The Players
Praise for Darren O’Sullivan
‘A clever concept thriller that leaves you breathless.
Darren O’Sullivan’s best work yet’
John Marrs
‘An outstandingly taut story which grabbed me and then spat me out breathless at the end’
Angela Marsons
‘Saw meets I See You in this dark, twisted and deadly game of kill or be killed. I held my breath from beginning to end’
C.L. Taylor
‘I was engrossed in this from the very first page – high concept, thrilling and very, very dark. I couldn’t put it down’
Lisa Hall
‘Taut, terrifying and wonderfully original. I devoured The Players in one heart-stopping sitting’
Chris Whitaker
‘I was gripped by this taut and emotional thriller’
Louise Jensen
‘Engrossing, compelling and twisty from the first page to the shocking ending. This book grabbed me and didn’t let go’
Michele Campbell
‘Exquisitely written … a ripping good read’
Suzy K. Quinn
‘A stellar and original concept, brilliantly executed.
The final chapters had my heart in my throat!
O’Sullivan is certainly one to watch’
Phoebe Morgan
DARREN O’SULLIVAN is the author of psychological thrillers, Our Little Secret, Close Your Eyes, Closer Than You Think and Dark Corners. He is a graduate of the Faber Academy and his debut novel, Our Little Secret, was a bestseller in four countries. When Darren isn’t writing, he is usually rolling around on the floor pretending to be a pirate with his five-year-old son.
You can follow Darren on Twitter and Instagram @Darrensully or on Facebook/DarrenO’Sullivan-author.
Also by Darren O’Sullivan
Our Little Secret
Close Your Eyes
Closer Than You Think
Dark Corners
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Darren O’Sullivan 2021
Darren O’Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2021 ISBN: 9780008342050
Version 2021-04-30
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008342043
For Geri Crooke
26 November 1989 – 17 June 2019
Everyone who knew you, couldn’t help but love you.
Everyone who knew you was touched by your light
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Red Coat Experiment #3: 26 January 2019
Day 1: 3 February 2019
Chapter One
Chapter Two: Carlson
Chapter Three
The First Game
Chapter Four
Chapter Five: The Host
Day 2: 4 February 2019
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven: The Host
Chapter Eight: Carlson
Chapter Nine: The Host
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve: The Host
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen: The Host
Chapter Fifteen: Carlson
The Second Game
Day 3: 5 February 2019
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen: The Host
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Host
Chapter Twenty-Three: Carlson
The Third Game
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Host
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Carlson
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Host
Day 4: 6 February 2019
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One: Carlson
The Fourth Game
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three: The Host
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Day 5: 7 February 2019
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Host
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Host
Chapter Forty
The Fifth Game
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two: The Host
Day 6: 8 February 2019
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five: The Host
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven: Carlson
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine: The Host
Chapter Fifty
The Sixth Game
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Day 7: 9 February 2019
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four: The Host
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six: The Host
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Host
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Carlson
The Seventh Game
Day 8: 10 February 2019
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three: The Host
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Host
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy: The Host
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two: The Host
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four: The Host
The Eighth Game
One Week Later
Acknowledgements
Extract
About the Publisher
Red Coat Experiment #3
26 January 2019
The Host
7.45 p.m.
The Host watched with anticipation. He was clear in his instruction. The rules of The Game had been relayed and un
derstood. And although The Player, twenty-six-year-old Dean Winters, seemed to agree to them, it wasn’t clear if he would play.
If Dean did, The Host knew that the next phase would begin.
Dean shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes darting from left to right. It was obvious he was nervous; The Host could tell he had never done anything like this. Nerves were good, nerves produced adrenaline, and cortisol, the fight or flight hormones. Nerves told The Host he was taking The Game seriously.
A few people walked by, oblivious that Dean was assessing them; deciding if they would be the one he would confront. But none of them so far matched the specific requirements laid out in the rules of The Game. And so, Dean let them pass and continue with their evening not knowing just how lucky they had been. This went on for nearly an hour. People passed, untouched, because of the instructions The Host had set out.
