by Amy Cross
"Laura?" Tricia continues. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I reply, forcing a smile. "Nat Longhouse and his son George. We have to find them before anyone else dies."
Chapter Fifty-Five
He stands in the doorway and stares at the empty bed. Lately, he's felt as if he's losing control of his son, and this is no exception: the boy has been out for hours now, probably getting drunk and trying to score hard drugs. As far as the old man is concerned, his son is way out of shape and needs to be fixed, but recent events have caused significant strains between the pair of them.
After wandering across the dark, rubble-strewn room, he uses his arthritic hands to shift the broken door out of the way. Afternoon lights streams into the room as he steps out onto the concrete balcony, and he takes a moment to stare at the London skyline, with the Thames winding its way through the heart of the city. It's a view that gladdens his heart, although he knows that his days are numbered. He's begun to consider the practicalities of his own death, and he's decided that he wants to be outside when it happens, and close to the river. The sky and the water are the only two parts of this wretched world that have ever been kind to him, so he wants to be with them when he draws his final breath.
"Where are you, boy?" he whispers, surveying the city. "Come on, you little fucker. What else have you got to be doing out there?"
Suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing, he leans against the door-jamb and damn near hocks his guts up. Blood fills his mouth until he lets it dribble from his lips, and he watches for a moment as it splashes against the dusty concrete. He can feel something in the back of his throat, so he spends another couple of minutes trying to cough it loose until finally a thick piece of bloodied flesh breaks loose for him to spit out. It's as if his body is literally breaking apart, and he figures that's probably more or less what's happening.
Somewhere nearby, a baby starts to cry.
Realizing that the boy probably won't be back for at least a few more hours, he turns and heads back inside. He has so much to do, and so little time. The boy's help would be useful, but he knows he can get on with most of the tasks alone. His gut is burning and he can barely summon the strength to keep moving, but finally he flops down on his bed and takes a moment to let the pain run its course. Almost subconsciously, he keeps flexing and un-flexing his swollen hands, as if he hopes that it might help to keep them moving. Finally, a single tear runs from his eye, trickling down to his ear, and he stares up at the concrete ceiling, waiting for death.
He's almost ready. There are just one or two little loose ends to tie up first.
Chapter Fifty-Six
"Fucking animals," Sam grunts as he uses his hip to force the door open. "Jesus Christ, it stinks in here. What kind of person leaves their flat to get like this?"
"The kind of person who gets kicked out for tenancy violations," Mark replies, "and decides to thoroughly trash the place as they go."
"Disgusting fucking idiots," Sam replies. "How long's the place been empty again?"
"Six months," Mark mutters as the pair of them haul their equipment inside. They've come armed with two huge tubs of white paint, along with rollers, brushes, sheets and a stepladder, but getting up to the fourth floor of the apartment block wasn't easy with the lifts out of order. The entire building is run-down and squalid, having been left to rot a long time ago, and no-one at the council office had been able to say exactly how many people might still be living in the damn place.
"There's people out there with nowhere to live," Sam mutters, peering through into the dingy kitchen, "and meanwhile the council's holding onto places like this for six months at a time. There's something wrong with their priorities."
"Yeah, but no bugger would wanna live here until it's been painted," Mark points out. "Even the dregs of society have got standards."
"So get the lazy fuckers to paint it themselves!" Sam replies. Sighing, he leans the stepladder against a nearby wall and heads through to the front room, where he pulls the curtains open and starts trying to unlock the window. He sniffs a couple of times, still getting used to the foul stench that fills the apartment. "Smells like something's crawled in here and died," he mutters. "Bet you a pound to a penny there's rats. I fucking hate rats."
"You won't have any luck with the window," Mark calls out to him. "The council had 'em all sealed up a few years ago after a series of jumpers. Mind you, if I lived in a place like this, I'd probably wanna end it all as well."
"Nothing wrong that a lick of paint won't fix," Sam says, turning and looking back across the front room. "People are too -"
He stops suddenly as he sees the figure on the sofa. Blinking a couple of times, he tells himself that it's just a trick of the light, but finally he realizes that there's no mistake.
"I don't reckon this place has been empty six months," Mark calls through. "There's stuff in the kitchen that looks more recent. Do you reckon squatters managed to get in?"
