Random Target

By Marcus Freestone

2025. Steve is a regular guy leading a quiet life but somebody is following him and leaving him strange notes. As events escalate, should he go to the police or deal with it himself? Counter-terrorism agency T14 have their hands even more full than usual. A new director is appointed, cyber terrorists threaten to destroy Western economies, someone is trying to make a very dirty bomb, a powerful foreign criminal takes up residence, and Jennifer has been ordered to give up coffee. Eventually, these two worlds meet in a page-turning sequel to 'The Memory Man'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcus Freestone
• Release date: Nov 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311747075

Marcus Freestone

My main work is the T14 series of thrillers about a futuristic, high tech counter terrorism agency headed by a man with a computer implant in his brain. The first book "The Memory Man" is permanently free in e-book. I also have a series of novellas on the subject of mental health and psychology. My most popular book is "Positive Thinking And The Meaning Of Life" which has had 200,000 downloads. It deals with psychology, philosophy, depression, anxiety, mental health in general and the human condition.I have also released more than 50 albums, ranging from metal and rock to jazz and ambient/electronica. And last but not first I also produce the "Positive Thinking And The Meaning Of Life" podcast and "The Midnight Insomnia Podcast", a comedy show with ambient music and abstract visual images.

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CHAPTER ONE

May 29th 2025

On that first day, the day my tormentors announced themselves, I had no idea that anything was coming for me; no inkling that my life was about to be turned into a nightmare directed by Salvador Dali.

The radio alarm slowly woke me and I yawned and stretched, causing the usual murmur from Chocky at the end of the bed. I listened to the babble of news for a few minutes then switched it off. It was the usual scare-mongering stuff about the continuing cyber attacks. The press were going apoplectic because the governments of Europe were saying almost nothing on the subject. Obviously they were doing their best to sort it out but couldn't say anything for tactical and security reasons. Still, it was the media's job to flap away about these things, though thankfully not the publication I worked for.

Come on, Chocky, I said, patting him on the head as I got out of bed, it's Wednesday, long walk this morning.

Wednesday was my day off but there would be no idleness: I had a routine for every single day of the week. In the kitchen I brewed a pot of tea, put some bacon and tomatoes under the grill on a low flame and emptied a tin of dog food into a bowl for the ever patient Chocky.

After a quick shower I turned over the bacon and then went back for a shave. Looking in the mirror I reflected again that I was seriously beginning to age. At only thirty six my jet black hair contained multiple streaks of light grey, and was slowly taking on the appearance of a fractal badger. One thick grey hair grew persistently from a tiny spot on the side of my nose, threatening to poke me in the eye before long. For the umpteenth time I cut it at the root with a pair of scissors. Apart from going bald, the only other thing that could go wrong now was hair sprouting from my ears.

The corners of my eyes were heavily creased and the eyes themselves looked about fifty. Still, I'd managed to at least hold on to a full head of hair and wasn't noticeably overweight. From at least six feet away I looked reasonably presentable.

Chocky was six, so I suppose we were both on the verge of middle age. He too had a few grey streaks but was mainly the light brown colour common to Alsatians. I picked him from a dogs home five years ago after I was made redundant.

I'd had the same job since leaving school at eighteen with three very mediocre A-levels and a desire to be a writer, though zero idea as to how to actually go about building a career. I was lucky enough to get a job that paid slightly more than minimum wage, doing routine data entry and filing in a large, anonymous office block. The work was simple and un-taxing, often boring, but totally stress free and there was a comfort to the routine. I like routine, I like to know what I'm going to do tomorrow when I go to bed each night.

I kept my head down and ploughed on through twelve years in the job with no ambition to become a supervisor or anything. People doing my particular job were allowed to wear headphones so in many ways it was my ideal situation. Ninety percent of the job required little or no thought so I spent most of the day drinking tea and listening to music, which is what I would have been doing at home anyway. I'd always been a wizard on the keyboard and the tedious six monthly performance reviews always went well. Once a month on payday many of us would stay in the pub until closing time but I sat at a desk on my own and had little social contact within the office.

I tried to write a novel at weekends but after three years I admitted defeat. Whether it was a lack of life experience and anything substantial to write about or just immaturity I don't know, so I began to write poems and stories solely to amuse and occupy myself. At weekends I went walking or cycling, saw a few old friends from school, though over the years this contact inevitably diminished as people got married or moved away or we just lost touch out of mutual apathy. I had several girlfriends but never wanted marriage or children and so seven months was my current record for a relationship.