Then, Dean stopped. His eyes fixed on someone to his right, beyond The Host’s eyeline. His reaction told The Host that Dean had found the one. The Host enjoyed watching his Player ready himself. Dean looked around, making sure no one would see what he was about to do. He took his hands out of his pockets, tightened his fists, as the person came into view. The Host felt his skin begin to tingle with anticipation.
The target was just one hundred feet away.
In a matter of minutes, The Host would know if his Game worked.
When The Host first told Dean about The Game he wanted to play, Dean reacted with confusion. After the rules had been explained and questions answered, quiet excitement began to build. The idea was simple. Dean had to wait until he saw someone with a red coat. Then, he was to attack them. If he was able to render them unconscious, he would receive £500 cash in hand. If he lost his nerve, he would receive nothing. It didn’t matter if the person wearing the coat was male or female, young or old. The only thing that mattered was whether Dean would do it. When asked why a person in a red coat, The Host responded, why not?
The Game was simple, he just had to play.
The Host knew it wasn’t without risk as most people would ring the police on hearing such a proposition. The first two red coat experiments had proved inconclusive. But The Host had chosen his next Player well. Dean was in debt – a payday loan he’d taken out three months ago of just £100 had now spiralled to £500. Dean needed that money, he needed it badly. Financial reward was a strong motivator. The Host just hoped it would be strong enough.
As the red coat drew closer to Dean, The Host could now see the figure was a woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties so a similar age to The Player. Dean began to shift again, unable to stand still. The woman in the red coat became aware of the man on the footpath in front of her. She hesitated for just a beat, before she lowered her head and continued advancing cautiously. The Host suspected she felt something was wrong, but she didn’t react, because if she crossed the street, if she turned around and walked the other way, she would appear rude, and as with most people, the shame of appearing rude was more of a motivator than self-preservation.
She was just twenty feet away.
Calm now, Dean turned his back to her, pretending to read something on his phone. The Host understood, he was going to wait for her to pass, and then, attack from behind.
She was ten feet away.
It was about to happen. The Game was hurtling towards its brutal finale.
The woman in red upped her pace. Her shoulders hunched, her head cast down, but her eyes were not looking at the ground, they were scanning to see if anyone else was around to help. She knew something was wrong and still she didn’t cross the road. She knew but she didn’t turn around and walk the other way. The Host didn’t understand that about people. Life was supposed to be cherished, and yet people seldom respected it.
The woman walked past his Player and continued along the path. Three steps, that would be how many she should take before Dean acted – one less would mean she was too close to strike properly, any more would put her out of range. Just three steps. The Host counted them, expecting to watch his Player pounce, but three became five, became ten, became twenty. And still, his Player hadn’t moved.
The third red coat experiment had failed.
When the woman had disappeared, Dean looked across the road to find The Host, but he had already vanished into the night. The Host was disappointed. Despite the desperation for it, money wasn’t enough of a motivator to play.
But if money wasn’t enough, then surely, love would be. Once it had been tested, a new Game would begin, and everyone would be a Player.
Day 1
3 February 2019
Chapter One
9.56 a.m.
With my palm wrapped around the cool metal of the door handle, I paused before opening. Several people from work had been here over the years, but this was my first visit. As soon as I opened the door, there would be no going back. When I stepped inside I knew that I’d be forced to confront the nightmare I’d been living in for over a week.
Just open the door, Karen, I told myself.
The second hand on the clock behind the reception desk ticked loudly as it approached 10 a.m. I waited until it ticked a full half minute before moving.
‘Is everything all right? You can just knock and go in,’ the receptionist said when I still had not moved.
I knew I couldn’t delay this moment anymore. I took a deep breath, pushed the door open and tentatively stepped in.
