Equation

• PROLOGUE •

Dawn paints the sky — strokes of orange and red that bleed into the pink-blue canvas. The night's curtain begins to lift.

Fine grit whispers between Jaydon Lynch’s toes. He stands unmoving, absorbing the ocean's percussive roar as waves shatter against a craggy precipice nearby. A thin film of salt clings to his skin, like a tangible ghost of the receding tide.

The enormity of aqua, a siren's call, an infinite dance of droplets moving in perfect unison with the ocean’s rhythmic pull. All of it offset by a myriad of dangers veiled beneath its depths.

In his hands, he turns over a natural onyx stone necklace, an ‘S’ carved into its surface­­­ like a delicate scar. He glances down at the jewellery he cradles softly. The smooth stone rests lightly in his palm, yet its weight resonates deep within.

Jaydon’s body remains still, a silhouette against the brightening horizon, as his consciousness merges once more with the infinite vastness of the ocean's embrace.

• 1 •

THE PHONE CALL

An electric voice emanates at a distance, digitised from somewhere within this modern abode, yet to be seen. Realms of natural light disperse through the large windows of the spacious IKEA-like showroom.

This ultra-contemporary, six-bedroom suburban home belongs to the Colburn family. The electric voice belongs to Marcus Webb from The Morning Show. He delivers his daily dose of negative in an even, professional tone. ‘Good morning, I’m Marcus Webb, and this is Sunrise Live at 8. Community leaders of Hatham, Pelth, and Kendersford urged government officials to reconsider their plans for a fully armed police patrol. The initiative strategy will include the eventual implementation of armed security groups in these areas...’

The voice originates from a large ultra-slimline streamscreen hanging on an exposed brick kitchen wall. This is where the suited and tied Marcus’s digital image sits. Small, when compared to the real-life Colburn family, as they settle into the morning routine at the kitchen table.

Mia Colburn is mostly sixteen, going on thirty-five. One of those adolescents who is continually finding spurts of maturity budding from her silliness. She is also not the awkward in her body type of teenager.

Unlike her brother, Zachary, who is a year younger, lanky, geeky, and self-conscious, hiding under his trendy fringe haircut.

Outside the ceiling-to-floor windows, Baxter, the family’s border collie, lounges in the backyard. Streaks of sunlight break through the clouds, filtering between the gaps of the maple trees’ autumn-coloured leaves, creating a pattern of light and shadow.

Caitlyn Colburn stands near the window, holding a large knife, lost in thought. The sound of the streamscreen and her children melt into the background. She stares pensively at her own reflection, a distorted closeup trapped within the silver blade. Who are you?

Caitlyn’s part-time work as a barrister in the Crown Prosecution Service is rewarding. Her children are beautiful, almost grown. She wouldn’t have it any other way, though a lingering void remained. She wonders if darkness is the only thing that can fill the nagging emptiness. No, that’s absurd.

The sound of Baxter’s barking draws Caitlyn out of her thoughts. She gazes upwards to see the dog chewing on a rubber toy, whilst wagging his tail. He must be hungry. She views Zachary reflected through the window, emptying some dog food on a tray. Caitlyn finds a smile as Marcus continues.

He says, ‘The trial is part of the radical war against crime initiative. Tensions have been steadily rising in the South-West trilateral branded The Slums.

‘Owing to severe unemployment, rampant drug misuse, and a steady rise in crime. The initiative begins with the rollout of an armed police patrol, closely followed by–’

Caitlyn silences the Newsman abruptly via remote control. Digital hum and black screen replace images and sounds.

She places breakfast on the table. On each plate, the yellow of the egg’s yolk breaks through the white of its poached exterior. Dribbling subtly over the gluten-free toast and smooth avocado it lies upon. Accompanied by a cashew nut and banana smoothie.

Zachary re-enters after feeding Baxter. He pulls on a wooden chair, which complains with a screech before he sits.

