Free Shadow Box by Peter Cocks

opportunities when they arose, so I booted it back up. It asked for a password, so I typed in “password” and got straight in. Careless.
    I typed in my code, went through the protocols and within three minutes had hacked into Hannah Connolly’s computer. I cleared the history and quit and then heard a door creak behind me. I shut down the lid of the laptop and turned to find Hannah standing in the door of her room.
    “What are you doing in here?” she asked.
    “Oh, er… I was just wondering if there was anywhere I could check my email?”
    “On my laptop?” she said.
    “Sorry, I should’ve asked.”
    Hannah pushed passed me, touched the lid of her laptop.
    “You need to check your mail now?”
    “Sorry,” I said again. “Not really … it’s just habit. My phone’s nearly dead. Doesn’t matter, sorry.” I rubbed my hand over my head. “I think I’m a bit pissed.”
    “Lightweight,” she laughed, leaving the bedroom. “You need something to eat.”
    We ate sausage baguettes with ketchup off our laps in front of the TV. I sat in an armchair opposite Hannah, and while she had half an eye on the telly, I planted a bug down the back of the chair.
    After we’d eaten, we sat, not talking, just letting whatever was on the TV drift by. Hannah rolled a joint and offered it to me. I refused and she smoked it by herself, relaxing back into the sofa.
    “Listen, I’d better go,” I said, after a while. I looked at my watch. Nearly eleven. It had been a long evening. Hannah showed no reaction to my departure; she was impossible to read. “Thanks for feeding me.”
    “No worries,” she said. “I was having sausages anyway.”
    “And I’m sorry about, you know, your room, I was just…” I waggled my hand in a mime of too many drinks. “Empty stomach…”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “Cheers,” I said, knowing that whatever she did would now be relayed straight back to Simon Sharp and Tony’s department. “So … see you at college.” She clearly wasn’t the type for social kisses on the cheek, but it would have been weird to shake hands, so I just stood awkwardly for a second, then gave a lame wave, opened the door and let myself out.

    Donnie hated public transport but he’d given Jimmy Gallagher most of his folding cash and didn’t have enough for a cab to north London. He half considered going and nicking it back from the man, who he was certain was still hanging off the railings in Camberwell. Instead, he got a bus to Elephant and Castle before taking a shitty old Bakerloo line tube to Baker Street, then switching to the shinier Jubilee line heading north. The passengers were no better on this line, he thought: pasty faced late-night commuters and drunks, sweaty in the bright lights of the carriage. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and thought perhaps it was better not to judge.
    He got out at Kilburn and walked a block up the High Road before turning left and ducking into a shadowy doorway opposite the address he’d been given. He smoked a cigarette and waited.
    After about ten minutes, a light went on in the hallway of the flat above the bank. Donnie stubbed out his fag and drew further into the shadows. A minute later the street door opened and a young bloke came out. Donnie didn’t particularly recognize him. He looked pretty ordinary: medium height, medium build, wearing a tweed jacket. He was so ordinary looking that Donnie could have lost him within seconds in the dark, but he kept his eye on him and followed, hugging the walls, keeping back from the kid he took to be Eddie Savage. He followed him onto the tube at Kilburn station. Donnie got into the next carriage, keeping his distance, his face shielded by an
Evening Standard.
He could only get the odd glance at the kid’s face. The reddish hair and the old man’s jacket were all that distinguished him from a bar of soap.
    The kid got off at Bond Street, and Donnie slipped out onto the platform behind him,