Chapter 2 - Nina
NINA
A week earlier
“What’s wrong with the normal messaging app?” I grumble to my brother as I poke my phone.
“It’s not as secure. TelUBox is far safer. And faster, and the interface is better.” He’s at the kitchen table of the little apartment we rent.
“But why?” I insist. Even though I know the real answer. I’m installing the app because my brother says he won’t communicate with me otherwise. “It’s not like we’re saying anything important or in need of being protected.”
The app has the icon of one of those American boxes for post that I’ve seen in movies, complete with a little red flag thing that goes up and down. I find it pretty ironic that it’s supposed to be super safe, since how is a box at the end of your drive a protected place for your letters?
“Security is always good,” he says with the sort of superiority only elder brothers can manage.
“This is ridiculous. Is your new job in the secret service or something?” He’s been very tight-lipped about this role, except that it’s more money.
“It’s impressed on me the importance of security.”
“Are you in the mob?” It’s a joke. Mostly. I’ve asked him this at least forty-three times now.
He rolls his eyes. “You have a vivid imagination. It’s just logistics and project management.”
“That’s not a no, is it?” I tease. “I reckon you’re working for the Westminster mafia.”
“Piht!” He pretends to spit in disgust. “As if I’d work for that bunch of brutal toffs.”
“Why does everything have to be about being optimal levels of safe?” I grumble.
I’m fed up with it. My life is dull and secure. Yes, I’m curvy, yes, I’m shy. But I’ve been creeping towards the realisation that I could still live. I can’t even remember the last time I took a risk on anything.
“Because my baby sister enjoys not dying and not having her data stolen?” he suggests.
“I’m twenty-two,” I remind him in the exact tone of an aggrieved six-year-old.
“Old enough to be concerned about security.” He’s on his phone, distracted. He has been constantly tapping away and barely around since he got this new job.
“And to have some fun,” I mutter.
I should message the girls I know from my accountancy course, and get some excitement in my life.
The thought registers, but I don’t act on it. It would only be awkward.
I don’t go out much, but if I do, I can be relied upon to wear jeans when the other girls my age are in cute little dresses despite the sub-zero temperatures, say the wrong thing, laugh too loudly, and get my hair stuck to either my lip gloss, mascara, earrings, necklace, or one memorably cringeworthy time, a guy’s watch when he tried to lean over me in that sexy way.
It didn’t work.
I am to being cool what polar bears are to the tropical rainforest—hopelessly out of place.
Aaron says I shouldn’t be allowed out in public for the safety of myself and the population at large.
He’s joking.
Mostly.
He works in risk and project management, and I think sometimes I’m just something to be managed.
Look, I get it. Our mother was a terrible example of how to do anything. She died in a drink-driving car crash almost ten years ago, and since then, my elder brother has wrapped me up in cotton wool and insisted I do the most sensible thing at every moment.
He may have taken it a bit too far the other way.
I’ve been feeling claustrophobic recently. Not going out. Always making the financially logical decision, down to being a junior accountant rather than the creative writing I really wanted to do.
I make an account, and when it prompts me to put in a name, a thought occurs to me. I can have some fun with this.
BunnytheKiller.
Perfect. I add a profile picture of a skull for extra authenticity, and chuckle to myself.
I message my brother.
BunnytheKiller
Hi. You asked me to join. I did.
All those periods, no exclamation marks, no smiley emoji. Even Aaron will understand that I’m not amused by this.
He returns a thumbs-up.
Oh. Bummer of a response to my high-quality joke.
Story of my life. Try to do something hilarious, get a reaction with all the liveliness of a brown cardboard box.
I return to scrolling social media for a bit. I’m just laughing at a cat video when a notification from TelUBox pings on my phone.
I’ve been added to a group.
“Norwood Action Team”. I’m not sure if that sounds innocent or ominous. Could be anything from organising a summer fate, putting up signs against dog poo on the streets, or very illegal stuff.
Aaron
Hi everyone. Thanks for joining. This will hopefully be a useful place to exchange information.
That’s my brother.
Clive
Great, appreciate this. Where are we with this project? Boss wants an update.
Sinner
Regarding taking out the Essex kingpins together, I’ve got some ideas.
Nero
I’ve been running scenarios of what could happen to the M11 motorway if we took out all the major players (Colchester, Chelmsford, Braintree, Basildon, and Brentwood).
It looks like they would still have enough influence even headless to reduce or block supplies to London, as well as make life very uncomfortable for those in Essex.
A chill goes down my spine. This sounds serious. What is Aaron doing with these people? There must be some mistake.
Blake
I’ll look at those. Sinner, send me your ideas. Nero, I want contingency plans for how to reduce that impact.
Sinner
Yep Boss
Nero
Yes Boss
Clive
I think without the heads, Essex will collapse quickly.
Nero
Will this be a Norwood only hit, or will the nerds be involved?
Clive
The London Mafia Syndicate will have to approve it, but we’ll be doing the main work.
Sinner
If the Boss can convince them. Those Maths Club idiots are so lame.
Aaron
Haha!
Blake
Enough.
Sinner
Sorre Boss
Clive
Sorry Boss
Nero
Sorry, Boss.
They’re talking about a “maths club”, but also a “hit”, which I guess means killing someone? And the reference to Essex must be the Essex Cartel, who are London’s brutal neighbours. My tummy bounces with concern for Aaron. This is dangerous.
But along with the fear for my brother, I’m thrilled to be suddenly on the inside, secretly watching the planning for something I’d usually only see on the news afterwards.
I think I’ve been added to the Norwood mafia’s group chat.