Ignoring the question, Sam makes his way cautiously over to the sofa, grabbing one of the extended rollers along the way and finally using it to poke the figure from a safe distance. It's clear that he curled up on the sofa for warmth, and with all the power having been switched off months ago, the temperature would have plummeted overnight.
"You alright, mate?" Sam asks tentatively, even though he always knows what the answer will be; in his line of work, it's not exactly unusual to find a few dead bodies each year, and a lot of them are in far worse states. There's something in the stillness of the room that speaks of death.
He waits.
The figure doesn't move. Wrapped in a set of thick old coats, he has his face turned toward the cushion, but one of his swollen-looking hands is resting on his side. The man's more than just still; he's not moving at all, not even breathing. Sam has discovered enough corpses over the years to have a sort of second-sense when it comes to these things; he can already tell that the old man's heart is still. Then again, he also knows that he has to at least pretend to rouse the body.
"Mate?" he says again, poking the old man a little more firmly.
"Who you talking to?" Mark asks, wandering through but stopping in his tracks as soon as he spots the prone figure on the sofa. "Fuck, is he dead?"
"He's certainly not very talkative," Sam replies, poking the man's shoulder yet again. "How the hell did he end up getting left here for us to find?" He pauses, and finally the anger starts to build in the pit of his stomach. "I thought the council said they sent someone to check the place out last week? They were supposed to do a recce before they got us in! It's their one fucking job, for Christ's sake! They gave us all the forms! They specifically said someone'd been out here!"
"That's what they told us," Mark continues, "but they probably never actually got around to it. You know what they're like." Leaning across the sofa, he peers at the man's face for a moment. "He's definitely dead," he says eventually. "His eyes are open a bit. Fuck, he's a goner."
Sam makes his way around the sofa and leans closer, and sure enough he sees that the old man's dead, glassy eyes are staring at the fabric of the cushion.
"See that look on his face?" Sam says after a moment. "I've come across dozens of corpses over the years, and that's one of the most common looks that any of them have got. Surprise. It's like, at the last minute, they still can't quite believe that they're about to die. Gets me every time."
"Must've been squatting here," Mark replies. "Poor old bastard looks pretty fresh, though. I reckon he was probably still breathing this time yesterday."
"Look at his hands," Sam says, wincing a little at the sight of the man's swollen red knuckles. "That's some pretty severe arthritis. He must have been in agony." He pauses. "I guess we know what the smell is, then. Must have soiled himself after he died."
"I'll call it in," Mark says wearily, grabbing his phone and heading out into the hallway. "This is gonna bugger up the day, you know. They'll wanna investigate the whole bloody place. We probably won't even get star
ted until this afternoon now." Still complaining, he wanders out the front door so he can call for someone to come and take a look at the body.
"Sorry, mate," Sam says with a sigh as he steps back from the sofa. Turning to head out the door, he spots something on a nearby table, and after a moment he realizes that there are two large, rusty old metal hooks resting on top of a pile of rags. Picking one of them up, he turns it over a few times in his hands before setting it back down and making his way through to the kitchen, leaving the old man's dead body on the sofa.
"No," Mark says, wandering back inside while talking to someone on the phone. "No idea. I think it's just some homeless guy."
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Ophelia
"Hey!" I call out. "Wait up!"
"I'm busy, Ophelia," Josephine grunts, not even bothering to look back at me. "I'm tired, too, and I don't have time for any of your shit. Why don't you go play with your little piggy friends?"
"You'll never believe where I've been," I continue, the words tumbling out despite my attempt to speak more slowly. "There was this -"
"I know where you've been," she spits, stopping and turning to me. We're on Charing Cross Road and there's a big-enough crowd of passersby, some of whom look a little shocked by Josephine's unkempt appearance. "You've been helping the police with their inquiries," she continues. "You were seen, girl. People said you were out and about with a copper like a puppy on a string."
"No, but -"
"Did you get a nice treat for being good?" she continues. "Did she teach you lots of tricks? Did she put some food down on the floor for you, maybe in a little bowl with a doggie bone on the side?"
