Private Games

Tuesday, 31 July 2012

WEARING A SURGICAL hair-cap and mask, a long rubber apron and the sort of high-sleeved rubber gloves that butchers use to disembowel cattle, I carefully load the third letter into an envelope addressed to Karen Pope.

More than sixty hours have passed since we slew the monster Teeter, and the initial frenzy that we caused in the global media has subsided considerably because the London Games have gone on, and gold medals have been won.

On Saturday we dominated virtually every broadcast and every written account of the opening ceremonies. On Sunday, the stories about the threat we posed were shorter and focused on law-enforcement efforts to figure out how the Olympic computer system was hacked, as well as insignificant coverage of the impromptu memorial service that the US athletes held for the corrupt swine Teeter.

Yesterday we were merely context for news features that trumpeted the fact that, apart from Teeter’s murder, the 2012 Summer Olympics were going off flawlessly. This morning we didn’t even make page one, which was dominated by the search of Serena Farrell’s home and office where conclusive evidence had been found linking her to the Cronus murders; and by reports that Scotland Yard and MI5 had launched a nationwide manhunt for the classics professor.

This is troubling news at some level, but not unexpected. Nor is the fact that it will take more than a death or two to destroy the modern Olympic movement. I’ve known that ever since the night when London won the right to host the Games. My sisters and I have had seven years since to work out our intricate plan for vengeance, seven years to penetrate the system and use it to our advantage, seven years to create enough false leads to keep the police distracted and uncertain, unable to anticipate our final purpose until it’s much too late.

Still wearing the apron and gloves, I slip the envelope into a plastic Ziploc bag and hand it to Petra, who stands with Teagan, both sisters clad in disguises that render them fat and unrecognisable to anyone but me or their older sister.

‘Remember the tides,’ I say.

Petra says nothing and looks away from me, as if she is having an internal argument of some sort. The act creates unease in me.

‘We will, Cronus,’ Teagan says, sliding on dark sunglasses below the official Olympic Volunteer cap she wears.

I go to Petra and say, ‘Are you all right, sister?’

Her expression is conflicted, but she nods.

I kiss her on both cheeks, and then turn to Teagan.

‘The factory?’ I ask.

‘This morning,’ she replies. ‘Food and medicine enough for four days.’

I embrace her and whisper in her ear: ‘Watch your sister. She’s impulsive.’

When we part, Teagan’s face is expressionless. My cold warrior.

Removing the apron and gloves, I watch the sisters leave, and my hand travels to that crablike scar on the back of my head. Scratching it, the hatred ignites almost instantly, and I deeply wish that I could be one of those two women tonight. But, in consolation, I remind myself that the ultimate revenge will be mine and mine alone. The disposable mobile in my pocket rings. It’s Marta.

‘I managed to put a bug in Knight’s mobile before he left for work,’ she informs me. ‘I’ll tap the home computer when the children sleep.’

‘Did he give you the evening off?’

‘I didn’t ask for it,’ Marta says.

If the stupid bitch were in front of me right now, I swear I’d wring her pretty little neck. ‘What do you mean, you didn’t ask?’ I demand in a tight voice.

‘Relax,’ she says. ‘I’ll be right where I’m needed when I’m needed. The children will be asleep. They’ll never even know I was gone. And neither will Knight. He told me not to expect him until almost midnight.’

‘How can you be sure the brats will be sleeping?’

‘How else would I do it? I’m going to drug them.’