The Minders Read online

  “You don’t have to put up with this shit,” she hissed.

  “With what?”

  “You know what. You are not the idiot he wants everyone to think you are. I’m sorry if I’m stepping over the mark but I can’t hold my tongue any longer. Every time I see you together at one of these functions, he behaves in the same patronising manner and it really pisses me off. Daniel belittles you in front of everyone at every given opportunity. Over the years I’ve watched you transform from this warm, confident woman into someone who processes everything she thinks before she says it in case her husband doesn’t approve. He is a bully and you are not yourself when he is around. You yearn for something more; I can see it in your face. You just don’t know how to find it. There is more to you than what he allows you to have.”

  Sinéad opened her mouth, ready to defend herself and her husband, to explain how Joanna didn’t know the real Daniel, how he’d remained by her side through the single worst moment of her life. And for that she owed him everything. Yes, sometimes his words were cruel but that was just his way. He didn’t mean it. He wanted the best for her. But for the first time in their relationship, she couldn’t bring herself to defend him.

  “There is a life to be had away from your husband,” Joanna continued. “And you need to find it because mark my words, if you don’t, he will grind you down to nothing. It’s not too late to start again.”

  CHAPTER 4

  EMILIA

  Emilia’s body convulsed as if someone had plunged something sharp and electrified into the crown of her head. Her eye sockets pulsed as she arched her back, threw her head to one side, and tried to emit a scream. But her throat was too hoarse to make a sound.

  She attempted to lift her arms to protect herself from whoever was hurting her, but they were too weak to move and flopped by her side. It felt to her fingertips like she was lying between the sheets of a bed. She unpeeled her eyelids; they were bone dry and the bright lights made everything surrounding her dazzle and blur. Only when she opened and closed them in rapid succession did they moisten.

  When the room started coming into focus, Emilia realised she was alone. Nobody was attacking her despite the excruciating pain she’d felt. Her arms were weak so it took several attempts for her hands to reach the top of her head where she’d felt the initial throb. There was nothing attached to it, no wires or electrical current. Had she imagined the electrocution? Because it had felt so real.

  Overcome by an urgency to pull herself around, Emilia began pushing her body up the bed, centimetre by centimetre, her feeble wrists tingling with pins and needles. When she reached close to a ninety-degree angle, she clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to encourage the blood to circulate and help her regain feeling. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a clear bottle on a bedside table. She drew it to her nose, sniffed it, then sipped the water until her thirst was quenched and her voice progressed from a croak into something audible.

  Her mind raced as she cast her gaze across the unfamiliar surroundings. Where the hell am I? How have I ended up in here? What is this place? Do I even know my own name? “Emilia,” she said in a husky voice.

  A new, all-consuming fear spread through her when she realised this was the only thing she knew for certain about herself.

  Emilia moved to feel the gap under the bed; there was enough space for her to slide beneath it and hide if necessary. She caught herself as she felt the urge to search for something to use as a weapon to defend herself. Why do I feel threatened? She had no answer; it was just her intuition warning her she was in trouble and that was all she could rely on.

  Her accommodation resembled a private hospital room, yet there was none of the equipment she might expect to find in one. There were no seats for visitors. A single monitor sat on a table in the corner of the room, the screen facing in the opposite direction. Translucent patches were stuck to various sections of her arms, legs, and torso under her grey hoodie and jogging bottoms. She felt around for wounds, bandages, or laparoscopic incisions but there were none to be found, indicating she had not been operated upon.

  Have I been in a coma? Her mind raced with possibilities. She remained convinced about just one thing: something about that place was a threat to her safety and she must leave immediately. But when she tried to recall where home was, she drew a blank. Likewise, when she tried recalling what it looked like, who she might share it with, or her career, her family, her friends, and her interests, there was nothing. It frightened her more than the room itself.

  She calculated that it would take twelve footsteps to reach the door. Slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and placed her bare feet onto a tiled floor. The sound of whispers took her by surprise and she turned her head but she was definitely alone in the room. She must have imagined it.

  A heel brushed against an object and she picked up a pair of black trainers. The soles were discoloured, indicating they’d been worn. Why would a coma patient need footwear? She slipped them on—they were her size—and discovered she could walk, albeit shakily. She made her way across the room and to the monitor to see if it might shed any light on her circumstances.

  There was no keyboard attached, so she touched a couple of the screen’s icons to make it operable. It contained live footage of her empty bed. Instinctively, she knew how to operate it, pressing more onscreen controls until a timeline appeared. She rewound it, stopping moments before she awoke. Then she watched herself, lying on her bed, eyes and mouth wide open, motionless and zombielike. The footage chilled her. What happened to me and who’s been watching?

  Emilia rewound a further twelve hours before she saw two men in white porter’s uniforms helping her to her feet. She watched herself shuffle towards the door as if sleepwalking, both men propping her up. Her attention was drawn to her own face: her emotionless expression, her deadened eyes. Then upon her return later, they sat her on the bed, one spoonfeeding her from a plastic bowl while the other flattened her crumpled bedcover. They helped her back under the sheets and left her alone, her expression as blank as when they arrived.

