Hashtag

  About the book

  Think Black Mirror with a Scandi–crime feel

  In this alarming vision of the future, even your most spontaneous thoughts are shared on global social media. With privacy consigned to history, pre–mediated crime is dead and buried.

  When Detective Oliver Braddon stumbles upon an unknown corpse, he’s plunged into an investigation to track down a murderer who can kill without thinking. Just who killed the woman in Chedding car park?

  A gritty, dystopian neo–noir that poses uncomfortable questions about our obsession with social media and presents a mind–bending picture of what life might be like when your very thoughts are no longer your own.

  “Superb futuristic scenario – good story and touches of dark humour.”

  ★★★★★

  “Oh my God what a fantastic concept!”

  ★★★★★

  “…and suddenly you need to tell everyone else to go away and let you finish this book!”

  ★★★★★

  BOOK ONE IN THE THINKERSPHERE SERIES

  WATLEDGE BOOKS

  What hath god wrought!

  First telegram, 1844 - Samuel B. Morse

  Mr Watson, come here, I want to see you.

  First telephone call, 1876 - Alexander Graham Bell

  QWERTYUIOP or something similar

  First email, 1971 - Ray Tomlinson

  Merry Christmas

  First SMS text message, 1992 - Neil Papworth

  just setting up my twttr

  First tweet, 2006 - Oliver Dorsey

  Woah, at@bill £bill #weird ah, ah, get it out, get it out!

  First thought, 2018 - Edwin Rallinson

  WEEK ONE

  SUNDAY

  The riot shield’s slippery and the bloody baton’s awkward, Oliver thought, stupid kit, designed for gorillas.

  Six of his colleagues liked this: Gorillas, too right.

  Put it down then, you fascist, the woman opposite, Martha_556, thought back.

  Cease and desist… but Oliver hummed the tune, not wanting to be trolled at this point: pa–pah pa–pah pa–pah…

  Childish.

  Oliver rolled forward on the balls of his feet, squeaking his combat boots. It was an irritating tune: I don’t want to get my head kicked in with this nonsense going round and round inside. And it was childish.

  Told you.

  He felt hot under his stab vest.

  Wasn’t this all due to some Jay’s thought stream?

  Fascist Tepee.

  Oliver glanced at the crowd facing him and tried to pick out the woman chiding him, but he couldn’t. All their angry faces were directed at individual policemen, but they were probably flaming another cop entirely.

  Why he was picking her out of the interminable stream, he didn’t know, so he forced himself to focus, deliberately concentrating on one set of thoughts from the feed: …bastards, bastards, bastards… fascist pig. He’d slipped back to Martha_556 again, but then Target Four’s mental chanting was god awfully tedious. The man must know they were after him. He was using a stooge to rethink his thoughts, after all.

  God, I’ve had a thought–full of this.

  The two sides kept their distance, just beyond the recognition range like armies of old staying two spear lengths apart. The rioters were mostly youths, but some of the police were even younger. It was a diversion, creating havoc so that others could loot the shops. Some of these had taken their turn already and they’d tucked all sorts of fashionable clothing under black coats and silver scarves. They looked like fat sports fans topped off with baseball caps. There were a few with tin foil hats showing a contingent from the nutter brigade, and all those grinning plastic masks were creepy.

  The Sergeant actually shouted aloud, “Rip!”

  Oliver ripped the paper seal off the notice taped to the back of his shield. A sound, like unzipping, went down the line.

  ‘#96jf76tt’ it said.

  It took a moment for Oliver to follow the hashtag – Hash 96jf76tt Alpha go left, Charlie go right, Foxtrot front.

  Foxtrot front, he thought. He couldn’t help himself.

  The rest of the snatch squad were already charging forward: Chen and Mox in the lead. They’d be beyond recognition range any moment if he didn’t look lively himself.

  Shit, thought Martha_556 opposite, here they come!

