The Need for Fear by Oisin McGann Page A

path, following the shadows of the trees and jogging across the small park. It was a warm day, the bright sunshine tempered slightly by an easy breeze, and he was already starting to sweat.
    Out on the road again, he waved down a cab, jumped in, had it drive around the block to Piccadilly Circus, then paid the cabbie the minimum fare. He wrapped up the shoulder strap of his case and tucked it under the handle so he was holding the bag like a briefcase. He took off his coat, draped it over the arm holding the case, then, putting on an AC/DC baseball cap, he jumped out of the taxi, and hurried down a couple of backstreets, using windows and mirrors to check for his pursuer. It looked like he was in the clear.
    Doubling back on himself, he followed St. James’s Street back out to Piccadilly, made his way to Green Park, turned his coat inside out so it showed the tan-colored lining on the outside, and put it back on. He changed his sunglasses for his normal glasses, taking off his hat again. Mingling, rather incongruously, with a group of Spanish students wandering through the park, he finally flopped, wheezing and out of breath, on a park bench, beneath some trees, that offered an almost three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the space around him.
    There was nobody suspicious in sight. He sat there, starting to feel secure and allowed himself a relieved grin of satisfaction. The long days spent preparing for a moment like this had finally paid off.
    Then the old man came up from behind him, sat down on the bench and turned to look at him with an expression of bored contempt. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
    â€œIf you’re done screwing around,” the stranger grunted, “mind if I have a word?”

Chapter 2: Raising Flags
    The old man’s face was not quite gaunt, but had the hard, cracked look of a dried-out riverbed. His glasses were the type with thick square frames that belonged in the last century— way back in the last century. He was gazing at Chi with an expression that reminded him of one of his former teachers. The one who’d assured him that, despite Chi’s apparent intelligence, he would never amount to anything.
    â€œTurn off your phone and take the battery out,” the man instructed him. He had a neutral accent: English with what sounded like some Northern Irish or possibly American in it. “Do the same with your laptop. I don’t want any recording of this.”
    Chi hesitated but then did as he was told.
    â€œRight, you’re Chi Sandwith,” the man said, once he was sure the devices had been disabled. “A name that suggests your parents had more spiritualism than sense. You’re a college drop-out, a conspiracy theorist, and a blogger, which makes you one of a few million deluded nobodies in the world—”
    â€œI’m a journalist,” Chi interrupted.
    â€œWhatever,” the man snapped back. “Most journalists aren’t worthy of the term nowadays anyway. Call yourself what you like, just shut up and listen.”
    He reached into his pocket. Chi flinched, scared that it might be a weapon. The stranger saw the movement and shook his head in disdain. He took out a folded sheet of paper and opened it out.
    â€œYou wrote this?”
    It was phrased as a question, but the guy already seemed pretty sure of the answer. He was right to be; the sheet showed a page from Chi’s blog, EyesWideSideways. The headline read: “Now Our Alien Masters Are Using Direct Mind Control.” It was a recent piece Chi had written, arguing that the world’s major governments were being controlled by an extraterrestrial intelligence. He still wasn’t entirely sure about the whole alien thing—it seemed a bit of a reach, even considering all the things he’d heard—but there was a big audience for it. The blog had enjoyed a lot of traffic over that piece.
    â€œYeah, that’s mine,” he said cautiously.