The Democracy Game

Chapter 1

It was the right house.

The driver of the red, late model sedan grinned; the information was accurate. The journalist had tried to keep her address confidential, her number plate blocked, but one of the brotherhood had followed her home after a book launch – her type loved that sort of fluff.

Her car, an older model Ford Mondeo, was parked at the end of a dark driveway but enough streetlight penetrated for him to recognise it and read the number plate. Licking his lips, he imagined dropping her address into future social media posts. That would get her the sort of attention she wouldn’t like.

Silently, using the hybrid car’s battery power, he parked across the street from her house and turned the lights off. Settling in his seat, he surveyed the street ahead before using his rear-view mirrors to check behind. The street was silent as he anticipated it would be after 3am on a weeknight.

After watching for five minutes, just to be sure, he had driven away – the only sound was the squish of tyres on asphalt. Once clear of her street, he flicked on the headlights and drove to a quiet side street near Palmerston North’s recently built pedestrian bridge on Dittmer Drive. Taking care to close his car door quietly, he checked his surroundings as his breath formed swirling clouds in the cold, still night. The suburban street was asleep, there were no witnesses. He nodded to himself – being cautious was not being paranoid.

Dressed in black from head to toe, he set off towards the tar-sealed track that ran alongside the Manawatu River. Instead of taking a direct route back to the journalist’s house, he had planned a circuitous route, running along the river track before cutting through the Esplanade, the city’s large park-like area with gardens and bush walks. Busy and alive during the day, the council closed the Esplanade to traffic at night, and with no street lights for comfort it would be uninhabited.

He moved quickly and stealthily. The track and Esplanade had been leafy and pleasant when he had tested his route. Pitch-black, it was foreboding. He forced from his mind the image of hordes of street people, doggers and rough sleepers watching, waiting to emerge from the bushes like zombies.

Exiting the Esplanade through a pedestrian gate, he blew out a long breath as he emerged onto the dimly lit Manawaroa Street. Passing the unattended all-night service station, he crossed a four-lane avenue and took a dark side street. There had been no cars around – he was alone and unobserved.

As he neared the journalist’s house he slowed, looking around, checking for movement. If he saw anything or anyone concerning, his plan was to continue straight past her house. No one would challenge him at that time of the morning dressed as he was.

Stopping at her front gate, he checked the street a final time before sliding the note into her letterbox.

Smirking, he stared at the darkened house, imagining her reading it. If only he could be there to watch, to see her eyes widen, to see the fear. Yes, we know where you live you bitch. You better pull your fucking head in – or else.

As he went to leave, he noticed a pair of yellow eyes trained on him from under her car. Taking a careful step towards the cat, he held out his hand in encouragement. The cat emerged hesitantly at first, but as it gained confidence it stalked towards him, miaowing as it approached. In the still night, the noise sounded like the screech of an owl.

He waved his arms wildly and the cat darted back under the car. Blood pumped noisily in the back of his neck as he stood listening and watching. No light came on. The early-morning stillness remained undisturbed.

With a final glare at the cat, which the cat returned, he retraced his circuitous route, arriving unseen at his car. Allowing himself a final satisfied fist pump, he drove home.