When I was twenty five I got my first decent computer and broadband and began sending stories and poems to on line publications. I earned some beer money and self esteem here and there but nothing that gave me the confidence to give up the day job and pursue a full time writing career.

Life carried on in this reasonably contented vein until one day a few months after my thirtieth birthday I was unexpectedly called in to see the office manager. She politely told me that the company was being restructured and that I was one of those being made redundant. I ended up with a nice little twelve thousand pounds tax free. I put seven thousand into premium bonds, which is the safest way of squirrelling away money, and set about fulfilling one of my long held ambitions - a six week walking holiday in the highlands of Scotland.

Upon my return I assessed my situation. Thankfully I had no need to sign on, no wife or children to support, no car to maintain and no expensive tastes. I'd lived in the same flat since I was eighteen and the kindly, elderly landlord had only made two modest rent increases during that time. After looking in the local papers I realised that I would be insane to even consider moving, as the cheapest flats were now astronomically more than my current rent.

One thing I decided to do was get a dog. I planned to avoid getting another full time job for as long as possible and the idea of a companion and a reason to take long daily walks suddenly appealed to me. I lived in a top floor flat but a fire escape from the kitchen door lead down to a back yard with a small patch of grass. Nobody in the six flats in the building used the area for anything other than storing their dustbins.

I phoned the landlord to tell him of my change of circumstances and that I would have no problem paying the rent. I tentatively brought up the subject of a dog, explained that I would not be leaving it at home all day and that I would take it for long walks and clean up after it in the yard. Because I had been such an unobtrusive tenant and caused him none of the headaches that several other short-term occupants had over the years, he agreed to me getting a dog providing that no other residents ever complained about it.

And so I found myself in the local dogs home walking past rows of cages. I didn't want a small, yappy thing, I wanted a dog that would enjoy long walks but also be content to lie quietly on my living room floor for a few hours while I read a book or listened to music.

I was immediately put off several of the dogs because they jumped up noisily as I passed. For some reason I stopped and took a second look at an Alsatian that was curled up quietly in the corner. He looked up at me with some interest but made no sound.

That's the sort of thing I'm after, I said to the girl, feeling like I was choosing a sofa.

She opened the cage and we entered. I was impressed that she left the door open and he made no attempt to escape, just stood up and padded over to greet me.

He's one of our most well behaved, she said, unnecessarily. He's called Chocky.

I assumed this was because of his colour but it mainly reminded me of the John Wyndham novel and TV series I'd enjoyed so much as a child.

Hello, Chocky, I said, stroking his head. He sniffed my hand and wagged his tail.

Would you like to take him for a walk?

We went outside and the girl left us to wander around the adjacent field. I walked him around on a lead for about ten minutes and he certainly seemed to have plenty of energy. I stopped and knelt down on the grass beside him.

Would you like to go for a nice long walk every day? I said, rubbing his back. He wagged his tail and nuzzled into my arm but I still hadn't heard him utter a single sound besides breathing. Have you had a barkectomy? I asked.

I walked back over to the main building where the girl was waiting.

Is he mute? I asked.

No, he'll growl at another dog if it threatens him, and he was barking like crazy when we found him because he'd been abandoned in a house with no food for three days.

Bastards, I muttered under my breath. How long has he been here? I asked.

Two weeks, she said. He's a bit big for a family pet and he needs a lot of exercise, a lot of people won't commit to that.

That's just what I want, I said, bending down next to him. Would you like to come and live with me, Chocky?

I was already sold to be honest but he rested his chin on my knee and looked up at me with an expression which I anthropomorphically construed as happy agreement. I stroked his head and smiled at him and he seemed to be saying 'Come on then, let's get on with it'.

I'll take him, I said.

I have never regretted the decision and none of the other tenants have had any cause to complain about him. A few weeks after I took him home, I ran into the landlord as I was going out of the front door.

Ah, so this is him, he said, he seems very well behaved.

He is, I said, I've not heard him bark once yet. It's like he's been to a finishing school.

Now, five years later, as I sat on my sofa rolling the first cigarette of the day and listening to an audio book, I stroked his head with my foot (who says men can't multi-task?). After lighting the cigarette, I minimised the media player on my laptop and went on line to check the local weather forecast. It was to be a pleasant spring day with some light rain after four in the afternoon. I quickly banged out a reply to three emails and settled down to enjoy the remainder of the book and the pot of tea.

