The Facebook Killer by M. L. Stewart Page B

transformer raised the
electric supply from 240 volts to 380 volts, quietly burning out
all the transistors. Kalif unplugged the television, inserted the
transformer into the wall, plugged the TV back in and turned it on.
The slight burning smell would dissipate before they got back.
After burning out the final CD player, Kalif slipped out of the
flat and headed back to the Golden Oak.
    The bell had just rung for last orders and
the boys were still there, a little worse for wear. Voices raised
due to alcohol-induced deafness. Kalif ordered a lager and a double
vodka with orange. It was going to be a long night after all. He
sent the text and could do nothing now but wait and listen. One of
the twins’ friends was talking about when he was caught
speeding.
    “You’re serious mate? You were doing sixty in
a thirty and you got off with it?”
    “On my mother’s life. My solicitor argued
that the police camera van was actually blocking the speed limit
sign. So, therefore, it was their fault that I was speeding.”
    “You’ve gotta be joking!”
    “Truth mate. They couldn’t prove otherwise.
Innocent ‘til proven guilty and all that.”
    “Yeah bit like Abdul,” added another
sarcastically.
    “My arse,” replied the speeder, “he was a bad
bastard who just got lucky. Mate! I hated him at school and he
hasn’t gone up any in my estimation for that bullshit.”
    Kalif carefully watched the twins. Hoping
Brian would stand up for his “friend”. Nothing. The twins sat
emotionless, listening.
    “So you reckon he was guilty?”
    “Of fuckin’ course, mate,” replied the
speeder checking his watch, “Oi Brian, it’s almost time and it’s
your round pal.”
    Kalif felt the rage like a knife in his
stomach. Brian was about to stand up and make himself known. He
couldn’t help but stare. One of the twins met his gaze.
    “Got a problem over there have you pal?” he
asked.
    Kalif just shook his head. It was a crying
shame that the boy couldn’t see the irony in what he’d just
asked.
    When a short, fat kid with the makings of an
afro got to his feet, he felt deflated. This was brilliant. Two
identical twins and two Brians. Kalif’s phone vibrated. He checked
the text message. “In place. Let me know when.” He finished his
vodka and orange, stood up and headed outside to the van.
    “Yeah, you’d better piss off before I do
something I might regret,” shouted one of the twins after him.
Kalif felt the knife twisting in his stomach.
     
     
    The camper van was parked in the shadows
under a tree, the interior lights switched off, the tinted windows
making it impossible to see inside. Kalif watched as the “boys”
left the pub. He hoped that they weren’t going on to a nightclub,
that would make it a horrendously long day. As he watched, they
just hung around the door to the pub, swaying a little bit back and
forth and talking amongst themselves. Then one of them pointed
towards the camper. Kalif slid down in the seat. One of the twins
approached. Kalif’s pulse was racing, his cheek starting to throb.
He held his breath as he watched him circle the van, peering
through the windows, his mates urging him on. He knocked on the
window.
    “Hello. Anyone in there?”
    Kalif reached for his knife, which he had
stored under seat so the boss wouldn’t find it. The knock came
again. The twin had his hands cupped around his eyes, trying to
peer inside the van. Kalif put his face to the glass, knife in
hand, cheek throbbing, rage churning.
    “OK, so you won’t mind if I piss behind your
van then?”
    The twin relieved himself against the tree.
He was just finishing up when the taxi headlights illuminated the
car park. The twins bade farewell to their friends and headed off.
Obviously no clubbing tonight. Thank God. Game on!
     
     
    The Voice Stress Analysis console was about
the size of a large laptop. It wasn’t exactly James Bond stuff but
apparently it was getting increasingly popular with the CIA. You
can