The Redacted Man

By Gareth Lewis

There’s a cap that steals witnesses’ memory of the wearer, reducing them to little more than a shadowy on the periphery of perception. Even the wearer barely recalls himself. But he recalls his mission.

Stuck in a hidden world that might not be covered by the law, Detective Cassie Kinsala struggles to find a way back to normal. Doing her job becomes harder when she’s forced onto a taskforce jointly run by one of the secret societies she wants to arrest.
And if the danger of getting stuck in a war between secret societies wasn’t enough, there’s an untraceable someone out there eliminating threats to this hidden world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gareth Lewis
• Release date: Aug 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215057070

Gareth Lewis

Gareth Lewis has written a number of novels and shorter works in a few genres, including fantasy, science fiction, and thrillers. A programmer, he has a degree in computer studies, and lives in South Wales.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The echoing tap of his footsteps on the cold, institutionally worn-down floors were no longer absorbed by the background hum of prison life as he moved into the relatively silent secure sections. The hum seemed to have been replaced by a buzz of absence. The pressure of a tense quiet surrounded him with a malicious glare at any eardrums that listened to it the wrong way.

He knew the layout, and where he needed to be, but access codes and keys would have taken time to acquire. It was easier to go in and wait for the required doors to be opened. It took only patience.

His clothes were approximately the same shades as the guard uniforms, and easily dismissed by the cursory glances which were all they’d afford him.

The Cap was different, of course, but that was what kept them from seeing him properly. With their eyes or their cameras. While he wore it, he was functionally invisible to every sense, their minds reluctant to acknowledge anyone was present.

It offered sense of power. Being able to go wherever he wished, do what he wanted.

The ants scurried around him in weary resignation, their lives devoted to a constant cycle of earning a wage, spending it to survive, having little effect on society beyond maintaining the cycle.

He had a purpose. A function. He was part of the collective that guided society. He mattered. No sacrifice was too great for that.

A guard opened the next gate he needed to pass through, and the man slipped by before the guard shut it behind him. Only a few more, and he’d be with his target.

The last one was the tricky part. The prisoner was in the secure wing. While theoretically no more secure against him than anywhere else here, it was less visited than other sections, which meant a longer wait.

Knocking on a few walls when someone passed did the trick. Loud enough to break through the field that distracted them from his presence, but without pinpointing him as the source. It still took a few passers-by before one got on his radio for the door to be opened so he could check the wing remained secure.

The man followed the guard in, then stood aside as the guard assured himself everything was quiet. The guard went on about his duties, leaving the man alone.

While he knew his target was on this corridor, he didn’t know which door. He went to the nearest, and pulled up the slat over the viewing port or whatever they called it.

The man inside the cell glanced briefly at the disturbance, before looking away as though there were no one there. A phantom in the back of his mind. A glance was enough to dismiss him, his demeanour far too irritable.

The next cell’s inhabitant didn’t even look up from his book as the man opened the slat with gloved hands. His complexion was far too red.

The next prisoner along faced away from the door when the man looked in, but something about his stillness looked right. His head tilted at the slat being opened, but he didn’t turn.

‘Mister Callaghan?’ said the visitor.

The prisoner’s stillness took on a tense edge, sure he heard something, but not quite registering it.

The man looked both ways along the corridor. There were cameras at each end. Out of reach, which was why he’d dismissed thoughts of disabling them.

He’d have to rely on the sheer number of cameras in a place like this to distract immediate attention, and that he was dressed enough like a guard to blend in against the background. While he did nothing more than talk to the prisoner.

He removed the Cap, experiencing that unavoidable shudder and feeling of loss that passed through him as the connection was broken.

If anyone noticed him suddenly appear on the monitors, their minds would fill in the blanks and assure them he’d been there a while. Even without wearing it, the Cap’s influence lingered.

‘Mister Callaghan?’ the man said again.

The prisoner, standing in the middle of the small space, turned his head to regard his visitor. The sallowness of his complexion spoke of longer locked up than he’d been here, but it wasn’t a result of confinement. His calm eyes seemed somehow both vacant and stoked with rage.

The prisoner seemed to recognise him on finally meeting his gaze, and turned to face him squarely.

‘It’s time, then,’ said Callaghan. His voice was devoid of passion. ‘Not having me transferred out and lost, though? Are you losing your power?’

‘Never,’ said the man, his tone calm. Such blatant needling wasn’t worth his time.

