowledge I could go anywhereâanywhere!âis the most powerful feeling I've known for a while. At first, it was almost too much. Now, all this walking heals, gives me time to think, to process what has happened, and that can only be a good thing.

That night on the causeway, Vaughan and I sat and waited to be rescued. We weren't in any hurry. When they finally picked us up, they took us to the mainland, to the hospital, under police guard, and tended our wounds, took our statements. My parents were there.

Ms. Lasillo was at the hospital too. I always knew she was tough. Mr. Flynn phoned the police and that's why they were so tardy in coming after me, because they had their hands full saving her, taking her to the mainland in the school speedboat. And happily, she made it.

Flynny came to visit me in the hospital one day after visiting her. He was full of apologiesâfor locking me in the garage to stop me from going without him, and for leaving the car running, and for being too busy saving Ms. Lasillo's life to come and save mine. I told him he didn't need to worry. I'd done a pretty good job of saving my own life.

I haven't seen him since. He sent my artwork on to my new school. Mrs. Ellington said there was a nice note.

Umfraville is closed. Ezra lost ninety percent of his pupils when it got out that there'd been a wannabe serial killer among the pupils. I'm interested to know who the other ten percent were.

And Alex? They picked him up, half-dead and floating, a couple miles out to sea. He'd tried to swim for it, but the tides had other ideas and started to carry him over to Ireland. I followed the news about him for a while, but I don't want to know anymore. There will be a trial. Until then, I'll shut him out.

After the recuperating, the police interviews, the dodging of the pressâI had the weirdest Christmas ever, my family pretending everything was normal. And if there was any drama to be discussed, my parents managed to make it all about them. Apparently there's some terrible tax thing with Skola. They're moving to Spain and selling the islandâto the RSPB, I think? The birds will be so noisily pleased. And now I'm living with my dad's cousin, two streets away from our old house in South London, and going to school at the comprehensive I would have gone to if the money had never happened. Some of the kids here are nice, and the rest judge me only by the brands I'm wearing and the bands I like, which I can live with. I even kind of like it.

I haven't heard much from any of my Umfraville friends, and for now, that's fine. I can't stop thinking of them as their usernames, and yesâwe worked them all out in the end. Daniel was Nimrod, who posted about three messages in total. I should have guessed, just from that, but also because of “Nimrod.” We googled it; it's a famous violin piece and slang for someone who's socially awkward.

Daniel sent me a letter just before Christmas. How old-school of him. It was long, apologetic, and from America. His parents also wrote to me and apologized. They told me they are trying to get him into Juilliard, and in the meantime, he's seeing a therapist. Which is good, I suppose.

I saw Marcia in London once. She was going back to Spainânot far from where my parents have landed, actually. I might visit sometime. I emailed her, but I haven't heard anything back yet. She must be feeling weird. We'll see.

Apparently Emily totally recovered from her spider attack; she's enjoying a long recuperation in Barbados, which is nice. And Rick? We shouldn't have been surprised; that boy is made from thick bricks and steel girders. He was in a coma for two weeks, I read in the paperâ¦and then one day, he woke up. He's doing OK now. Not the muscleman he once was, but maybe that's no bad thing. At least he has his whole life ahead of him.

This snow is getting thicker now. The movie theater is a little farther up the road, the bright lights welcoming through the hurrying flakes. Someone's waiting for me in the doorway, holding popcorn.

“Get a move on, I told you!” he shouts at me.

“Vaughan, you didn't have to stand out in the cold, you dork.” I stomp up the steps, smiling at him anyway. “And if you're working here, can't you start the film late?”

He gives me a look. “As ever, you overestimate my modest powers. Here.” He shoves the popcorn at me. “It's getting cold.”

We hurry inside. Vaughan takes me through the little foyer, nodding to the bloke collecting tickets, before leading me down the corridor and in through the heavy auditorium door. “Pick a seat. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

He leaps up the stairs, and I follow slower. A trailer reel is playing; there are only a dozen people scattered throughout the auditorium. Hmm, where to sit? Is it really obvious if I pick the back row?

