Matt Whyman - The Savages

The first of the staff to be given immediate notice left about an hour later. Vernon watched them exit, some clutching boxes with their personal effects, others looking shell-shocked and tearful. How could anyone do such a thing, simply to make money? He could just imagine Titus picking off members of the workforce without a trace of emotion. Once he’d got the numbers down to the bone, he’d have them sell off the company bit by little bit. Eventually, there would be nothing but a skeleton plus a fattened bank account, and that’s when he’d move on – setting his sights on another corporate kill.

Towards lunchtime, Vernon was surprised to see Angelica making her way towards the building. She was wearing a pair of large sunglasses, despite the fact that the sky was overcast. A straw tote bag swung from the crook of her arm. Vernon squinted to see what was peeking from the top. A baguette and a bottle of champagne, he realised, before pulling the peak of his cap low in case she happened to glance in his direction.

‘So, your husband ruins lives one morning, and you show up with a celebratory picnic ?’

Vernon shook his head, struggling with the insensitivity of what he was seeing here. Titus and Angelica were one of a kind. Even in the privacy of their home, food came first. It’s all he’d heard the pair talk about, but there just had to be more to them than that. Vernon watched Angelica make her way up the steps outside the building, and suddenly realised that he was following the wrong people.

If Vernon English was going to uncover the truth about Lulabelle, then he’d need to find a different way into the family. The private investigator twisted the key in the ignition, and again when the engine failed to start. Titus and Angelica were clearly too wise and experienced at covering themselves, but he felt sure the same couldn’t be said for their kids.

Ivan Savage enjoyed a game of chess. What he loathed was losing. That wasn’t why he joined the school club. He was there to prove his sense of strategy and logic was close to perfection. On those occasions when his opponents began to tighten in on his queen, he would turn to rules of his own in a bid to avoid checkmate.

‘Prepare for a butt kicking,’ crowed Ali Kaar, leaning on his elbows as he studied the board. ‘Whenever you want to make your move, I’m ready!’

Ivan watched him closely. He didn’t once glance down to consider his position. He barely moved, in fact, but for a tensing in his jaw muscles as he ground his molars together.

‘I need to think about this,’ he said eventually.

‘Take your time.’ Ali pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. ‘I need a leak anyhow.’

They had been playing for several hours. Ivan had opted for an aggressive strategy, but that left him with only one back-up plan when Ali pulled several surprise moves. This took the form of a jug of water and two cups. Ivan always made sure that they were in easy reach before he sat down to play. Then it was his turn to go for something unexpected. This involved refilling his opponent’s cup on a regular basis, knowing that he would have to answer the call of nature eventually. As soon as Ali left the table for the toilet, Ivan popped open his schoolbag and carefully fished out a small wooden box. It contained a complete set of both black and white pieces, identical to those used by the school chess club, as well as a thin metal mesh glove. First making sure that everybody else was engrossed in their own games, Ivan slipped the glove on and then set about replacing his opponent’s pieces. He’d done this many times over, which meant he had easily completed the manoeuvre before Ali returned. Finally, when the boy dropped back into his seat, Ivan moved one of his pieces.

‘Your turn,’ he said, and grasped the corners of the table as if to brace himself for something.

Ali studied the pieces for a moment.

‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘You’ve left yourself wide open.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Ivan, who smiled to himself when Ali reached for the pawn he expected him to play. As soon as he grasped it, the boy’s face contorted in shock and pain.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ivan, as his opponent set the piece back down smartly and shook his hand. A smattering of blood spots hit Ivan’s shirt, but he didn’t mind one bit. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Splinter, I think!’ Ali examined his finger, where a bead of blood was growing. ‘Man, that’s really painful.’

‘Unlucky,’ said Ivan, who gestured at the table. ‘Feel free to try again.

For the next few minutes, poor Ali Kaar suffered one assault to his fingers after another as he attempted to make each move. Even when he switched strategies, every time he touched a chess piece it left him gasping. Eventually, with tears streaking his cheeks and his hand shrouded in a bloodstained handkerchief, Ali conceded defeat in order to seek medical help from the school nurse.

‘You win,’ he sniffed, clutching his hand to his chest. ‘I never want to play you again!’

‘They all say that,’ said Ivan under his breath, and quietly reached for the glove so that he could return the pieces to the box.

It was a satisfying victory. Ivan would’ve preferred to win without suffering and bloodshed, but sometimes it was necessary to avoid the incomparable pain of defeat. In some ways, he liked to think that substituting the chess pieces for a set with a sprinkling of iron filings glued to them was just another strategy of the game. At the very least, he had thought ahead and used his brain to win.

Ivan left school that afternoon with his bag slung over one shoulder and his hands in his trouser pockets. He headed for home on foot. The school bus only ran after school had finished, but he didn’t mind missing it. The afternoon sesssion had made it all worthwhile. It also meant less time fighting with his sister or getting a hard time from his mum about making a mess around the house.

Ivan followed the usual route, heading from school towards the park. It took him across the high street, where he went on to follow the long, curving road towards the pedestrian crossing. It was here, about a minute into the walk, that he became aware of the vehicle. It was a battered white van, not an unusual sight, but it had been parked outside the school when he left the gates. A few minutes later, he had spotted it in a disabled parking bay in front of the charity shop. This time, the van was sitting at a junction on the other side of the street. Ivan walked on, keeping his head down but listening keenly.

Sure enough, a short time after he had passed the junction he heard it pull off. The boy glanced over his shoulder. The van was just behind him, moving at a walking pace which increased when the boy picked up his stride. Ivan had heard about moments like this. There were some sick people out there. Back in primary school, a policeman had even come into assembly to talk about stranger danger. It never seemed like such a big deal now that he was older, but suddenly this felt very real and Ivan felt entirely alone. He glanced over his shoulder one more time. Sure enough, there it was. With the sun overhead, reflecting on the van’s windscreen, it was impossible to see who was behind the wheel. That’s when Ivan’s imagination went into overdrive, and a sense of fear caused his skin to prickle.

‘Be cool,’ he whispered to himself, and reached for his phone. Quickly he found his father’s number. It went straight to answer machine, which wasn’t unusual, but just then he wished his dad didn’t have so many meetings during the day. Ringing off without leaving a message, Ivan turned to check he hadn’t been mistaken, and then steered closer to the shop fronts as if that might offer him some kind of protection.