My parents maintain closer contact with manual, fully organic workers. But then, my parents are stuck in the past. They have a gardener and chat with him as if they’re old friends. He lives in quarters tucked away by the side of their vegetable garden. Such a blatant servile setup; it makes me cringe just to think about it. I don’t understand what they’re trying to prove. And I particularly dislike how they moderate their vocabulary. I told them a while ago, “If you want to chat with the guy, don’t talk down to him.” They’re from a different era, more practised in the art of condescension.
I’m well versed in enclave life now, though my parents would be alarmed if they knew. I haven’t told them much about my work. I let them believe it’s mainly a desk job. Previously they were aghast at the long hours I worked, and I don’t wish to give them another issue to fixate on—the dangers that they imagine lurk along every alley and street in the enclaves. If I told them some of the sights I’d witnessed, they’d lap it up because people like my parents take such a prurient interest in the underclass. To be fair, I’ve never heard either my mother or father talk of an underclass. If you don’t name it, you can pretend it doesn’t exist.
The shuttle zips out beyond the suburbs, and I look out for the sandstone ridges where I walked as a teenager with a bunch of friends. Must be over twenty years ago. We followed the footpaths through fields and hiked up and along the ridge before dropping down for a pub lunch and a couple of pints. One of my old mates, a lawyer himself now, tried to retrace the walk last year, but it didn’t work out; the footpaths didn’t connect up as they did before. Farmers had taken the opportunity to have the paths declassified. But you can still walk on the ridges and along the canals, so it’s no big deal.
It’s my first visit to W3, but I’ve found these enclaves are all much of a muchness. Like these shuttle carriages, they’re cheap and cheerful, but I wouldn’t want to travel beyond W3 on these slatted seats.
I buy coffee from a street vendor and loiter on the cracked and uneven pavement to watch the world go by, giving me time to acclimatise to the market. The street is packed with shoppers, and the smell of dust and body odour is pungent. No one seems remotely interested in me. I’m nondescript, sporting the enclave “look” of faded shirt and shorts, part of my collection of shabby clothes—enclave-chic—kept at home in vacuum-storage bags. My hair’s too glossy after a week at home, so I’m wearing an old football cap. I won’t shower while I’m here.
The coffee vendor, I decide, runs a neat business. His capital equipment comprises a trolley with a heated urn of water and a set of metal cups attached by chains to his trolley. He’s basically selling hot water, and he’s serving nonstop. Now that’s what I call a stress-free job, one that leaves the entrepreneur with a sense of satisfaction at the end of the working day. Unless it’s a front for illegal earnings in some other operation. Unless he’s gone into debt to buy the gear. Unless he’s paying protection to a local racket. Who knows? The police don’t dig into enclave matters if they can possibly avoid it. That’s why we in immigration must force the pace on occasion.
After I’m finished, I hand the empty cup to the vendor, and he dunks it in a bucket of soapy water. I merge with the slow-moving crowd and run through my plan: find the clothing section of the market, look for a specialised stall of recycled fashion, check who’s working on the stall—I will not approach her at this stage—and follow the target at the end of market day. Once I know where she lives, I’ll send a small sparrow drone up to her rooftop, see who’s working up there. Should be a cinch to build a case against her, prove that she’s connected to Jaspar’s recycling operation.
Up ahead I see a pink sheet hanging limp above the heads of the shoppers. I’ve seen similar primitive signalling in other enclaves, marking the textiles section of the markets. In W5, it’s a green sheet. In W9, it’s a set of old faded towels pegged on a line across the street. And in W2, heralding household goods, there’s a line strung up with wooden spoons, which clack together on windy days.
I turn into the street below the pink sheet, which is decidedly grubby up close, and ease my way along, neither dawdling nor forcing myself ahead of other shoppers. Mostly junk clothing here. How can people abide buying and wearing any of it? I’m on the lookout for a small-time operation, like this one: a few long scarves, loosely knotted to a bar. It can’t be Ma Lexie’s stall, based on Caleb’s description. It would be far more eclectic.
