To say it was loneliness that started all this would be an oversimplification. Some people just have a proclivity for violence and the man in question most certainly did. But as eager as violence is to explode it still needs an ignition— in this case, loneliness. A loneliness that burned brighter as it became despair until it finally exploded into pure rage. 480Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwW4ohLcEsK
“So, can I get your Gridtag?” Smith asked the man sitting across from her, as a waiter dropped two coffees in front of them.
The man looked down at the black coffee steaming under his nose with a grimace, a blond dreadlock falling over his pale face. “Think they gave you my drink.” He said in a shaky voice. “I ordered an oat milk latte.”
“Yeah, about fifty percent of the time I get given the guy’s drink. I guess it’s just not so lady like to drink black coffee.” Smith slid what smelled like coffee flavoured porridge across the table with her right hand while simultaneously pulling her black coffee over towards herself. “There ya go.” She said with a northern twang.
The man bent down low to his coffee and blew lightly on it, then sat back up straight before lifting it up to his lips to take a small sip. What a creep, thought Smith.
“So, yeah. Can I get your tag?” She asked again.
Setting the drink back down, he lent over the table and got his face in close to Smith’s. “Look I don’t know how to say this without sounding mad, but I don’t actually have a Gridtag.” He said, in a low voice.
Smith already knew this. In fact, the sickly man in front of her had been the target of her and Budinski’s latest case. He’d been flagged up after using a hardcard to buy a large amount of plant fertiliser at a homeware store. He must really piss off the shop assistants when he asks to pay by card she thought, most places don’t even have the machines to read them anymore. The card was registered to a small flat in inner-city Manchester whose resident’s Grid presence had ceased to exist after his twentieth birthday. No phone, no media, all accounts had been closed and access to his bank accounts had been restricted to hardcard use only. This in and of itself was not a crime, but in combination with a large payment for fertiliser to a small inner-city flat with no garden the police force worried this individual may be attempting to make an explosive of some description.
So, at that moment, as Smith sussed out this anonymous citizen - Louis Cheeseman was his name in fact, not so annoymous after Smith had discreetly followed him from his house to the cafe they now sat in and struck up a conversation - Budinski was ransacking Cheeseman’s house for any signs of explosive intent.
“Oh,” Smith uttered, feigning wonder at Louis’ lack of Gridtag. “Wow, so do you live completely offline?”
He lent back in his chair and gave an awkward smile. “Yeah almost totally. I gave it all up about six months ago. Enough was enough.”
“Wow enough was enough,” repeated Smith, cocking her head to one side and leaning it against her fist. She smiled at him wide, flashing a set of prominent white canines against her dark skin. “That’s so amazing you can manage to live like that. Living offline…huh. I can’t even imagine how I’d begin.”
“Well this is nothing. I plan to be as self sufficient as possible by the end of the year. Figure I’ve got to get myself my own place somewhere in the middle of nowhere.” Louis said, emboldened by Smith’s faux interest.
“Why in the middle of nowhere?” Smith asked, thinking this might actually lead to something interesting.
“For the space.” He answered. “I need to be able to grow my own food. I can’t rely on the supermarkets forever, and I doubt hardcards are going to be around for much longer. I’ve already started. I’ve turned my living room into an indoor greenhouse.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I’ve like, sold all of my furniture and built a raised bed in my living room to grow as many vegetables as I can. Of course, it’s nowhere near enough to sustain me for the whole year, but I’m starting to pickle…”
“Raised beds?” Interrupted Smith.
“Yeah they’re like large boxes of soil…”
"Pickle."
"Er, yeah." Louis muttered, once more drained of confidence.
“You mean to tell me you bought seven bags of fertiliser to grow veg in your living room?”
“Well yeah. Why wait?” Louis replied, his voice becoming even quieter. He paused for a moment in thought, "How did you know I bought seven bags of fertiliser?” he asked finally.
Smith inhaled loudly through her nose and then sighed heavily. “What a waste of time,” she muttered to herself. And with that she got up and started to walk towards the door.
“Wait aren’t you going to pay for your coffee?” Louis shouted after her. “They don’t always take hardcard!”
***
Somewhere in the Scottish highlands a cool, black granite roof came into view as a man in a black coat rounded the top of a rocky mountain outcrop. The Sun was beginning to set, the bright orange orb lowering down into the black slab appearing as if it was melting through it. The man swept passed a large spruce that stretched over the road, vibrant and green – an earthy contrast to his burnt orange hair – as grit and ice crunched beneath beaten hide boots. Two large glass windows were now visible, fronting the building. They were separated by four tall, thin copper sheets that ran from the roof above like dusty red rivulets of magma.480Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJnhxeFqyGO
The man came to a stop and set his legs wide apart. He began to whistle. A warbling melody - a memory from an old western film tirelessly watched as a child. He continued his walk slowly towards the building, keeping his hips in a wide arc as if he was sat upon a horse. Finishing his tune, he started over, only this time an octave higher. After he got to an impressively high picth he became silent and halted once more, his lips still pursed. With a sudden jerk he brushed his coat back fast and drew his empty hand up, fashioning it into the shape of a gun, thumb bent and cocked back ready to shoot. Turning his body to the side he took aim at the building in front of him. His thumb came down and as it did his two outstretched fingers pulled up to the sky, recoiling from the force of the imaginary gunshot.480Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVSK8uMqv3Q
“Bang,” the man muttered, and blew on his fingers.
A second later, one of the windows shattered to the floor.
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