  Bastards, bast– Scatter, thought Target Four – theirs. The delay was due to the stooge, some kid in foreign climes on pay–as–you–think, needing time to rethink. He was probably taken by surprise by the sudden change.

  Oliver glanced through the Perspex visor at the colourful movement of rioters going left and right. One was Target Four, but which one was impossible to tell.

  “Arrghh, phase two!” the Sergeant shouted, clearly overloaded by the trolling he was sustaining. He was the obvious target – they always went for the leader – but the other Sergeant, who had kept his head down and his thoughts on other things, would take over now.

  One of the constables to Oliver’s left engaged, slamming his shield forward and up so that he could swipe low with his baton. The rioter yelped and went down as his leg twisted under the blow. Oliver held back, unused to this work and to uniform in general. With all the clamour and confusion, he could barely follow the thoughts of the Sergeant; others jumped out at him demanding his attention and he had the distracting flicker of recognition as the rioters came into range.

  Bog.

  Bog the fascists!

  They’re bogging.

  “What?” Oliver said, more of a swear word than a question.

  Damn jargon, Chen thought, all these code words are designed to confuse and–

  Take this you bastard.

  Hash 96jf76tt switch to squad hashtags.

  Hash Foxtrot, phase three.

  Something heavy went crump to his left and Oliver glanced up just in time to see something large arcing down towards him. He ducked behind his shield which took the impact, yanking his arm around.

  A chant went up: “Pa–pah! Pa–pah!”

  God, we’re using the tune as a battle cry.

  Battle, see. You fascist.

  Tepee pig.

  Hash Foxtrot, Point Alpha.

  There was only ‘…run, run, run…’ from Target Four.

  Oliver jogged with his colleagues, who knew what was what and where was where. Point Alpha was a street corner.

  You’ll just be making up the numbers, Inspector Dartford had thought, fill in to help uniform. Don’t worry.

  Useful experience before your Sergeant’s exam, Freya had added.

  Welcome aboard, Mox had thought, when he thumped him on the back.

  Strange how those giving the orders were never, ever actually present. Mustn’t think that… pa–pah, pa–pah! Too late.

  Just following orders were you, Martha_556 thought, you fascist Tepee.

  Oliver ignored her: Stay at the back, don’t get drawn in, he thought.

  Coward.

  That woman who’d zeroed him was really getting on his tits, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing it: Pa–pah, pa–pah… “Pa–pah!”

  He swung rather savagely at a rioter as his section charged past. He might have connected, or probably hit Chen’s riot shield, but they all thundered on around the street corner.

  Scatter!

  That had been stooge’s rethink; so Target Four was responding to their movements, which meant he had to be nearby.

  Oliver took two steps to slow down so he could scan the area.

  The street was full of dropped shoes taken from one of the looted shops. A few rioters saw them and fled up the High Street or along St. Thomas Street. Others came out of a newsagents, their feet kicking up the shattered glass as they came to a halt.
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  Target Four wouldn’t be one of these, but he had responded to their arrival, so probably–

  Chen thought so too: Even go left, odd right.

  Hash Foxtrot, Oliver thought, what the hell is my number?

  It was on the back of his borrowed riot jacket.

  Oliver started running towards the High Street with Target Four’s mental chant ironically driving him on: …run, run, run…

  Your other left, Ollie.

  Shit.

  Oliver changed direction.

  St. Thomas Street led to some abandoned shops internetted out of existence and now boarded up. There were cobbles between the pavements at the far end. This was where Chen and Oliver headed.

  Fascist Tepee! Stop it! I have rights.

  Martha_556 had obviously not identified him properly, so whoever she was venting her anger on was blissfully unaware of it. ‘Tepee’ was irritating: an insult on account of the conical helmet and the initials. Trying to follow the thoughts of the group he was chasing, while another group’s intruded was confusing.

  Oliver felt wrong footed.

  You’ve got the wrong guy, Oliver thought.

  You’re not him, Martha_556 thought. Who’s this Tepee then? Fucking Thought Police.