I settle for the second-from-last row. Behind me, in the projection box, I see his shadow moving. He says he likes it here. Zero futureâprojectionists are a dying breedâbut fun for now. Not computers.

A few minutes later, the main feature begins. It's old, from the sixties? The titles start, and on the screen there's a little girl being presented with a big, pink diamond pendant necklace. What is this film? Then the animation starts, and that music with the tinkling triangle, and of course I immediately know. The title flashes up:

THE PINK PANTHER

I laugh. Inspector Clouseau. Very droll, Vaughan.

He jumps into the empty seat from behind me. “Good choice?”

I don't say anything but hog the popcorn and smile at the screen. Yeah, we're taking it slow. Vaughan doesn't know this yet, but we are.

The film is funnyâold and a bit corny in places and a bit dull in others, with some crazy hairstyles. But it's nice to be here, with him, laughing, eating popcorn, just hanging out. A little while into it, he whispers in my ear.

“Got to go and change the reel. I'll be back in a sec.”

I nod, and he climbs over the back of his seat, heading to the projection room. My mouth is all dry with that yucky coating of popcorn grease. I wish he'd got a drink tooâno, wait, I've got my water bottle in my bag. I put the rest of the popcorn on the arm of the chair and bend down to get my bag, but as I do I knock the stupid carton off the chair, and popcorn is flung everywhere.

“Jeez!” I hiss, picking up the empty box. I hope Vaughan isn't going to be cross; he probably has to clear up all of this crap at the end of the movie. I set the box down and start shoveling popcorn, and as I deposit it back in the box, I spot something already in there. I hold the box up, scraping the popcorn away, but it's too dark to see properly. I empty the box on the floor again, my heart beating. Is that writing? I find my phone, and use the light to read what's on the inside:

WATCHING YOU

My heart jumps into my throat and I spring up from my seat, clinging to my bag, hunting for my keys to grip like knives in my hand, running to the end of the aisle, down the stairs and toward the door, the tears blinding me, half-stumbling, half-falling, toward the outside.

“Cate!” Vaughan is suddenly there, his hand on my shoulder. “What's wrong?”

“Get off me!” I burst through the door into the light.

“What is it?” He follows me as I run down the corridor, my hand feeling in my bag again for my phone, ready to dial. “Stop!” He grabs my shoulder.

“Let go!” I scream.

“You need to calm down,” he says. “What is it? Tell me.”

“The popcorn box,” I stammer. “A message from him.
Watching you.
He's here, Vaughan. We have to call the police!”

Vaughan's face pales. “Oh no, I'm so sorry.”

“What?” I say, looking around. “We need to go!”

“No!” He takes my hand. “I'm sorry, I didn't thinkâlook.” He drags me to a poster on the wall. “This.”

I look up, the words and images dancing before me. Black, a pair of bloodshot eyes, long eyelashes. A streak of red behind them. And the title, of a movie, above them:

WATCHING YOU

“It's a new movie, and the popcorn box is a promotion.” He runs to the concessions counter, leans over, and grabs an empty box. “Look, it's got it written in all of them.”

I take the box. The same words, at the bottom, on the inside. I put a hand out and steady myself on the wall. “I thoughtâ¦”

“I know,” Vaughan says. “It's not him. He's locked up, Cate.”

I look into his calm green eyes. “We never asked Alex if he sent those notes to me, did we? We thought it was Skulk who was writing them, but we never found out for sureâ¦”

“Come on.” Vaughan puts his arm around me. “Let's go back in, see the rest of the movie.”

I nod, and he holds my hand and takes me back through the doors. Some of the people look up at us as we walk up the steps, back to our seats. I count them as we go. Eleven, and Vaughan and I make thirteen. Thirteen players, one Grand Masterâ¦

I sit down in the darkness with him, and the movie rolls on. His hand snakes into mine, and I grip it tightly, my breathing steady now, my heartbeat slowing.

This time, nobody runs away, and nobody gets left behind.

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