Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
ROMAN
‘Tell me a bit more about these new people on your street, then. The Sharpes.’ Sanj finally moves his attention from the screens and turns to face him.
Roman snorts. ‘I think the wife, Emily, saw me earlier. She was out in her garden.’
‘Yeah, but I mean what do you know about the Sharpes?’
‘My parents have had an invitation to some fancy barbecue at their house. Mum’s already worrying about what to wear, like it’s Buckingham Palace or something.
’ Roman shrugs. ‘Feels to me that Oliver Sharpe is the sort of guy who’s putting on a proper act, you know?
The way he talks, dresses . . . everything just seems too practised. ’
‘Yeah, I know the sort, mate.’ Sanj winks. ‘We could make a start on ruining his life right now, if you fancy it?’
‘What do you boys get up to in here, hmm?’ Roman sits up straighter on his stool when he sees Mrs Patel in the doorway. Roman thinks about Oliver Sharpe’s inbox, still open on his monitor at home. Nobody wants their mate’s mum to overhear that they’re hacking into a stranger’s email.
She falls quiet for a moment, scanning the myriad pieces of equipment with a faint baffled frown.
Sanj jumps up and takes a plate piled with steaming pakoras from her. There’s a little bowl of raita too, that Roman knows will have fresh torn mint stirred through it. A warm feeling blossoms in the centre of his chest. If he felt a two out of ten when he got here, he’s up to about a seven now.
His mouth waters. ‘Thanks, Auntie, they smell delicious,’ he says, and takes one so quickly he burns his fingers.
Mrs Patel frowns again, this time at the floor, choked up with cables and boxes. Then she nods and disappears in a jingle of silver bangles.
Roman reaches for the plate again and notices Sanj do a double-take at the furthest monitor. A small grey flag in the top-right corner pings and wobbles. He feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The timing is too neat—like the message has been waiting for him.
‘Holy . . .’ Sanj wheels across on his cheap plastic chair, grabs the other mouse and clicks. A different window slides forward bearing the graphic of a green door on a black background. The handle is in the wrong place, too low, like a child designed it. It makes Roman’s stomach flip.
The name plate on the door reads: GRN_DoR.
‘What’s that?’ Roman asks, his mouth full.
‘That is the “new contact” I told you about,’ Sanj says, keeping his voice low. ‘The guy who says he’s got some work for us that could pay a shitload of paper.’
Roman’s stomach performs a little somersault, excitement and warning together. He can’t tell if he feels flattered or hunted. But what he could do with some serious money . . .
He takes another pakora and holds it between his thumb and index finger while Sanj reads aloud.
‘Test piece first. If successful, ongoing work. Payment on delivery of data, proof of funds attached. Target is public sector system—non-critical. Noise cover provided. You in?’
Roman feels the words land one by one like flashes of hope.
Proof of funds.
Actual payment.
‘It’s public sector, which means somewhere in the chain there’s going to be a badly configured contractor portal. There always is,’ Sanj whispers, glancing at the door.
Roman knows Sanj only whispers when he’s scared or thrilled. Usually both.
His mouth goes dry and, as fast as it came, the hope disappears. His stomach starts to twist. He takes a spoon of raita and wishes he hadn’t.
‘It’s bound to be dodgy,’ he murmurs.
‘Obvs!’ Sanj says, but he’s already clicking the attachment.
A screenshot pops up. Roman sees the corner of an online banking page; a six-figure balance blurred.
Today’s date. No name, but there’s a bank logo.
It’s enough to make Roman’s pulse hop. This could be his chance to show what he can do. What he’s worth.
This could be his big break.
Roman watches Sanj’s face. His carefree grin is back, but so are the white knuckles he’s seen when his friend gets stressed. He’s always thought that Sanj is braver than him when it comes to taking risks, but now he wonders if Sanj is just better at hiding his nerves.
‘He says,’ Sanj goes on, eyes flicking left to right as he reads the next line, ‘Test job is to retrieve and copy a single file from an internal share drive. Path provided after handshake. Forty-eight hours. A hundred up front, four on completion.’
Roman tastes metal.
Sanj lets out a low whistle. ‘Five hundred quid! And we’re not really mugging anyone off if it’s only a file,’ he murmurs, as if just saying the words makes them true. ‘He says it’s a “misfiled procurement doc”. That’s not personal, is it? That’s just boring. It’s . . . admin.’
Roman thinks about Oliver Sharpe’s finger in his face—like Roman was a bad dog who he’d caught pissing on the carpet. About being called a nothing in front of his own house.
He thinks about his mum’s parcel, containing hours of her work, flattened under someone else’s showy coffee table.
Roman says, ‘Boring public sector documents means, chances are, nobody will notice if we do it.’ He pauses. ‘What’s the noise cover he talked about?’
Sanj scrolls. ‘Scheduled maintenance in the early hours.’
‘Right,’ Roman says. ‘So if something trips an alert, it looks like part of the update traffic. No one panics at 2 a.m. during maintenance.’
Roman’s heart rate ramps up like he’s just bounded up ten flights of stairs. He knows how this would look to people on the outside: two schoolboys with grand ideas in a bedroom full of second-hand kit. He also knows what he can do with a keyboard and plenty of time.
A rap on the door makes them both jump. Mrs Patel’s voice through the wood: ‘More raita? And Roman, take some food home, hmm? For your mother.’
Roman feels a sting of guilt.
‘We’re OK, thanks, Mum,’ Sanj calls out impatiently.
‘Thanks, Mrs Patel. I’ll be down soon,’ Roman adds.
Mrs Patel’s footsteps sound back across the landing. Roman starts as the message window starts to pulse again. A new line appears: If this goes well, a longer contract. Client has an ongoing interest in Orchard Lane. A bit of detective work.
Roman and Sanj look at each other. The name sits between them like a glass wall. Orchard Lane.
Sanj’s eyebrows climb. ‘It’s like he knows where you live.’
Roman’s breath catches.
Orchard Lane is not a coincidence. Somebody out there knows exactly where he lives and exactly who he’s watching.
Which means, he realizes with a sick feeling in his stomach, that they could also be watching him.