Benjamin Colburn will be forty-seven in a couple of days, and he looks his age. Yet, the crow’s feet and greying temples seem to add an allure to his presence. He carries himself with a powerful, fluid grace as he moves through the corridor. The tall, muscular frame fills out the shark-coloured three-piece suit tailored to a third of a millimetre. He slows to a stop and taps the speed dial on his smartphone. Then he raises the device to his ear.

Mia toys with her brother. ‘No one needed to tell me anything. It’s so obvious. Are you in love?’

‘You’re so silly sometimes, you know that.’

She reaches past Zachary to grab breakfast. He pretends to ignore her whilst texting on his NexPlus Phone. Caitlyn stands a short distance away, continuing her chores. She watches her husband, mid-flow.

Caitlyn’s ears perk up with interest in what is transpiring with her husband in the corridor. Though her children are talking, it isn’t difficult to hear Benjamin, as his voice is now raised.

‘Kidnapping, blackmail, grievous bodily harm with intent. Forget about a career in law. You should write fiction with an imagination like that. My client is a successful investor and a pillar of the community. If you bring us anywhere near a court of law, I will bury you.’

Benjamin ends the call with a press of a button and a snarl. He looks up to find Caitlyn staring. She holds an expression that is hard to gauge. Benjamin’s wave of darkness transitions to a half smile. Caitlyn has already diverted her attention elsewhere.

‘Mum, your son is in love,’ Mia says.

Caitlyn is well aware of what her daughter is doing. However, she plays along with the jest. ‘Is he now? What’s her name?’

‘How do you know it’s not him?’

She looks at her son playfully. ‘Well, I always had my suspicions.’ They both laugh.

Benjamin’s voice reaches everyone’s ears before he enters the room. ‘Ladies, give the guy a break.’ He finds Caitlyn. Their eyes meet, and tension underscores the subsequent kiss.

He moves towards the refrigerator and opens the door. It displays a picture of an older couple, Caitlyn’s parents. The family is on holiday in Japan. There are also metallic copper style fridge magnets with the notes: EMILY’S BIRTHDAY THIS TUESDAY, MIA TO EMPTY BINS THIS WEEK. Then oddly, HI MR DAN DOLL FASE. Benjamin reaches deep into the recesses of the fridge. He removes some coconut milk for coffee.

Caitlyn takes a seat beside Mia. They both observe Zachary with interest. Zachary sets down his digital device. He clears his throat. ‘Okay. Her name is Kazuko. She’s seventeen years old. We went out a few times, and we’re just taking it slow. Happy?’

They fall silent for a moment, allowing the ambience of distant traffic and chirping birds to enter the fray. Then the occupants of the table suddenly burst into laughter. Zachary rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, so funny.’

Mia is having a blast. ‘You should see your face.’ Zachary finally gives in and sees the humour, joining in with the laughter.

Benjamin draws up a chair and sits next to his son, coffee and documents in hand. Zachary straightens up. ‘An older woman, eh? Is she pretty?’

‘Yeah, she’s pretty.’

‘Remember to use protection, right?’

‘Dad!’

‘I’m just kidding.’ His smile fades. ‘Though I’m not.’

Caitlyn observes her husband. Drinking coffee and appraising files. Her gaze meets Zachary; now back on his NexPlus Phone. Then, she turns her attention towards Mia, also absorbed in the latest digital device. She shakes her head in private amusement. ‘Modern families.’

The landline rings. Caitlyn feels an overwhelming obligation to answer. She rises from her seat and moves towards the hallway.

Caitlyn picks up the ultra-modern cordless device and raises it to her ear. An uneasy pause precedes the voice that emanates from the receiver, which is hypnotic and otherworldly.

* * *

A continuous beep, the dial tone, emanates from the phone, which lies on its side. What did the voice say? She can’t remember. Nor can she hear her children speaking from the kitchen or feel their presence. She is certain that they have already departed for school. How much time has passed?

* * *

There were flashes of Mia as she rose from the table. Zachary, toast in hand, school bag in the other, bumped a fist with his father before he followed suit. Then both of her children gave her a peck on the cheek before hurrying away...

