Catacombs of Terror! by Stanley Donwood Read Free Book Online Page A

exclusively with heritage sites, and with libraries or books. What’s going on?”
    Questions were coming thick and fast. Answers weren’t in the building.
    “I’m getting more interested in this ScryTech outfit,” I said. “I saw their cameras at the Charlcombe site. I’m pretty sure I avoided them though. ScryTech are in deep with KHS. Now, Colin, I had a little idea that I could check them out. Go see them. As a journalist doing a story. A little piece for your newspaper. A puff job. How CCTV cuts street crime, that kind of shit. Obviously I’ll need a press pass. And I’ll need the interview to be booked from a phone line in your offices. I know that it’s a Saturday. Make something up about overtime.”
    “What?” He suddenly looked unhappy. I didn’t care.
    “Come on, Colin. You can do it.”
    Kafka squirmed. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll arrange an interview and call you to tell you when it will be. I’ll lend—lend—you my press pass so you can copy it. Put . . . er . . . ‘Bob Jones’ on it. I’ll find out what I can about Barry Eliot. But listen. I do not, repeat not—want my job fucked up in any way whatsoever.”
    “When have I ever fucked anything up?” I asked, pulling on my ‘I’m hurt’ face. Kafka just stared back at me. He dug in his pocket and flicked me his press pass. He got up.
    “I’ll call you,” he said, and walked out into the rain. I stared blankly into space for a couple of minutes, and then I left, too.
    I let myself into the office and checked my answerphone. More out of habit than anything else. It beeped and robot-voiced away while I poured a smallish whiskey and sat down. No messages. That was good. I lit a cigarette. The rain splattered against the window with a force that seemed close to anger. No messages, huh? I felt a small relief. So, I had a little time to think. Well. Okay. My plan was to get into the ScryTech CCTV control room. The city had plenty of their cameras around, swivelling and tracking events on the streets below. The idea was that the cameras deterred or prevented crime. The practical reality, I suspected, was entirely different. There had to be a reason why ScryTech and KHS had taken over significant chunks of the Area Council’s operations at roughly the same time. ScryTech’s stated job description was ‘data gathering.’ Surveillance. Watching, recording. KHS’s purpose was digging, excavating, revealing. The library was, I reasoned, a repository of data. Somewhere in this maze there was a centre, an objective. A purpose.
    Something told me that whoever was behind all of this hadn’t got what it was that they wanted. Or maybe they had. Maybe they had what they wanted, had it all along. But I was being thrust into events, for a reason that remained obscure. I had a hunch that, despite what I had said to Colin Kafka, I was about to fuck things up. And it wasn’t my fault. Honestly. Swearing under my breath, I pulled Kafka’s press pass from my inside pocket and set about duplicating it. It wasn’t hard. It didn’t need to be a perfect copy. I was only going to flash it and slide it back in my wallet.
    Kafka’s call came at 10:40 A.M . I was ready. I’d already burnt a book of matches one by one, made lots of holes in a piece of A4 with the hole punch, and stared with blank eyes at the rain for a while.
    “Martin? Have you done the press card?” Kafka sounded busy. Efficient. I grunted affirmatively. “Good. They’ll want ID. I’ve set up an interview for ‘Bob Jones’ at eleven thirty this morning. You’ve got half an hour because crime fighting is, as we all know, a full-time job. Don’t ask wrong questions. Okay?”
    “I’m indebted, Colin,” I spat. “What, exactly, constitutes a ‘wrong’ question? Don’t tell me. I know. One that might get you into trouble. Well, don’t worry. You know me. But yeah, well, thanks. So where do I go to meet with ScryTech? And should I let you know what gives?”
    “Do that,