Ah, brilliant! Three stalls farther down. Fucking sure of it. I dodge between two stalls on the opposite side of the street and thumb through a tangle of second-hand kids’ clothes while glancing up to catch sight of the female stallholder. Looks the right age, but I can’t get a clear view. She’s partly concealed by a male customer. The garments on sale do match the information Caleb gave me: one-offs, hung to display each one individually, rather than jammed together on rails.
Her customer walks off without making a purchase and Lexie, assuming it’s her, stares at his back as he saunters away. She plants her hands on her hips. But if she’s deflated, her mood switches in an instant. Two women march directly to her stall from my end of the street, and at once Lexie is all smiles. Some banter and then her shoulders shake as she laughs, entirely unrestrained. She’s pretty. Fuck, she’s stunning.
In the hostel dorm, I take a top bunk and stretch out. It’s too soon to send up the sparrow. Early evening will be better, when most people are distracted by domestic chores and making meals.
I’m thinking about my subject, Ma Lexie, and not in a fully professional manner. I have a yen for strong women. More specifically, physical strength in a lightweight, small-framed woman. I watched Lexie dismantle her stall midafternoon, manhandling large boards and steel poles, stacking them neatly at the side of the street. She looked lean, her muscles well-defined as though she works out.
I followed her as she pushed a hand trolley stacked with containers, her stock of garments. The market was frenetic with last-minute shoppers, traders starting to pack up. She came to a sudden halt, set down the trolley, pivoted and walked three or four paces in my direction. I could have kicked myself. She didn’t focus on me. She stooped, picked two mangoes out of a box on the ground.
The stallholder called to her, “On the house, those, Lexie.”
I’d already swivelled, my back to her, while I inspected a pile of misshapen tomatoes. I’d forgotten my training, followed too closely behind her because I hadn’t anticipated any danger. Still, I’d nearly messed up.
She returned to the trolley, and I snuck a glance as she dropped the mangoes into a cloth tote bag, the strap of which dug deep into the flesh between her neck and shoulder. I replay that in my mind—the strap, the flesh.
The subject turned off Clothing Street, and I kept my distance. I observed her come to a halt, as expected, at the recycling yard. She disappeared inside. I stood fifty metres away and grew impatient waiting for her to emerge. Became bored acting like a loafer, leaning against a wall, occasionally biting a fingernail, something I’d never do in real life. She reappeared with the loaded trolley and a large bundle balanced on the top. I nipped into the entrance of a housing block, stood back in the shadow of the staircase and waited for her to walk past. That’s when I gleaned that the bundle comprised a sheet wrapped around old textiles, a shirtsleeve poking out, and it looked heavy. Her biceps bulged. What a Trojan.
I tailed her once again. She stopped briefly to converse with someone through an open window, waved goodbye and moved on. About one hundred metres farther along the street, she entered a block of flats and did not reemerge. Two minutes or so later, a pair of window shutters opened on the top floor.
Can’t be sure, but I’d hazard a guess that’s Lexie’s place. And now, I’m holed up in the hostel located in the neighbouring block.
At six o’clock I make my move to the hostel’s shower block, specifically to the end cubicle with the window. I’ve executed drone surveillance dozens of times before; all I need is privacy. Here goes.
I launch my sparrow from the windowsill and fly it vertically, monitoring and controlling its flight with a small tablet. I spin it, giving me a good indication of activity across several rooftops. I see the usual mix of solar arrays and various small enterprises, some easier than others to identify, like the laundry. I swoop down and notice beehives. Swinging around, I see a roof garden opposite Lexie’s block. A good place to set down for a while. That’s when I notice that the roof garden is suffering neglect. Tall weeds. Pots with shrunken compost and dry, brittle remains of plants. Someone’s bored with gardening? Never have understood why people put so much time into gardens; it all goes to rack and ruin eventually, when the owner falls ill, dies. Still, it’s odd that this garden is neglected. Must be a story there.
Looking across at Lexie’s roof, I linger and monitor for any sign of movement. There’s none. Leo—or Caleb, I should say—told me about two boys. Where are they? Resting? Time to look closer. I fly the sparrow across the narrow street, circle the roof then drop down to make transects, finally hovering at the entrance to a makeshift structure. This is the workshop that Caleb described. Inside there’s nothing but a table with textiles, one chair, no sign of children or bedding. Nothing at all to corroborate his story.