I’d not been inside a therapist’s office before, and my first thought as I entered was how dark the room was. The reception had been light and airy and I expected this too to be bright, welcoming, with pictures of beautiful landscapes or quotes about not waiting for storms to pass but learning to dance in the rain. But this room felt entirely different. It was the kind of place that hid things in its shadows, the kind of room that watched, that judged. I shivered, knowing that this room was one that never felt quite warm enough, even on the hottest summer’s day.
The woman who had allowed me to look around the room and familiarise myself with my new surroundings stood up from her armchair and offered her hand. As she did, I glimpsed the doctorate certificate over her shoulder, centred on the wall behind her desk.
‘Good morning, DI Holt, I’m Shauna,’ she said with the hint of an Irish accent. I nodded and took her hand. A firm shake. I considered her accent for a moment – if I had to guess, I’d say she was from Dublin, but it was diluted, suggesting she had been in the UK for several years.
‘Take a seat, Karen. May I call you Karen?’
‘Sure.’
‘How are you feeling today?’
I wasn’t ready for a direct question about my feelings. It caught me off guard, and as I took a breath to respond, my chest felt tight. ‘All right, I guess. I mean, as well as can be expected.’ Then I remembered my manner. ‘Thank you for seeing me at the weekend. I hope it’s not too inconvenient.’
She waved my apology aside. ‘No problem at all. I understand you’ve had a turbulent time recently.’
She paused, waited for me to comment, but I simply nodded. I wasn’t ready to show my cards, not yet. First, I wanted to assess the woman in front of me and work out whose side she was on.
‘Do you know the purpose of our time together?’
‘I do.’ Despite my best efforts, I heard apprehension in my voice.
‘Good, that’s good.’ She waited for me to say something again, but again I didn’t bite. I placed my hands in my lap, interlocking my fingers, squeezing so tight that my knuckles whitened. The therapist noticed. She was observant, smart. I felt my guard go up.
‘This is a safe space, Karen, where you can talk about whatever you want. It goes without saying that what we discuss is confidential. I understand you’re currently suspended due to the investigation, but my role is to listen, offer support, and ultimately make the decision of when I think you’re fit to return to work.’
‘OK.’
‘Why don’t you start by talking about what happened
the morning you went to arrest Grayson James?’
Hearing his name spoken out loud for the first time in over a week made my chest squeeze harder, like someone was squashing me. I had actively avoided thinking of him. Of that day. It was too much. I flicked my fingernails on my right hand, thumb to little finger and back, it calmed me, to a point.
‘Karen?’
‘I’m fine,’ I replied too quickly, responding to a question she hadn’t asked. From the outside I knew exactly the kind of person I appeared to be. I had seen it hundreds of times in interview rooms. I looked guilty. But then, I was guilty, wasn’t I?
‘I need to stress, this isn’t a criminal investigation.’
‘No?’ I said.
‘No. I’m here to help you process what happened the day of the incident.’
‘And establish if it was lawful.’
‘That’s for the IOPC review board. My job, Karen, is to make sure that you’re OK, so that when you are allowed to return to active duty, you feel up to it. I’m sure you already know this, but I just want to reiterate that although we work closely with Cambridge Constabulary in looking after the wellbeing of its officers, we do not in fact work for them. We are independent, intentionally so. The Office for Police Conduct deals with any investigations. We’re just here to support you.’
I nodded but didn’t pass any further comment. I knew there was more to it. The IOPC were examining the facts of that day; they would look at the bodycam footage and would read the incident reports. The softly spoken therapist was examining the psychological state of the police officer involved.
‘Let’s get to know one another,’ she continued, attempting to redirect the conversation.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Whatever you want to say. Let me start. I’m originally from Ireland, a small town called Bray, on the coast just south of Dublin.’
I nodded, pleased that at least some parts of my judgement hadn’t failed.
‘I have one brother and grew up with my dad. What about you, Karen? Any brothers or sisters?’
‘I’ve got a brother.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jacob.’
‘Are you close?’
‘I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re not really here to talk about my brother, are we?’