Omega Place Read online

  Paul unzipped his sleeping bag and got up, stretching the kinks out of his back. He walked over to the entrance and looked out left and then right. No one. He went down the steps and over to the post, bending down to pick up one of the pieces of orange paper; as he stood up he noticed the sticker, a white one, about ten by thirteen centimetres in size, stuck on lengthways and with two black letters printed on it. The first was a symbol, Ω, which he recognised as the Greek letter omega, and the other a capital P.

  ΩP

  What was that all about? Paul looked at the piece of paper he’d picked up. It was a small folded leaflet. He turned it round so he could read what it said. ‘MANIFESTO 3’ was printed across the top, in the kind of stencil typeface that made you think of armies and soldiers. Paul shrugged to himself and walked back up the steps to the entrance-way, wondering about what he’d seen, about the girl whose face he’d glimpsed. Fit-looking, with that flat sort of EastEnders accent. So different from the way the bloke she was with talked. He sat back down and held the pamphlet to the streetlight so he could read it.

  Wherever you look there are cameras looking back AT YOU! There are 4 million of them. TRUE FACT. More EVERY DAY, spreading out from every town centre, blossoming like weeds on every road, pushing out through the tarmac arterial system across THE WHOLE COUNTRY. Word has it that they’re actually using RPAs – remotely piloted aircraft, tiny pilotless drones – SPYPLANES equipped with all the latest tech, to increase coverage. It’s a rumour, but with this lot in power, believe this: ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING’S POSSIBLE!

  Supposed to make us all feel SAFER, they say. Supposed to CUT CRIME and CUT ROAD ACCIDENTS, they also say. Except we know it’s really all about MONEY. And CONTROL, of course. You voted for them, you gave them the money and the control, and look what they did with it – put cameras EVERYWHERE, which are supposed to solve crime, but actually only move it elsewhere.

  Paul stopped reading and turned to look at the front of the pamphlet again. Whoever had written it – the two he’d just seen trash the camera? – certainly seemed to think that getting out there and doing what they believed in was better than just talking about it. He started to read again.

  Thing is, for too long most PEOPLE DIDN’T LOOK. They had no idea, until it was WAY TOO LATE. Now there’s ONE CAMERA for every 14 people in the UK! And YOU are being WATCHED 24/7, almost wherever you go and whatever you are doing. There are a lot of things people NEVER NOTICE until it’s too late.

  Why aren’t people doing anything? Why aren’t you complaining, protesting, objecting, SHOWING YOUR DISAPPROVAL? If you don’t like something, why just sit there and let it happen? What has happened to the politics of the street?

  Paul reread the last two paragraphs, wondering what was meant by ‘the politics of the street’. Did that mean rioting, or what? He understood the stuff about the cameras and being watched all the time, though. You saw them all over the place in the town, and his dad was always complaining about how many of them there were on the roads, put there, he said, to make money for fat-cat councillors and bugger all to do with road safety. He turned to the last page.

  WE DON’T LIKE IT. And we are the ones who have decided to do something.

  We are OMEGA PLACE.

  We do not want to live as part of a monitored population. We do not want our faces on the world’s biggest database. We want it to STOP, and everything has to START somewhere.

  Because there’s absolutely no telling where it’ll all END.

  3

  Wednesday 26th July, Graingertown, Newcastle Upon Tyne

  ΩP. Omega Place. Neat logo, cool name, but what did it mean? As Paul wandered around, looking for a caff that was open at just after seven in the morning so he could get some breakfast, he thought about the kind of people who would set up an organisation dedicated to stamping out CCTV cameras.

  Was it more of a useful thing to do than trying to stop fox hunting or setting test-lab rats and rabbits free? He didn’t know what his opinion about that was. Were the cameras really such a big problem and were they worth getting nicked for? He didn’t know, hadn’t really ever given actual radical action much thought. He looked around him as he walked, wondering if what the writer had said was true, because there really did seem to be more cameras around now.