Five years ago, after my holiday, adjusting to life with Chocky and making certain economies and efficiencies in my life, my thoughts turned towards the future. Now that I had some time to myself I may as well at least have a go at starting some sort of writing career. I still doubted that I had what it took to write a novel or film script or anything but I was confident that my poems and stories were fairly entertaining and that I could construct a cogent paragraph.

I spent a few hours each day on line and at the local library searching for outlets and any money earning opportunities, no matter how small. Amongst other things, I sent an article on the local music scene to an arts and entertainments magazine that was published in town. The editor emailed back saying that she'd enjoyed the article and my writing style and would I be interested in doing some freelance gig reviews. The money was almost non-existent but I would get to see bands for free so I immediately said yes. After a year I was the main music reviewer and had interviewed a few of my favourite bands - mostly over the phone but still enormous fun for someone for whom music had been their main obsession since the age of seven.

Just as I was deciding whether or not I should start looking for a part time job, they offered me two days a week in the office, ten 'til four, compiling the listings and sub-editing the work of other contributors. I jumped at the chance and that's still what I do Tuesday and Thursday every week. Monday and Friday I work for six hours on my own stories and poems and submitting them to magazines and websites. Wednesday is my day off.

With my magazine wage (including overtime when we're near publication day) and dribs and drabs from freelance writing I earn just enough to cover my rent, bills and food. The redundancy bought me a fantastic stereo system and enough clothes and shoes to last me several more years yet. Now and then a small win adds to my premium bond pile.

All in all life was pretty good and things were simple until this day, the day when the campaign began: the day when my life began to get seriously weird.

As I think back to that morning and imagine myself relaxing on the sofa with a cigarette and listening to a novel while Chocky conducted his post-breakfast doze at my feet, it's hard to relate to that person and the world view he held.

As I've mentioned I'm a creature of habit, and Chocky and I eat the same meal on the same day every week. He has dog food in the morning but I believe in giving animals real food as well so in the evening he has some of what I'm having: sausages, chicken, fish fingers, chops, he even likes pasta! And in his own doggy way I think he appreciates me giving him something that doesn't come out of a tin, even likes the fact that we're eating partly the same meal. When I'm at home he is enough company for me and I like to think he feels the same way, although he does also enjoy the trips to work. Twice a week we walk the four miles to the magazine offices, a two up two down affair on a balcony above a row of shops. He sits happily on an old cushion in the corner of the room across from my desk, raising his head only when I speak to him or someone offers him a biscuit. I'm sure I could leave him at home for the day but as I walk to work anyway I may as well kill two birds with one stone and then have my evening free.

Anyway, as part of my multifarious habits I always get up at the same time on Wednesdays and leave for our walk at roughly the same time. After about forty minutes this brings us to a large playing field. At the other side is a smaller area cordoned off by a row of trees. It doesn't lead anywhere so people hardly ever go there but there is a small wooden bench and my Wednesday habit takes Chocky and I to the bench.

On this particular Wednesday, when the world went peculiar, we reached the secluded bench at quarter to eleven. As usual I took off Chocky's lead, removed the tennis ball from my pocket and threw it about fifty yards. He raced after it and dutifully brought it back. I threw it a few feet in the air and inelegantly kicked it about half that distance. By the time he returned, I had sat down on the bench and taken out my tobacco tin. I've no idea what the act of rolling a cigarette looks like to a dog but whenever I do it Chocky always seems to understand that I am currently occupied and that he is to entertain himself. As he often does on these twice weekly walks (always Saturday morning as well, before going to the supermarket), on the second return he dropped the ball at my feet and, without any prompting from me, ran off by himself to search the bushes for hedgehogs.

I like to hear the birds tweeting and the trees swaying when I'm out for a walk but when I sit on this bench I always take out my phone, put in my earphones and listen to a couple of favourite songs while I smoke and Chocky ferrets (he's yet to ever find a ferret, though he did once bring me an empty, sodden pringles tube and lay it lovingly at my feet as if he thought it was just what I'd always wanted).

As I finished my cigarette and the current song came to an end I put away my phone and called Chocky. He ran obediently over and sat down while I put his lead back on.