  There were four men in the street: two City fans, a Goth and an orange balaclava, sidestepping to the pavements now the tarmac had run out. They clearly didn’t want to turn an ankle on the uneven surface. Odds are Target Four had the mask.

  “There, over there!” Chen shouted aloud, wobbling his shield towards the boarded up phone shop. There was a side alley: two youths went down that and Chen clearly wanted to cover all possibilities. Oliver was closer, so he followed, turned sideways to get his shield between the alley wall and a large industrial refuse bin. His colleague, he’d no idea who, bumped him as they went through.

  “Ow!”

  Oliver recognised him as Mox.

  At Ollie, are you all right?

  It was his girlfriend, Jasmine, her thoughts coming clearer now that he was out of recognition range of everyone but Mox.

  At Jasmine! I’m at work, Oliver thought frantically.

  I’ve changed my status, Jasmine thought back.

  The youths were already right down the end of the alley, and would have disappeared into the gloom had the fashion for silver scarves not been so prevalent. Oliver thumped his way down between the high walls, jumped a broken box and skidded to a halt at the far end.

  They came out onto Tumney Row – disconcertingly. Oliver was lost. The very thought gave him his co–ordinates, but it didn’t mean anything.

  He saw a flash of white trainers disappearing over the wire fence opposite. The ‘No Trespassing’ sign flapped back and forth.

  There’s no way I can get over that, Oliver thought.

  Ollie, you could pass the riot shield over after I’ve climbed it, Mox thought.

  “You’re kidding?” Oliver’s voice echoed and his visor steamed up.

  They both looked at the fence again, gauging its height.

  Oliver noodled it: This alley goes several hundred metres and then out towards the train station, he thought at Mox, we’ll never catch ’em.

  You’re one of those desk jockeys, aren’t you?

  Detective Constable, Oliver thought, yes.

  It’s not them anyway, it’ll be the man wearing the–

  “Careful!”

  Wearing the pa–pah, pa–pah, Mox thought, waving his hands over his riot helmet to signify the… pa–pah, pa–pah. Pa–pah hat.

  Oliver laughed aloud and Mox joined in.

  Oliver thought: Let’s find Chen.

  Mox nodded.

  They jogged back down the alleyway.

  “Oi!” Mox yelled.

  By the time Oliver got clear of the refuse bin, the rioter had fled.

  He went this way, Mox thought, already moving across the cobbles.

  Oliver, bent double to get his breath back, straightened and followed, walking. There was no sign of Chen or the balaclava. He was sure the man was Target Four.

  Further down, there was a crossroads as Old Tollgate crossed from Chedding to Portman Square. There was a group loitering, probably with intent, but they all had baseball caps or bare heads.

  We could ask, Ollie thought.

  One of the loiterers, close enough to recognise, gave them the finger: Piss off.

  Mox jerked into a charge and they scattered.

  “No pa–pah,” Mox said, coming to a halt.

  Oliver thought at Chen: I’m at… shit.

  “Point er… five!” said Mox.

  “Point five…” I mean, he thought, Hash Foxtrot, point five with Mox.

  Some wag thought: Is that what we’re calling point five now?

  Stay there, Chen thought, he may double back, but he’s… oh, to hell with this.

  A rethink: Is that what we’re calling point five now?

  Other thoughts followed.

  To hell with what?

  Pa–pah, pa–pah.

  Point five is called ‘shit’ now.

  Hash Foxtrot, Target Four is wearing an orange balaclava north of Old Tollgate, rethink.

  Oliver took Chen’s thought, rethinking it to his followers.

  Target Four is wearing an orange balaclava, north of Old Tollgate, came Mox’s rethink followed by all of Foxtrot squad doing the same.

  At Jimmy, you’re target four, came the woman who’d called him a fascist, Martha_556.

  Someone sprinted from a doorway down towards the old Chedding Shopping Centre.

  Not him, Mox thought, but then Oliver saw a flash of orange stuffed in the man’s pocket.