I find that I’m not disappointed.
I’ll take a closer look at the window. See if Ma Lexie does live there. The sparrow sweeps over the side of the roof parapet and around the building to the window. Hovering. It’s her all right. She’s singing and swaying as she clears her kitchen table. I increase the volume and zoom in. A mango stone and a discarded mango skin, crosshatched with cuts. She sashays closer to the window, drops the mango waste into a compost dish and looks out of the window. I’m looking into her eyes and she forgets the words to the song. La la la laa.
Little wonder that Caleb felt conflicted. Should I leave her be?
Sunday morning, and I’m checking out of the hostel when I ask the warden, “Have you noticed the building up the street? The one with the rooftop garden? It’s gone to ruin. I can see that from the street. I’m thinking they need a gardener.”
He shrugs. He pays little heed now that I’ve checked out.
“See, I’m a gardener. Who’s the janitor in that building? I’ll offer my services.”
He turns away and talks to the wall. “Don’t know the whole sodding street, mate.”
I walk up the street towards the market square where I’ll stroll by Lexie’s stall again. A message comes in from Beth:
I called by. No sign of life. What about that dinner?
What’s this, then? I message straight back because I don’t do mind games with Beth. She’d see straight through me.
Finishing up some fieldwork. Back later today. I’ll book somewhere special.
And a reply: Good. I’d like to chat.
And a follow-up: I think I miss you.
I whistle long and low. No point sticking around here. I don’t need to do these specials, these forays. I’m not chasing promotions any longer.
But I can’t resist making contact with Lexie, if only briefly.
I saunter up to her stall while she’s finishing up with a customer. Lexie’s speaking voice, accent and all, is not as soft as her singing voice. Her teeth could do with some work. I’m tempted to buy a remake blouse for Beth, but I stop myself. I don’t like to mix business with pleasure. The customer walks off, and I’m left facing Lexie. A breeze wafts her dress, and I detect body odour. Brings me to my senses. I say, “It’s nice, this blouse, but I’m not sure. Definitely in the running.” I half turn to walk away but hesitate. “Say, do you make all these clothes yourself? It’s great workmanship.”
I wonder if she’s ignoring me. She refolds the garments on the tabletop. She turns her back to me and says, “Yes. All my own work. Thanks!”
God, she seems harmless enough. Anyway, I’m wasting my time without any evidence from her rooftop.
I head off to the shuttle station, updating my report on this Ma Lexie woman en route:
No evidence of illegal employment.
Line of enquiry closed.
CHAPTER 7
JASPAR
Old Frankie crosses the yard, approaching my office with a jaunty spring in his step. I chortle to myself. He never gives up, does Frankie. Still serving the clans at his age.
He’s chuffed with himself, quite rightly. I won’t deny him his moment of glory, even if he only did yesterday what he’s bloomin’ paid to do—paid not just by me but by all the clans. He’s supposed to clock any interlopers. Worth every penny we cough up to pay for his coffee stall. On the edge of the market, it’s a handy spot to see who’s coming from and going to the shuttle station.
He steps into my office. Hiding any feeling of satisfaction, he says, deadpan, “Hey, Jasp. What’s going on, then?”
“Under control, Frankie. Thanks for enquiring. Here’s a bonus for the prompt action yesterday.” I pass him a stack of enclave credits. Knew he’d call by at some point, so I had the stack ready.
“I seen your boys this morning, leading that fella off,” he says.
“I doubt he’ll be back.” I give Frankie a wink.
A skinny devil these days, but in his prime, before his injuries reduced him, shall we say, everyone gave Frankie his due as a serious fixer. Even now, though he’s way down the ladder, he takes pride in his work. I like that about him. If my dad had took one-fifth the pride in his work that little Frankie took today, we’d have a fucken empire. Any road up, I’m a patient man whatever anyone thinks, and I know I’ll get there in the end. It’s all about patience, hard work and managing risk. Managing, in other words, other people’s balls-ups. It’s Lexie’s balls-up that’s back at the top of the agenda.