Walking back through the small gap in the trees I noticed something out of place. Pinned to a tree with what on closer inspection turned out to be four drawing pins was a sheet of A4 paper. It had clearly come from a laser printer and contained the words 'Did you enjoy your cigarette, Steve?' in what looked like Arial bold 48 point.

I stood transfixed and dumbfounded for about thirty seconds. From where I stood I could see the entirety of the large field and it was deserted. The paper had definitely not been there ten minutes ago.

Chocky was as well behaved as ever and didn't tug on his lead or protest in anyway, but he was clearly puzzled as to why we had stopped. After the bench we always went to the high street and, finally, the pet shop for Chocky's choccie biscuit treats. Standing insensible in a field wasn't part of the routine.

I looked behind me but could see nobody there either.

This obviously had to have been pre-planned. As far as I knew they hadn't yet invented pocket-sized, battery powered laser printers. And, barring a staggering number of coincidences, how could whoever had left this note here at this time have known that there would be someone here during these ten minutes smoking? And how the hell did they know my name?

I pondered the possible meaning of the note but drew a blank on that too. I couldn't stand here all day and staring at the tree wasn't going to enlighten me any time soon. For some reason I took out my phone and took a photo of the note in-situ before carefully removing it from the tree, folding it up and placing it in my wallet.

I walked along the row of trees, peering in search of a hidden prankster but there was nobody there so I headed off back across the field. I decided to take a longer than usual route to the shops to give myself time to think.

Clearly, the logistics of this... whatever it was, for now I decided to call it 'the incident', were simple enough. For ten minutes I was on the other side of the trees wearing headphones, anyone could have walked at a normal pace across the field, pinned the note there, and walked away without me seeing or hearing them. Nothing freaky was called upon to explain how the note came to be there, it was the contents of the note and the very fact of its existence that were freaky beyond belief.

I've never believed in anything supernatural, nor in conspiracy theories about sinister agencies kidnapping people and brainwashing them or anything like that. I'd always been a hard-line materialist and rationalist: everything is made of physical atoms and everything can be explained, one way or another, by physical laws. Therefore, clearly a person or persons unknown had pinned this note to the tree having somehow found out my name and my habits. If somebody followed me for a few weeks it would soon become obvious that I was almost certain to be here at about this time, there was nothing remarkable about that deduction. But following me for some time could be the only possible way anybody could obtain this information, unless I had directly told them. I was sure I'd not mentioned to anyone that I always came to this field on a Wednesday. Besides, even if I had happened to mention it to someone on the magazine or a friend, why the hell would they have done this? As a practical joke by somebody who knew me it made absolutely no sense. For me to get the joke I would have to understand the note. There would need to be a moment of realisation, and one of revelation on the part of the joker.

I immediately dismissed from my mind the idea that this was somebody I knew. I was one hundred percent certain that I had never mentioned the exact time I took this walk to anybody, why the hell would I? So whoever left this note had to have been following me, at least today. Maybe they weren't referring to the cigarette I'd just smoked. Perhaps this note was from somebody I'd somehow annoyed who had seen me smoking and it was a reference to that event? Some argument outside a pub? I searched my brain but came up with nothing.

Then, as we left the field and began walking up the road, another thought leapt at me. Surely whoever had left this would want to enjoy my confusion? Had they somehow been watching me when I found the note, perhaps from a distance with binoculars? Were they following me now? If they were, I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of reacting or appearing bothered. I resolved to leave any further cogitation until I got home. I didn't feel a single moment of fear, just bewilderment. I'd never had anything unpleasant happen to me and I'd never expected it to.

Once, a couple of years ago, when I couldn't sleep and had gone for a long walk in the middle of the night and ended up on a dodgy estate, someone had made a pathetic attempt to mug me. He was almost a foot shorter than me, probably only about sixteen, and wearing flimsy trainers. I was wearing my trusty boots with the steel toe caps and was confident I could kick his kneecaps off without exerting myself. In the event, I didn't have to exert myself at all. For the one and only time, Chocky strained at his lead and reflexively I let go. It being one of those extending ones, the plastic handle hit him in the back but by then he was travelling at such a speed I doubt he even felt it. The kid was already turning to run away as Chocky jumped up and, probably weighing as much as the skinny little runt, easily knocked him to the ground. Even then he didn't bark, but I have to admit his low growling even terrified me.

After a few seconds and having recovered from the shock, I worried that Chocky might cause him a serious injury and have to be put down.

