Mr Hook's Big Black Box

Dwayne Carlisle: Relocating

There were people everywhere. The police were trying to convince people to move along, and there really was nothing to see. But everyone had heard that something bad had happened, and there were more than enough people who just wanted to be around so they could say they'd been there, all telling each other more and more outlandish guesses about what might have happened. By now, the only visible sign was the cluster of police cars all around the department, and a couple of men in uniform telling people there was nothing to see. There was no way you could tell which of the people passing on the stories actually had any kind of useful information.

Ferrari walked through the crowds as if there was nothing in her way. I wasn't so lucky, finding that every step required me to duck gesticulating arms, or turn to avoid someone walking the other way. In seconds I had lost her. It was even more frustrating that it would usually be, because I knew she didn't have her phone with her. There was no easy way for us to meet up again, and I didn't want to be on my own if there was someone going around shooting at students.

As I wandered through the crowds looking for Ferrari, I came to realise that I'd initially misjudged the student population. There were plenty here gathered around in idle speculation, but at least some of the crowd was made up of students whose normal schedule had been interrupted by the cordon. There were a large number of rooms beyond the police tape, and I guess if you came to the crowd and the barrier on the way to a lecture, there would be no easy way to find out whether the room you were heading to was within the crime scene or on the far side of it. Students with lectures upstairs were wandering back and forth, trying to reach different doors so they could make sure that the seminar or lecture was actually cancelled.

"We're in CH:117," I heard one girl say, reading from a smartphone. Two of her friends looked around in confusion, maybe they didn't know which building that room number was in. It was like the disorganisation of the first week of lectures, all over again. And it was going to get worse, because some of the policemen were heading off in the direction of Brassic, with more of their colleagues presumably already there. Two gunmen on campus in one day, the police must be in a panic.

That was why I was sure this was something to do with us, and I couldn't shake the worry that I was at risk too. Maybe they'd come after Kris and Marco trying to find the key, if they didn't know who had it then they could target me too. Except, of course, that if they'd searched Kris they would already have it. I should be safe there at least, but there was no easy way to know.

It was only then I realised that we'd rolled out of the Brassic window to the ground below and hadn't checked since to see if Kris was okay. I got my phone out and then dialled his number, but hesitated. I might not want to know the answer to that question. But if the worst had happened, putting off the call wouldn't make it any easier. I debated it in my head for a good few minutes before I finally hit the green button.

The phone rang, and rang. Finally a generic female voice cut in, asking if I'd like to leave a message. I hung up and tried again, just hoping that Kris would answer. What would I do if he didn't? I had no real idea. But it didn't come to that. After four tries, it was finally Kris picking up rather than his voicemail.

"Kris!" I gasped, "Are you okay? I was worried sick, we've –"

"Can't talk," he hissed. Of course, I knew he'd only been charging his phone a few minutes when Landry appeared, so he could still be worried about the battery life. I'd make this as quick as I could.

"Did they get the key?" I thought that was probably the most important question, because I couldn't make any plans without knowing if those guys were still roaming campus looking for the rest of us.

"No. They're waiting in the club room. I'm sorry, Dwayne." And then the phone went dead. I didn't know if it was his battery, or the enemy, or if he'd just hung up to make the charge last longer. I was still debating calling him again when a hand on my shoulder almost made me jump out of my skin.

"Aaaah!"

"Calm down." It was only Ferrari. She waited about two seconds for me to get my breath back before she continued: "I've asked one of my friends in the police. We can go back to Monty's house, but we're going to have to keep our nerve if we want to get the Box out. Come on."

She led, I followed. Away from the crowds, to the nearest car park. Where, it turned out, she had managed to get her hands on some car keys. I didn't want to think how she'd managed that, whether it was a silver tongue or light fingers. But either way she was in trouble sooner or later, because our purloined ride was a sturdy white van decorated with high-visibility yellow and blue squares down the sides, and blue lights on the roof. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a bundle of material, tossing it to me as I stared in disbelief.

"Here," she called as she started the engine, "You can get changed in the back, we don't have time to waste." I still couldn't believe it, but with so many marked police vehicles around I thought we were more likely to be arrested here than on the roads. I got in, and did my best to pull on the uniform. I'm pretty sure it's actually a crime to wear a police uniform if you're not a cop, but at least in the cells there would be no chance of people shooting at me.

I didn't want to ask where she'd got the uniform. I didn't want to ask where she'd got the van. I thought it would have taken a lot of nerve to steal from the police, and the more I thought about it the more certain I was that I didn't want to know the details.