  She jabbed at other icons until the screen split into four sections. Each one contained a different person—two men and two women—sitting in a chair by a desk in a sparse room, seemingly unaware they were being filmed.

  Emilia’s urge to escape intensified and she made her way to a frosted glass door with no handle. She hesitated when she spotted a touchpad attached to the wall. She went to place her hand upon it, then hesitated. Again, fuelled by instinct, she unclipped the front and found an emergency keypad hidden beneath it. She typed in a series of letters and numbers, timing the gaps as she inputted them. She held her breath until a green light flashed and to her relief, the door opened. Emilia clenched her fists and hurried away.

  Her door led to a series of corridors illuminated by movement sensors. She silently padded from one to another, terrified of being heard and confronted. Emilia didn’t question how she knew where she was going, only felt that something was pushing her in a certain direction. She had little choice but to trust her instincts. More whispers and muffled voices seeped out from behind closed doors, but whoever they were coming from remained out of sight.

  She used the same series of letters and numbers to gain access to eight more doors leading into eight corridors until she approached a door that was slightly ajar. Inside a room were dozens of metal lockers, a handful of them open, with some containing clothing. She rummaged around until she found a jacket that fitted her and a pair of dark blue jeans. From there, she returned to the corridor and made her way into another room and a metal staircase which led to the building’s basement. Behind a tenth door lay a dark, cylindrical brick tunnel. Emilia was hesitant; she couldn’t see much further than her own outstretched hand. But she was convinced this was her only way out.

  She pushed her way forward, her heart thrumming and fingertips leading the way along the ex
posed brick walls, until the door behind her slammed shut, startling her. Now she was in pitch black. Footstep by footstep, she inched her way along until her feet began sloshing through cold water. Its odour was stale, but to her relief it emitted no sewerlike stench.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, something came into view ahead of her, the size no larger than a pea. It was natural light. Emilia picked up her pace and hurried through the water; the legs of her jeans were now soaking wet, but she didn’t care. Eventually, she reached a metal gate at the end of the tunnel. She pushed to open it, but it was locked. Fumbling around the surrounding walls, she located a keyboard under a clump of moss and typed one last code before it unlocked and she pushed her way through it. She was free.

  Emilia paused to survey this new environment. It was a public park with mown lawns, woodland, and ponds. Looming skyscrapers and historic buildings surrounded it. She hazarded a guess that she was in London. However, instead of the relief that freedom brought, she was still every bit as scared as when she’d first awoken. She remained a prisoner of all that she didn’t know.

  She began to walk in the direction of a built-up area. And for a moment, the assault on her senses threatened to overtake her. She held her hands over her ears to block out the noise of vehicles and machinery and squinted as she struggled to adjust to daylight, flashing billboards, and neon shop signs. As she approached a busy road, she became aware of yet more voices. They began quietly as whispers, gradually becoming more strident. She couldn’t make out what they were saying but they left her uneasy. Had the hospital she’d found herself in been an asylum? Was she crazy? But if so, how had she been able to escape?

  A sudden thought spooked her—what if they’d followed her from the place she’d just escaped? What if she was being tracked? She turned her head but she was alone. Regardless, Emilia quickened her pace. Weaving in and out of crowded pedestrian streets, every dozen or so footsteps she turned her head to try to locate the whispers while still trying to grasp her bearings. And eventually she saw them: four figures appearing from behind a line of trees, too blurry to identify their features, but all ominous with their presence.

  Their whispering grew louder and began disorientating her, making her head spin and her temples pulsate. She remained unsteady on her feet and threatened to fold like wet cardboard. She mustered up the strength to break into a slight run, but over her shoulder, they too picked up the pace.

  Then without warning, it all became too much for Emilia’s body. Her legs buckled and she felt herself swaying and stumbling along the pavement, unable to find anything or anyone to grab on to and prevent herself from falling into the road.

  The last thing Emilia heard was the sound of a car horn before experiencing a feeling of weightlessness as her body was scooped up into the air and tossed back onto the pavement with a thud.

  CHAPTER 5

  BRUNO, EXETER

  Bruno glanced around the room. He had anticipated wood-panelled walls, a table large enough to fit a dozen people around it, leather chairs, and a musty smell emanating from well-thumbed legal literature. Instead, the prestigious law firm was of modern design and comprised soundproofed glass walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, expansive sofas, and low-level, spectral lighting.

  He fidgeted in his seat, too packed with nervous energy to settle. The more he tried to remain static, the more he wanted to shift. He wished he had worn something light and casual and not his one and only suit. That, along with a thick cotton shirt, made his underarms sweat. He was too embarrassed to remove his jacket and have the damp patches seen by everyone.

  Bruno turned to his solicitor. She was scrolling through pages on an electronic device. “How much longer do you think they’ll be?” he asked.

  “No idea,” Emily Laghari replied without returning eye contact. “They make you wait to put you on edge. Don’t let them get the better of you.”

  “They already have.”

  “And remember, as tempting as it might be to contribute, leave the talking to me. That’s what you pay me for.”