Chocky, I said in what I hoped was a serious yet not scolding tone. I went over, patted his back and picked up his lead. Come on, I said, let the misguided idiot go.

I tugged on the lead and he took the hint. With a final growl and, I swear, staring the kid in the eyes for a few seconds, he backed off, allowing the boy to make an embarrassing retreat. Lest he return with a dozen inbred companions, possibly with knives of some kind, both I and Chocky turned tail and got the hell out of there.

So, two years later, I felt no fear that someone may be following me in broad daylight. It seemed massively unlikely, but then the note in my wallet was proof that something bloody strange was happening. When I reached the high street, remembering how well Chocky had defended me that night and how lucky I was to have him, I went into the butchers and bought the biggest bone they had.

No fish fingers for you tonight, I said as I untied his lead from the lamppost outside. He could obviously smell what was in the plastic bag as I put it in my rucksack but he knew we didn't eat in the street and made no attempt to extract the contents. I made an extra little fuss of him and we headed home where he would spend a contented afternoon gnawing on the bone and I would try to work out the who and the why-the-hell of this seemingly inexplicable note.

CHAPTER TWO

I spent an hour filling four sheets of A4 paper with ideas, some plausible, some outrageously ridiculous but I was following the old Sherlock Holmes adage.

I then lit another cigarette and opened the half bottle of scotch I'd bought on the way home. It seemed that I needed to approach this problem from an oblique angle, and I couldn't think of a better way to get into an oblique frame of mind than to knock back a couple of large scotches mid-afternoon.

For half an hour I drank and smoked absent-mindedly, trying not to tackle the problem head on. I wanted my subconscious mind to take over and do the filing and puzzle solving for me. When I felt that things had become a bit clearer and more organised in my head, I put down my glass and returned my attention to what I'd written down.

After a lot of speculation, I'd started another sheet and divided it into three columns: known facts, probabilities, unknowns. In the first column I wrote 'The note was left during the ten minutes I sat on the bench by somebody who either followed me that morning and was referring to a previous cigarette, or knew in advance that I would be there, and knew my name'. In the second column I wrote 'Nobody I know is involved. This is not part of a shadowy conspiracy or government surveillance'. In the third column I wrote 'Who has done this and to what end? Is it a one off or the start of something? How long have they been planning it? Is it more than one person? Am I going to be followed in the future? Am I in any kind of danger?' The last column went onto the other side of the paper.

Keeping my feet firmly on the ground, I looked at another bit I'd written: 'I am not being watched by a team of people with high-tech surveillance equipment because I have done nothing to warrant any such attention.' I also looked over another bit where I noted that there was nothing remarkable about a stranger knowing my name. All they had to do was go to the library and look at the electoral register. Plus I did have a few writing profiles on line with my real name and a photo.

No matter how much I thought about it, it all came back to the who and why.

I picked up the pen and wrote something else in column two which pretty soon I would have to cross out and move into column one: 'This note will not be a one off'.

I knew that taking it to the police would be futile as no crime had been committed. Nonetheless, I decided that from now on I would carry with me in my ever present rucksack a pair of gloves and a polythene bag in which to deposit any further notes.

I also made a rather bigger decision. I would not worry about this unless something more serious happened, and I would not in any way change my routine. Which meant that in three days time I would be returning to the same spot at roughly the same time.

I reasoned that there was simply no logical reason for anyone to wish me harm and that this was merely a practical joke, the nature or perpetrator of which I was as yet unaware.

I put some music on and drank the rest of the scotch, decided that I was too drunk to cook and went out for a takeaway. As it was only a few minutes away I didn't bother taking Chocky with me.

When I got back and was heading up the final flight of stairs to my front door, I heard him barking.

I opened the door as quickly as I could with one hand holding the takeaway and the other suddenly not quite as dexterous as usual and rushed in. Chocky was in the kitchen, turned towards me and barked once, then fell silent and returned his attention to the back door.

My first thought was that somebody had come up the fire escape and tried to break in.

Then I saw the note.

It was halfway under the door and crumpled because there was only the tiniest of gaps. I unlocked and opened the door. It was still daylight so I could easily see the whole yard and much of the alleyway beyond. No suspicious figures lurked and no black van sped guiltily away. I ran down the fire escape and checked the gate - it was still bolted from the inside. I could hear nobody running away down the alley.

After retrieving a polythene kitchen bag and a pair of gloves, I picked up the note and shut the door.

With trepidation I flattened out the