‘You’re their latest disposable,’ said Callaghan. He sauntered towards a point a few feet from the door, moving awkwardly on one leg, with no indication of pain. ‘Their Redacted Man, going unseen to do the bidding of your masters.’

‘I serve the cause,’ said the Redacted Man.

‘Do you remember what cause that is?’

He didn’t answer. It was enough to know he had known, and had decided to make this sacrifice for what he believed in.

‘Do you remember your real name?’ asked Callaghan. ‘Who you were before you became just a head on which to place the thing of real value in your partnership.’

He remembered his name. He had it written down, and had pictures of the life he’d had which he stared at each night. To remind himself why he did this. But engaging with the thing before him served no purpose. It wasn’t even a real person any longer.

‘Where did you last meet with others of your kind?’ asked the Redacted Man.

‘My kind?’ said Callaghan. ‘In a place you’ll no longer find them. We’ve eluded your Euclideans for a while. Do you think we wouldn’t have protocols in place for when one of us is captured?’

Of course they did. This was always the wasteful part of the mission, but they weren’t the only ones with protocols to follow.

Torturing the hollowed would be a waste of time. They felt no pain. Some seemed to feel rage, but other emotions were rare in them. It was possible their reanimated bodies simply didn’t display the emotions in ways the living recognised. That hardly mattered, if you couldn’t learn what you needed from them.

‘Where did you acquire the false identification documents you used?’ asked the Redacted Man.

‘I didn’t need to know that.’

Predictable. Field agents wouldn’t be furnished with much information that could compromise the operation, and probably didn’t mix with many of their kind. Maybe they no longer required the socialisation of the living. Not that he himself had much of that, so he could empathise with sacrificing it. Though empathising with them in any way was unwise, so he pushed it aside.

‘How far along are you?’ asked Callaghan. ‘Do you still hold on to attachments from your former life? Other than the cause. That you only hold on to because you no longer have anything else. It has to be all-important, to justify your sacrifice. You must’ve considered it important in order to agree to this. If you understood the ramifications of your decision when you chose. They could just have lied to you, but you no longer remember.’

‘Who ordered you to perform your last mission?’ asked the Redacted Man. He was determined to maintain his calm demeanour. He had faith in his mission, and would show no hint of doubt to an enemy, not that he had any.

‘It won’t be long, will it?’ said Callaghan. ‘I’ve seen some of your kind among the hollowed. Vacant, sitting in one place for days. For years, if there was nobody to care for them, their very sense of self stolen by that thing.’

That wouldn’t be his fate. The Euclideans would destroy his body once his time was done, so it couldn’t be reanimated as one of these monstrosities. He knew asking the means by which that was achieved would be equally useless, but fortunately that question wasn’t on the list.

‘Where do the hollowed congregate?’ asked the Redacted Man, though he knew no answer would be forthcoming. And he couldn’t afford much more time for the charade. He could don the cap the second a door opened, but if anyone caught a glimpse of him, they might not be easily convinced otherwise by common sense. Hardly a serious danger, but it was an excuse to avoid more of the fool’s pointless probing.

‘You know it can be undone, don’t you?’ said Callaghan. ‘What it’s taken from you, it can be forced to return. You can be whole again.’

‘Fairy tales,’ said the Redacted Man. ‘Grasping for hope that your broken existence can be ended in any way but the inevitable.’

‘Oh, I know how mine’s to end,’ said Callaghan. ‘That much was decided when I was captured. That’s why you’re here. But there remains hope for you. You don’t have to surrender yourself, a sacrifice to these alien gods.’

‘I will never be hollowed,’ said the Redacted Man. ‘When my time comes, I will follow you, leaving nothing for the perverse ceremonies that did this to you.’

The hint of a smile creased Callaghan’s face. Why was he smiling?

Callaghan held his arms out to his sides, invitingly. ‘I’m ready. Unless you want to carry on wasting our time with more questions that we both know won’t be answered.’

It was probably time, the Redacted Man had to admit. He didn’t enjoy the next part, but it was necessary. It was what he’d come here to do.

He took the lighter fluid container from his pocket, held it in the slat and squirted it over Callaghan’s body. The man didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the Redacted Man.

The fluid ran out, sputtering the last few drops to the floor between them.

He put the container back in his pocket, to be disposed of outside. A box of matches came out in its place. He struck one, made sure it had caught, then tossed it through the slat.

Callaghan held his gaze as flames erupted up his body. He didn’t flinch, and no hint of pain showed on his face.