  Like the leaflet said, wherever you looked, they were looking back at you.

  Ever since he’d vacated his temporary sleeping quarters he couldn’t help noticing them. All those little wired-up boxes staring at the world through their one solitary, black eye. Some of them even moved, like creepy robots, if you waited and watched long enough. He’d also noticed a couple more smashed cameras and quite a few ΩP stickers as he was walking. Those two had been busy. Or maybe there was a whole team of them. When he got to London he’d look out for stickers down there, see if they were working in more than one city.

  London. Right. Better get on with the plan, once he’d got his mouth round a full English breakfast (not a waste of limited funds, he reasoned, as he’d no idea when he’d eat next). Straight after eating he was going to get himself out to where he could start hitching for a lift south. Paul’s stomach growled at him, a reminder to get on with finding a caff, and he wondered how easy it would be getting a lift. He didn’t look too untidy, considering, and all he could do was hope some lorry driver took a chance on him. And not some serial-killer maniac. That would be just his luck.

  Turning into High Bridge he saw a small café with steamed-up windows and made straight for it, mouth watering at the thought of what he was about to order.

  Having flicked through an abandoned copy of the Sun and read all the sport there was to read, Paul fished out the by now crumpled copy of Manifesto 3 and looked at it again. In his mind’s eye he saw the cameras popping up, like the symptoms of a disease, all over the country, and wondered if it really was a fact that ‘they’ – Big Brother, the government, whoever – were using radio-piloted spyplanes with cameras on board. Sounded like something out of a crap Hollywood straight-to-vid movie, but you couldn’t know for sure. Never say never, like his dad said.

  After paying for his major breakfast, plus toast and two teas, and feeling well set up, he made his way over towards the Central Station. There’d be some public toilets where he could smarten himself up before he started hitching. For a fleeting moment he thought about home, where there’d be a shower, hot water, clean towels… and Mike Bloody Tennant.

  Pushing the thought away he ignored the little red man on the crossing lights and made a dash for the other side of the street, earning himself an angry blast from the BMW that had to brake so it didn’t hit him. Feeling somehow kind of bullet-proof, he crossed another road and went through the taxi rank into the station in search of the bogs.

  It was about half nine when he eventually got to where he reckoned he could start hitching. Coming out of the station he looked around for which way to go for the road south. And there she was. He was sure of it. The girl from last night!

  She was standing with her back to him, head turned so she was in profile. Like last night. Only her hood was down now, thick blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, and in the daytime her features were softer than they’d seemed in the harsh street lighting. Definitely a looker. She was across the road and he’d just caught a glimpse as she’d gone into a shop, but he was sure it was her. Paul scanned the street but she didn’t seem to be with her accomplice from the night before.

  He didn’t know exactly why he crossed the road and walked towards the shop, but he found himself on the other pavement and walking past the window, glancing to his right as he went by. He could see her, at the counter buying something. If it wasn’t the same girl then it had to be her absolute double, right down to the same jeans, hoodie and bag. Carrying on along the pavement Paul stopped a few shops down and pretended to look in the window as he waited to see where the girl went when she came out.

  Right. She turned right and was coming his way! He looked straight ahead and foun
d himself looking at the woman behind the counter of the shop he was standing in front of. She was staring back at him with a half-puzzled, half-annoyed expression on her face, but he daren’t look away just yet, not with the girl coming his way. And then she went past him. He smiled sheepishly at the woman in the shop and glanced to his left, waiting until the girl had walked far enough ahead for it not to appear too obvious that he was following her. Because that was exactly what he was going to do.

  He was making this up as he went along, he knew it, but the irrational part of his brain made it sound like a great idea to find out more about this Omega Place thing. And all he had to do was follow this girl for a bit, then, when the time seemed right, then he’d make contact. Ask a few questions, get some answers and get on with the rest of his life. Go to the motorway, stick out his thumb and put some miles between him and Newcastle.