* * *

What happened before and after? It is hazy, off somehow, and out of sync. An overwhelming high-pitched noise is creeping up on her. The sound you hear in war and action movies as our temporarily deaf hero stops to contemplate the horrors of explosions and violence surrounding him, all in poetic slow motion.

Caitlyn finds no explanation. The emptiness has dissolved, atomised into a million fragments.

She feels... reawakened.

* * *

Benjamin Colburn glances upwards from reading his documents. Caitlyn has been missing since the phone call. ‘Honey?’ Nothing greets him. He listens out for a while longer. Following another moment of silence, he continues highlighting paragraphs whilst consuming his coffee.

Caitlyn makes her way through the minimalist master bedroom, which is spacious, super contemporary and characteristic of the Colburn home. She slides open the Japanese-style wardrobe and reaches upwards towards the top shelf. Behind a linen basket is a secured safe: steel, biometric touch ID.

She raises her hand, directing her index finger to the square where the fingerprint should go, and presses. There is a beep, preceding a click. The red-light switches to green, open sesame.

If this were an artistic film helmed by a creative auteur. A narrative would unfold from the safe’s interior. The camera capturing Caitlyn in a tight head-to-shoulder silhouette, with orchestral strings moving to a crescendo. It’s very moody, atmospheric, stylish, but this is not a movie, and we’re not playing make-believe.

Within the safe is a box, and inside the box is a .22 calibre weapon. Caitlyn lifts the magazine and adds bullets. She loads and chambers the gun, then heads downstairs.

There is weightlessness, a heightening of senses accompanied by a pulsating, chromatic display. Maybe this is the spiritual enlightenment gurus speak of.

She drifts along the corridor. One hand holds the weapon, with the other, she lightly traces the wall with her fingers, finding a newfound appreciation for touch.

A gun click gains Benjamin’s attention, forcing him to look up and away from his work. Caitlyn stands in the hallway. She points the weapon in his direction.

Benjamin sits frozen, a bewildered expression on his face. He then slowly ascends. Hands raised, fear in his eyes.

Caitlyn can see that her husband is desperately trying to reason. However, his words are inaudible, drowned out by the high-pitched ringing that has now intensified into bleaching white light.

Then... Everything fades away, leaving her in deafening silence, as Benjamin mouths the words, ‘Caitlyn, please don’t.’ Their eyes meet, and tension underscores the subsequent kill.

Caitlyn pulls the trigger.

The brutal voice of the gunshot echoes through the empty corridors.

• 2 •

TWO LIONS AND A CROWN

The city ambience from below melds into the scattering of diffused sunlight, seeping into a second-floor studio apartment’s open window. A majority of the exterior’s luminance has stopped short of this apartment. Tangible, yet just out of reach.

An alarm clock sits on the bedside table, within the confines of the minimalist abode, exposed pipework laid bare to see. The clock reads 13.15, in a whitish-blue hue. Its central colon flashing between the numbers, alight in a digital buzz. The bed is untouched.

Beside the unslept-in-bed is the open-plan living room, bathroom, and kitchen. The place is sparse. That’s why the turquoise acoustic guitar sitting in a corner is noticeable.

Jaydon Lynch lies on the sofa before a modern glass table. He is half asleep, dressed scruffily in a dark t-shirt and loose, dark cotton trousers. He stirs, then rises groggily from his stupor to a weary stretch, finding a sitting position.

His Nexus-Tab and an abundance of police files lie next to a digital newspaper pad. Amongst the files lies a black leather ID wallet with a silver-crested emblem—a crown hovers over a shield, with a lion on either side. The words, DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR, accompany the two magnificent creatures standing on hind legs; Jaydon is a cop.

A scattering of white pills lay next to an open bottle with the label Paroxetine. A few half-empty cups of black coffee sit alongside last night’s leftovers.

The digital newspaper pad includes a patchwork of several headlines and articles, such as Another Doll, Another Victim, and Calculating Killer Eludes Capture. They share space with Missing Girl Reunites with Family After 15 years.

Jaydon’s eyes skim a missing person’s report, with details such as height: 5 feet, weight: 105lbs, eye colour: hazel, sex: female, age: 15 years. His attention is now diverted to a blue origami unicorn lying next to the Nexus-Tab.

He lifts the origami tenderly for closer inspection. Upon doing so, the hairs raise on the back of his neck. He turns towards the feeling—presence trailing like a scent. The promise dissolved, leaving only the palpable absence of still air.

Jaydon gazes at the origami fondly, reminiscing. There is a figure that his eyes discern in the near distance, a young girl, in her mid-teens, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She wears casual blue denim and a purple jersey. She seems to have materialised from nowhere.

He somehow catches his breath. Jaydon outstretches his arm, offering a hand for the girl to take. Only these two inhabit the universe.

The ringing mobile breaks the moment. He glances downwards at the device. Along with six missed calls is a text message, which reads, I need you here. This is not just a request; it’s a summons. A tension coils in his stomach. His gaze returns to the empty room. The girl is gone. Jaydon rubs his face tiredly, then exhales deeply.

Jaydon opens the bathroom cabinet and scans the toiletries, which have an array of prescription drugs on display. This includes Fluoxetine, and Valium. For forty-three years, prescribed medicine hadn't crossed his mind. Not until recently.

He reaches for the legal drugs and closes the cabinet shut, forced to meet his reflection in its mirror—a stranger holding a thousand-yard stare. His curly brown hair carries a whisper of grey glimmer, and his face looks surprisingly young for his years, with expressive cheekbones. His dark brown eyes convey pain through his intense glare, yet are oddly trusting and at odds with the two-inch vertical scar that cuts from right eyebrow to cheek.

He embarks upon a momentary examination of the soul. The emptiness patiently awaits the encroaching darkness. Open armed and willing for the icy embrace. Eager to let her in.

He moves away from the cabinet, pours the drugs down the toilet, and then flushes. The pills disappear into the swirling abyss of water, pipes, and the sound of Bhuwoosh!

* * *

Jaydon has now taken a shower and shaved, clothed in a black top and slim trousers. He stands directly above the table. A warped reflection in the glass, attention aimed towards the assortment of police files and digital newspaper pad.

Jaydon’s eyes find the leather police ID. There is an intense charge, a change in his persona. He scoops up the badge and moves to the closet.

He reaches for his dark brown leather jacket, which is loosely placed on the clothes hanger. Before closing the closet, he notices the tan-coloured, open-faced, retro-modern motorbike helmet that lies on its side. It’s been a while. Jaydon hesitates for a moment before retrieving the helmet. He straps the helmet on, the tight fit against his skull a welcome pressure.

* * *

The hues of the street blur—streaks of brushstrokes across urban canvas. The city ambience fades. Jaydon’s ultra-streamlined electric motorbike vibrates—a mechanical pulse syncing with his own.

Moments of nothingness stretch endlessly, and in that oneness, he finds a fleeting, Zen-like clarity. The electric whine of the bike is a song that cuts like a knife—a relentless, droning hum, Tron-like—as he hurtles through the streets. He fixes his steely gaze on the road and where the journey might lead.

• 3 •

A TALE OF TWO NEIGHBOURHOODS

Detective Jaydon Lynch’s motorbike slows to a stop outside the Colburn residence—now a crime scene, complete with the standard controlled chaos and flashing lights. Several police officers stand behind the secured perimeter of snaking blue-and-white crime tape—a fragile barrier against the jostling news reporters.

He can feel the collective mix of morbid fascination and fear radiating from the onlookers. To them, this scene is a stark contrast to the neighbourhood’s usual quiet civility. This isn’t the sort of place where something like this should happen. In the Slums, it would be just another day. Jaydon knows this all too well. He spent his formative years in Pelth, the worst of the Slums—where violence was a constant companion, and lawlessness, the air you breathed.