Because he was already dead, despite whatever garbage he might have been told. He was dead and this was simply a cremation. A cleansing ritual.

The Redacted Man held his gaze, even as flames greedily grasped for Callaghan’s face. Watching was a respect for the dead. Or a dread of seeing some pain in that gaze. Or perhaps just making sure the job was complete. Whatever the reason, he kept watching as long as he could, even with the fire alarm blaring, until the smell and fumes made him blink and look away.

While he could detach himself from empathising with the sight, the smell produced an involuntary reaction. It always did, so he knew it was time to move on.

Closing the slat, the Redacted Man placed the cap back on his head. He felt the accustomed sense of relaxation on doing so. He might be growing addicted to it.

He took the notepad and pen from his pocket and crossed Callaghan’s name from the list.

The fire alarms continued as he put the notepad back in his pocket, and he sauntered to wait for the door to be opened. Hopefully without any nearby sprinklers being triggered, but that would hardly be a problem in terms of getting out of here. It’d just be irritating.

This job was functionally done, though. On to the next target.

Chapter 2

Cassie didn’t join in the sighing, her new partner’s impatience more than enough for both of them. Though it was admittedly too hot a day to be stuck in the car.

‘We’re wasting time, not having eyes on the back,’ said Murray. ‘We can’t know what’s going on.’

He was far too eager to rush into potentially dangerous situations without backup. Being in uniform hadn’t worn that out of him, and his recent promotion to detective was still shiny and new. He wanted to impress someone, possibly everyone, with busts. He had yet to grasp that Vice was close to the bottom of the departmental totem pole.

Or perhaps she’d simply become risk-averse. It’d be understandable.

Still, sitting out here for a few more hours was unlikely to gain them much.

‘Come on, then,’ said Cassie, getting out of the car.

Murray rushed to follow, his expression revealing way too much excitement. He still hadn’t quite decided how to dress. The Lieutenant preferred them in smart casual, usually in a suit, shirt, and tie. On the lower end of the smart casual spectrum was acceptable if intending to go semi-undercover. Murray’s idea of smart casual was a bit too weighted towards the casual, and his choice of shirts not yet restrained enough to avoid comment by the Lieutenant.

Cassie leant on the roof of the car before going any further. ‘What are you expecting to find in there?’ she asked.

Murray shrugged, confused. ‘The gear they’re allegedly hiding in back.’

The tip they were working off had been vague, simply saying some local dealers hid their stuff in the back of the place. One employee had a record for dealing, so looking for him gave them an excuse to go digging. Mainly they were hoping for a reaction, which was never the optimal approach. But they had insufficient grounds for a search warrant.

Her question hadn’t been intended for Murray, though.

‘Don’t know the place,’ said Jimmy Bancroft. Or his ghost, which haunted her thanks to the bloody Gun. While always with her - visible and audible only to her - he could only speak when asked a question. ‘But if it’s a stash house, the manager likely knows. Dealers aren’t usually subtle. He’ll either be in on it, or too scared to do anything. There’s unlikely to be any protection, since that’d be too obvious, and they’re relying on secrecy. At most, there’ll be whoever runs it, if they’re there and armed.’

That was nothing she hadn’t guessed herself. Still, he couldn’t be expected to know everything about crime in the city. It’d just be useful if he knew more about the stuff that she was stuck investigating, once in a while.

Steeling herself, she strode towards the shop, as Murray fell in alongside. He had a bit too much strut, but there was little could she do about that. She couldn’t exactly order him to stay in the car.

Pappas’ Pet Emporium was far too grand a name for a business in this neighbourhood. The wear to the sign and shop suggested it might have been here since better days. It was part of a franchise, and she vaguely recalled seeing other stores in the city. More profitable areas, she was sure.

The smell of warm pet food greeted them as they entered, and they took in the layout as soon as they were in the door.

‘I know I’m new to this detecting stuff,’ said Murray. ‘But I’m sensing something may be missing here.’

‘Can I help you?’ asked the man behind the counter. Middle-aged, balding, and with a smile that felt slapped on for selling purposes.

They flashed their badges, which dealt with the smile.

‘Detectives Kinsala and Murray,’ said Cassie. She glanced around the store again. ‘Your pet emporium seems remarkably lacking in pets.’

The man shrugged. The smile finished sliding away as the prospect of sales evaporated. ‘They never sell well in this neighbourhood. We take orders,