  The girl turned right at the next corner and Paul slowed as he approached it, turning to follow her and just catching her as she disappeared into another shop. Walking up to it he saw it was a small newsagent’s and she was at the counter at the back, looking at the display of sweets. Maybe, said the rational part of his brain, maybe you should just turn round and go off to start hitching and stop being so bloody stupid.

  On the other hand, he could just check whether this was the same girl. You know, see if he could catch her saying something? Then he’d know. If he didn’t, he’d always wonder whether it was her or not. Like that really mattered.

  He found himself stepping inside the shop. Then he was slowly working his way down the display of magazines, desperately searching for something he could convincingly be found looking at – should the owner be checking him out, as he’d just noticed the small CCTV camera up in the far corner of the shop. But there just seemed to be women’s magazines or top-shelf porno. He felt his armpits prickle as he broke out into a sweat. What the hell was he doing, making himself into a paranoid wreck when he should be away trying to get a lift?

  ‘I’ll have these and a T-Mobile top-up card, thanks.’

  Paul stopped. That voice, the EastEnders accent. It was her. So, what did he do now? Talk to her here in the shop, or wait until she left and catch her up in the street? He quickly bent to pick up a newspaper from the ground-level display as she turned to go, and stood to find himself with a copy of The People’s Friend in his hand. Dropping it like it was hot to the touch, Paul couldn’t believe he was making such an exhibition of himself. If the girl hadn’t noticed him before, she was bound to now.

  ‘Can I help you, young man? Not a library here, you know.’

  Paul glanced at the man behind the counter. ‘Got any chewing gum?’

  ‘Not down there with the papers, mate.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Paul walked down towards the counter, passing within a few centimetres of the girl, but studiously avoiding any eye contact, as she made her way out of the shop. He could hear her mobile start to ring as she stepped out on to the pavement and he grabbed a pack of gum from the display right in front of him, handing over a pound coin and accepting change in return. Stuffing the coins into his jeans pocket without bothering to check them, he opened the pack, folded a stick of gum into his mouth and left.

  The overly sweet taste and slightly sickly aroma of some kind of fruit flavour filled his head. Which was what you got if you didn’t pay attention. Back outside he saw the girl was some way down the street and, as nonchalantly as possible, he turned to go in the same direction. A minute or so later he heard her mobile go again and saw her take the call. Nice to be so popular, he thought. His phone hadn’t rung once since the call from his mam last night, which he’d let go to voicemail rather than get involved in any kind of conversation that might persuade him out of what he fully intended doing. London or bust.

  Up ahead Paul saw the girl stop at a junction to let a car pass before she crossed the road. Behind him he heard the whine of a gearbox being downshifted and a dusty, beat-up white Transit passed him, slowed some more and turned right, obscuring the girl from view. Instead of carrying on, as he expected it to, the van pulled up on the corner, the driver jumping out, running to the back and opening the rear doors, completely blocking his view of the pavement ahead.

  Must be making a urgent delivery, Paul mused, reaching the junction himself and stopping to check before crossing. A random thought jack-in-the-boxed into his head. He’d got a licence. Driving lessons had been one of the things Mike Bloody Tennant had tried to use to get on his good side. He’d refused them at first, not wanting to let the man think he’d won any Brownie points or anything. But in the end he’d agreed to take them because his dad had said he’d be barmy not to – gift horse, and all that. Passed first time, too. Maybe he could get a job down in London, driving a van. Why not?

  He was about to step off the pavement when a car coming down the road towards him swung into the side street, turning without indicating, the driver steering with one hand as he talked on his mobile. Paul looked at the car as it went away down the road, wondering what was the point of a law banning using mobiles in cars if no one gave a shit and just ignored it. He’d never heard of anyone getting done by the cops for it. Stupid, really.

  As he walked round the Transit’s open rear door he looked ahead to see how far away the girl was now and realised she was nowhere in sight. He frowned. Where could she have gone? Into a house? Well, if that was the case then he’d just wasted half an hour or more and he still had to get himself over to the motorway. He was aware of the fact that there was someone to his right – the driver of the Transit, who seemed to be taking ages to get whatever he was delivering out of the van – and then everything went black, like all his fuses had blown at once.