"It wasn't like that," I reply, starting to sense a lot of hostility in her tone. "I wasn't just hanging around for no reason. She needed my help and I decided to give it to her, but it was totally on my own terms." I wait for her to reply, but there's only suspicion and scorn in her eyes. "I have to start from the beginning," I stammer finally. "There was this guy -"
"Save it, Ophelia -"
"No, but listen -"
"You don't help the police," she says firmly, stepping toward me with pure anger in her tone. "Never, bitch! I don't care what else is going on, or how you manage to fix it up in your head, but one thing you never do is cross the lines like that! You think the police are on our side, girl? They hate us, and there's no way you should be going around helping one of them. What did the whore give you, anyway? Was she tossing crumbs of food down onto the ground?"
"She's -"
"It's one of the big rules," she continues, clearly warming to her theme. "People like us, Ophelia, we don't help people like them. You know why? It's because people like them look at us and they think we're nothing but scum! They wanna clear us off the streets and just cut out throats. We're not even a step above vermin! At least when they kill a rat, they don't gotta fill out no forms!"
"Laura's not -"
"Laura?" She laughs. "Oh, the bitch has a name, does she? How wonderful. And I'm betting you got your snout in deep, didn't you?" She pauses, all the laughter having drained from her face. "You've been conspiring with the enemy," she continues after a moment, "with the goddamn devil, and that's not something that anyone can ignore, Ophelia. Do you even know how many people like you and me have died because the police don't give a shit about us? They move us on and they act like we're dirt, and then you go running off to help them?"
I want to argue with her, but she seems so sure of herself.
"Word's spread," she continues. "People know where you've been, so don't think anyone's gonna trust you. You've been marked down as a turncoat little bitch, and you're not welcome around here no more."
"People have been dying," I reply, keen to make her realize why I did what I did. "Remember my notebook? I've been working on this thing for a while. People like us, they've been dying for a few months and finally the police started looking into it. There's this guy, or maybe two guys, and the police needed a different perspective." I wait for her to realize that I'm right, but the fury in her eyes is showing no sign of passing. "I did it for us," I add. "It's not like they paid me or I enjoyed it. I figured it'd be good for all of us if -"
"Excuses!" she shouts, shoving me against the wall before storming off.
For a moment, I consider letting her go, but finally I start hurrying after her. Josephine has always been a little prickly, but she's never been quite so aggressive. Then again, I know for a fact that she's had some run-ins with the police, and a friend of hers died in a cell a few years ago after being picked up for disturbing the peace. I guess Josephine's view of the police is etched in stone, but I still feel as if she should at least try to see things from my point of view.
"You have to listen to me," I say as I catch up to her. "I know what the police are like, okay? I know most of them are -"
"Most of them?" she shrieks. "All of them, bitch!"
"All of them," I continue. "Fine, I know, but this one was really good. She actually cares about -"
"Bullshit! She was using you!"
"It's all true!" I tell her, narrowly avoiding a collision with a group of shoppers. "I'm not an idiot! I gave them all the silent treatment, but this one was different. I even saw her trying to shoplift. She's messed up in all these different ways, but I think she really cares. I helped out because I thought it was a way to help all of us and -"
"Bullshit!" she shouts again, and this time she turns and gives me a huge shove that sends me tumbling down onto the pavement. I land awkwardly, grazing the palm of my hand and tearing the skin. Wincing, I get to my feet as a small crowd clears a space for me, but when I turn and look for Josephine I find that she's gone. I could go after her, but it's clear that she's not going to listen to me and I figure it'd be better to just let her calm down.
"You alright, love?" a woman asks.
Ignoring the question, I turn and hurry back the way I came. There are tears in my eyes and for the first time in years I'm starting to wonder if I made a huge mistake. Josephine's right when she says that the police are our enemy, and although I was able to rationalize my actions at the time, I guess I might have been just a willing dupe. After all, even though Laura seemed nice enough, at the end of the day she's only out to boost her own career. I shouldn't have allowed myself to get distracted. I have a life on the streets, and this is where I belong.
I shouldn't have let Laura get to me. I should have just stayed silent back in the interrogation room. Instead, I tried to be clever, and now I've ruined everything.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Laura
"I'm looking for George Longhouse," I say as I step into the office. "I was told you might know where I can find him."
"He's probably on a park bench somewhere," the woman says as she heads over to her desk. