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but why entrust such a thing to a man who had already refused to help?
    And yet, Sinclair wouldn’t have done something like this without good reason. The question was, what did the memory stick contain that was so important?
    Sinking onto his couch once more, Alex stared at the inconspicuous little storage device as if he could discern its contents simply through focussed determination.
    There was only one way he could find out what was so important about it, and that involved breaking the terms of his parole.
    He shook his head, frustration at his own impotence mingling with a growing concern for his friend’s safety.
    ‘For fuck’s sake, Arran. What have you got yourself into?’ he asked aloud.
    Even as he did so, he knew he wouldn’t find any answers here.

Chapter 5
    Three days.
    That’s how long I held out. Three days of going through the motions of my daily life, waiting with growing concern for Arran to contact me. Three days of turning over all kinds of possibilities in my mind. Three days of nervous anticipation that found no relief.
    The memory stick felt like a lead weight in my pocket, kept with me at all times just in case someone broke into my flat while I was out.
    Dixon’s threatened meeting with Human Resources came and went. I sat through it more or less in silence, hardly even aware of what was happening around me. All I could hear were words like ‘poor performance’, ‘unreliable’ and ‘questionable future’.
    In truth, part of me was hoping they’d just fire me and save us all the aggravation, but I suppose they had to go through the motions. We all had to.
*
    By the evening of the third day, Alex had finally made up his mind. There had been no word from Sinclair, and no indication that his friend would come to relieve him of the unwanted burden of the memory stick. One way or another, he needed to know what was going on.
    Returning home from another unfulfilling day at work, Alex discarded his shirt and trousers, slipping on a pair of faded jeans and a Metallica t-shirt he’d owned since he was a teenager. Though not normally superstitious, he’d always worn it back in the day when undertaking a new hacking attempt, as if it somehow conveyed an element of protection or luck. Pulling it on felt like stepping back in time.
    ‘Well, Arran, I hope you’re fucking happy now,’ he mumbled as he zipped up a black hoodie over the t-shirt. ‘I’m about to break my parole, just like you wanted. Wanker.’
    Shuddering in the unseasonably cold evening breeze, he left his apartment block and headed east, following the main drag towards Brentford tube station. With his hood up, head down and hands in his pockets, he was about as anonymous as it was possible to be in a place like this. People walked right by him, not paying the slightest notice.
    But unknown to Alex, one person did notice him. One person’s sole focus was directed at him in fact as they followed him about thirty yards back, sometimes coming closer, sometimes allowing the gap to widen. Once or twice they even appeared to stop and allow him to wander off, but always they stayed with him.
    A pair of cold, intense blue eyes followed his every move.
    Oblivious to his silent pursuer, Alex continued on his way, passing sad-looking charity shops, boarded-up retail units waiting to be leased and houses festooned with For Sale signs. The global financial crisis was still hammering the UK hard, and an air of gloom and doom seemed to have descended on the entire country. Even the stray cats lurking near takeaway bins looked more grim than usual.
    What he was looking for was about a hundred yards distant  –  he could already see the neon sign above the door, fashioned in the shape of a giant @ symbol.
    Internet cafes were by now a thing of the past  –  throwbacks to the 1990s, when only rich people could afford online access at home. But even in the twenty-first century there were still a few such places dotted around, kept going