  4

  Wednesday 26th July, somewhere…

  It was dark when Paul finally managed to open his eyes. He was lying on his front, on an old piece of carpet that smelled of oil, like a garage. His head hurt, he ached all over and something was taped across his mouth. And, when he tried to roll on to his back to see where he was, he found his wrists and ankles had been taped together as well.

  Not part of the plan.

  As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he realised he was in the back of a van. No… not a van, in the back of what had to be the crappy old white Transit that had pulled up opposite him as he was just about to cross over the road to follow that girl. The girl he’d seen last night. God, he knew that had been a stupid, crap, geeky, stupid bloody idea. So why had he done it? And why had someone cracked him over the head – what was that all about?

  As he tried to manoeuvre himself into a more upright position, Paul realised that, while it was dark in the van, it was a bright, sunny day outside. He could see thin strips of white where the rear doors didn’t fit properly.

  Just as he’d managed to prop himself up against the side of the van he heard the sound of a door opening. Followed by a second one, with the van rocking, springs squeaking as people got in and slammed both of the front-cab doors shut almost simultaneously. So, there were two of them. At least. Paul breathed shallowly, waiting to see what happened next. Were they, whoever ‘they’ were, going to drive off with him? Or wait until it was night and then dump him?

  Nothing happened next.

  What were they doing? They were just the other side of a thin piece of sheet metal. He was sure he’d hear them if they were talking. Why were they just sitting there, and who was the second person anyway? Had there been two people in the van when it’d come towards him and turned into the side street? He hadn’t paid that much attention to passing traffic as he wasn’t expecting some delivery bloke to sock him on the back of his head and dump him in the back of his shitty van. That didn’t happen, even in the rough parts of town.

  ‘I still think it was bloody stupid…’ A girl’s voice, slightly muffled. The girl’s voice? It was that flat London accent.

  ‘He was following, man! Had to be done.’ A bloke, sounded like the one voice from last night.

&nb
sp; Paul frowned… it didn’t compute… why would those two do this to him?

  ‘Know what, Rob?’ the girl said, a sarcastic edge to her voice. ‘It didn’t. Nothing had to be done by anyone.’

  ‘Don’t agree, man. Do not agree.’

  ‘You’re getting as paranoid as Sky and Orlando, know that?’

  ‘Who was paranoid the other day? You were so sure we had some plainclothes bloke on our tail and it turned out he needed glasses and fancied you!’

  ‘Look, you should’ve just left this one. What was he gonna do? Just some kid, ferchrissake…’

  ‘We don’t know that, Terri.’

  In the back of the van Paul’s jaw would’ve dropped, if his mouth hadn’t been taped up. A kid! Bloody cheek!

  ‘No, but we don’t know he isn’t, do we, Rob?’

  ‘So let’s ask him, shall we? See what the little creep’s got to say for himself?’

  One of the front-cab doors clunked open and someone got out.

  Paul instinctively pushed himself away from the rear door, feeling mildly panicked – like what was this Rob guy going to do to him now? All he could do was wait, with his heart thudding and his breath starting to come in short, sharp bursts through his nose. And then the sliding side door of the van was pulled open. The one he was leaning against and hadn’t realised was there. He fell backwards into blinding sunshine.

  ‘Shit!’

  Paul, aware that he was heading for the ground, felt hands grab him and push him back into the van. As he was unceremoniously dumped forward on to the van’s floor he heard the sliding door being pulled back shut and the load space was plunged into darkness again.

  There was a moment or two’s silence as Paul lay, waiting, on the filthy carpet, aware that there was someone – Rob, presumably – standing over him, swearing under his breath. The other cab door opened and closed; gravel crunched as someone walked to the rear of the van. Paul saw one of the doors open part way and the girl appeared in the gap; pulling herself in, she turned to close the door.