“That fella—what a wanker, eh Jasp? Trying to pass for a local. He weren’t fooling no one, were he? Thought he could stroll in here on his own, the wanker. Did Lexie tell you, wore a dirty Man City cap? Talk about disrespectful. That’s what I thought.”
This could go on, so I stand, place my hand on his shoulder and edge him to the door. “Job well done, mate. We’ll take it from here.” I’m thinking, mind, without little Frankie I’d be right exposed. I’d have no inkling that someone was snooping around.
As it turned out, once we got the nod from Frankie, everything went like clockwork. Classic example of old-fashioned surveillance by foot soldiers who know their patch. Frankie sends his chaser, a woman called Trace, to follow the interloper. She messages back to Frankie that the guy’s lurking in Clothing Street, eyeballing Lexie. Trace knows her job well enough. She signals a girlfriend, and the two of them go over to Lexie, all best-mates-like, tell her to make a show of laughing with them, tell her to watch out for the bugger in the Man City cap.
Last night, nine o’clock or so, I pieced everything together, all the local intel about . . . what shall I call him? Lexie’s stalker? Stalker Man. Yeah. This intel includes Lexie’s own account of what happened. She comes to the yard straight after the market. Tells me, when Trace and her mate gave her the warning, she straightaway spotted Stalker Man hanging around by the second-hand clothes stall a bit further up Clothing Street. He wandered off at one point, she tells me, but then reappeared midafternoon while she was busy dismantling the stall and stacking her trolley. So she sets off to deposit her takings in my safe, and the silly cow decides to catch him in the act of following her. Came fucken face-to-face, but she claims she didn’t catch his eye. I told her straight, she was idiotic. I had Trace and two of my lads following him. I didn’t need her playing the sleuth. Naturally, I had to satisfy myself there were no monkey business, so I asked Lex: Do you know the fucker? Said I’d only ask her once. She claimed she didn’t know him, and I believed her.
Anyways, according to my lads, this Stalker Man follows Lex from the market down the street towards my yard and later follows her from the yard to her block of flats. He checks into the hostel in the neighbouring block to Lexie’s. Seriously, I didn’t like hearing that.
&
nbsp; Lexie then drops the bombshell in a message, a couple of hours after she gets home, that she thinks a bird drone is hovering outside her kitchen window. “Peeping Tom?” I ask. “No,” she says. “I’m clearing up the kitchen. I’m not swinging from the goddamn chandelier. Why would it be hovering watching me wash the dishes?”
No sleep for me last night. I stayed at the yard, double-checking through all the employee records, making sure all the warehouse workers are bona fide local. See, I shipped out the underage workers, including those two little nippers of Lexie’s. Transported them to labour agents within twenty-four hours of Caleb’s disappearance. See, if Caleb was picked up, he’d shop us without a doubt. And the penalties are grievous for keeping underagers on your premises. But they’d still need evidence.
Two days after shipping out the underagers, I took the plunge. Right off the top board. I shipped out all the illegals. Not sure it was totally necessary because, soon after, my man in the police tells me they picked up the Odette girl on the roadside, across the border in Wales. He says she claimed physical abuse and enslavement, but no one in the force gives a shit. She’s had a summary judgment, he tells me, and she’s off to a detention facility, ready for shipping back home. Wherever that is. No one’s wasting money on any trial for the murder of an enclave resident, he says. In any case, the janitor woman was breaking the law in the first place. And the police don’t care unless an enhanced someone or other is mugged or murdered. More to the point, as far as I was concerned, my man tells me there’s no mention in the case notes of any accomplice.
Question is: Has this Odette been kicked out yet? Immigration might still be screwing her for info, making false promises because that’s their fucken job to do so. And who is Stalker Man? Is this fella a real-life creep, taken a shine to our Lex? I hope so because that’s the easiest problem to fix. My inclination, however, is that Odette has talked some more, or Caleb has been picked up and he’s doing the talking. It’s my job to sweat over these things even though, thanks to me, our exposure is near zero. Even if immigration raids these premises in the next five minutes, they’ll find nothing suspect. But, hell’s fucken teeth, profits are well shite, and they’ll stay like that until I can restaff the conveyors with Skylark’s help.
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