  Yes, yes, Oliver thought: Chedding, Chedding! Hash Foxtrot. Rethink.

  Oliver flung his riot shield to one side and accelerated downhill, bringing his arms up and down.

  His target quickened his pace too and stayed tantalizingly out of range. Once he was within recognition, the man’s stooge would be pointless and they’d be able to pick him up any time, but Oliver couldn’t quite close the gap. He felt the merest flicker in his brow, just as the man turned back towards the High Street.

  Oliver stumbled, he’d not expected that change of direction: the man was trapped now. He’d been stupid because–

  Damn, the door’s forced, Oliver thought as he reached the huge, white building at the end.

  What door?

  Chedding, he’s gone into Chedding Shopping Centre.

  We’re at ‘Shit’ moving up Old Tollgate now.

  Don’t be stupid, that’s sealed up.

  Not anymore, Oliver thought.

  He burst through the steel door causing the heavy lock to fall to the ground. It had been sheared with bolt cutters. Concrete stairs led upwards and round, the stairwell making his footsteps, and those of Mox behind him, echo.

  He reached a landing.

  Up, he thought.

  You take this one, Mox thought back.

  Oliver tried the door: Locked.

  Mox had already passed him and turned the corner.

  Oliver started after him.

  At Ollie, we’re outside Chedding now, Chen thought, where are you?

  Going up, Oliver thought back as he took two steps at a time.

  Second is open, Mox thought, I’ll take it, you try three.

  Bloody stairs, Oliver thought, swinging around and continuing up.

  The door on the third level was open, the concrete and plaster dust disturbed.

  I think he’s on my level, Mox thought; just as Oliver was about to think the same.

  The floor tiles gave the deserted shopping centre a clinical feel and Oliver’s combat boots squeaked as he came in.

  I’m hiding, I’m hiding, Target Four’s stooge rethought in a mantra beyond maddening. Why couldn’t the kid just stop doing it, but then perhaps the stooge didn’t even understand English? Back office must have correlated enough phrases to make a search by now.

  Perhaps he doesn’t know I’m ch
asing him, Oliver thought.

  Filth, Tepee pig, scum, Target Four’s stooge repeated. It was very old fashioned, trust the ringleader to have been traditionally educated.

  Cleverer than you.

  He’s following me, Oliver thought. The change meant he–

  Yea, I am, you scum.

  What level?

  Piss off.

  Oliver only just caught the wisp amongst the chorus of his squad. Everyone had switched to ‘pa–pah’ to avoid giving anything away and the tune wormed its way firmly into the back of his mind, eclipsing everything else. The melody was supposed to prevent any thoughts leaking out, but counterproductive. Oliver couldn’t hear himself think.

  He glanced round to clear his head and distract himself from the insidious repetition.

  I always liked it here, he thought. His Mum used to bring him here back in the day: Burger for lunch, lollipop on the way back if I’d been good. Every good boy deserves chocolate. There were toilets on the third level.

  Not near any toilets.

  Target Four was getting stressed, his mantra going pear shaped.

  Not stressed, Tepee.

  I’m leaking too, Oliver thought.

  Too right.

  Amazing how the man had managed to pick Oliver out of the cacophony of all the police. Oliver was focused now, picking out the man’s rethought commentary and ignoring everything else. He went further in, almost on tip–toe, looking round at the whitewashed display windows and the boarded–up doors. This had been a CD shop, over there was once a toy shop and that – gosh – a bookshop.

  Target Four bolted from the information booth near the old bookshop. He was running on instinct, or Oliver had missed the thought in his rush to give chase. They sprinted down the length of the shopping centre to the far stairs.

  Far stairs, Oliver thought as he clattered through the door. He was in a stairwell similar to the one he’d come up in.

  Chen’s thought was a distinct voice in amongst the maddening tune: Far from what?

  Far from Old Tollgate.

  Ollie, which end?

  I don’t know.

  On your brow.

  Oliver checked and rethought the result: South.

  Hash Foxtrot, converge on the south end of Chedding.