  Bruno nodded and surveyed the room again, catching a glimpse of his reflection in a window. It was a stark reminder of how much he had aged in the last two and a half years. He appeared much older than a man in his midthirties, his once dark brown hair streaked with white lines like road markings. The tan he’d developed backpacking around South America in his early twenties and that had never completely faded was finally doing just that, leaving sun-damage patches around his blue eyes that had long since lost their sparkle. The person who’d warned him that nothing ages a person more thoroughly than grief had been telling the truth.

  Bruno flinched when the doors finally opened. He counted six lawyers of varying ages, sexes, and appearances entering in single file. But each shared the same air of confidence.

  “They’ve brought the cavalry,” Bruno whispered, and went to rise to his feet until Emily placed her hand on his arm, instructing him to remain seated. A bead of sweat trickled from his neck along the centre of his back, only stopping when it reached the waistband of his underwear. The opposition sat two suits per sofa in a semicircular format, surrounding Bruno and Emily as if cornering the enemy in battle.

  “Well, Mr. Yorke,” began the youngest-looking of them. “Our sincere apologies for keeping you waiting.”

  “That’s o—” Emily touched his arm again so he stopped, midsentence.

  “Do you have a final settlement figure, Mr. O’Sullivan?” Emily asked. “This case has been dragging on for much longer than necessary. Mr. Yorke has been remarkably patient.”

  “That’s what we are here to discuss,” O’Sullivan replied, then fell silent. A glint in his eye unnerved Bruno.

  “Well?” Emily continued. “Do I have to ask you again?”

  “We have made our final settlement offer,” he replied. Bruno’s stare moved to O’Sullivan’s mouth. It was itching to smirk.

  “Let’s not play games, shall we?” Emily disputed. “You’ve said nothing.”

  “Which is our offer. Our client will not be offering Mr. Yorke any financial compensation for his loss.”

  Bruno turned to Emily, his muscles tensing. “What does he mean?”

  She ignored him. “Then why have you summoned us here if you’ve yet to make a decision?”

  “You misunderstand, Ms. Laghari. On our client’s instruction, we will not be making you an offer, period.”

  “And your reasoning behind this is . . . ?”

  “There is a morality clause in each contract that forbids sexual relations between co-workers.”

  “This is old news, Mr. O’Sullivan. It’s why Mr. Yorke resigned from his position in the same firm when they began their relationship.”

  “I wasn’t referring to Mr. Yorke.”

  Bruno looked at the lawyer, perplexed, and then to Emily. She appeared to understand the conversation’s subtext. She turned to Bruno, her sober expression juxtaposing the honeyed tone that followed. “Perhaps you might want to step outside for a few minutes,” she said. A sick feeling erupted in the pit of his stomach.

  “No, I want to hear it.” Bruno looked at O’Sullivan, who was by now barely able to contain himself. “Tell me.”

  O’Sullivan beckoned one of his colleagues to continue, a man with a slight build, pale skin, and slicked-back, raven-black hair. “Mr. Graph, would you please continue?”

  “On the day the Hacking Collective took over so many cars on our country’s roads, Zoe Yorke, your client’s spouse, was travelling inside an autonomous car registered to her employer, Howles Technologies. She was accompanied by a colleague, Mr. Mark Bancroft, who wasn’t registered as a Passenger in her vehicle for that journey, but he should have been, as per company policy.”

  “We know this already. Even if this is policy, at a stretch, it would have been punishable with a verbal warning.”

  “The
couple participated in a series of sex acts inside the moving vehicle.”

  “Bullshit,” Bruno blurted out. “Zoe wouldn’t do that.”

  “This is the sole basis of your refusal to pay?” asked Emily. “Speculation and postmortem accusations without evidence?” She began to stand up and buttoned her jacket. “We’ll see you in court.”

  “Perhaps you should remain seated at least until the next part,” Graph continued. “We have video confirmation.”

  Emily shook her head. “You know very well that under privacy laws, video footage taken from inside an autonomous vehicle has no relevance in a legal or civil insurance claim and therefore cannot be used as evidence either for or against anyone involved in a fatal accident.”

  Fatal accident, Bruno repeated to himself. The words came as no surprise but still they skittered across his skin like icy cold drops of rain. When O’Sullivan leaned closer, Bruno was struck by how narrow and dark the man’s eyes were; almost inhumanly so.

  “We didn’t say the footage had been taken from inside the vehicle,” O’Sullivan disputed. “It contains actions perpetrated inside the vehicle moments before the accident.” Finally, O’Sullivan released his conspiratorial smile. “You might want to turn your head, Mr. Yorke.”

  Bruno ignored him as O’Sullivan and Graph’s colleague projected moving images taken from above Zoe’s car.

  “This footage was filmed by a passenger inside a double-decker coach,” Graph continued. “The cameraman was a member of a rugby team travelling to an away match. As you can see, the privacy windows in Mrs. Yorke’s driverless car have been activated, making it impossible for anyone to see inside from road level. But she failed to darken the glass of her panoramic sunroof, making the view from above quite clear.”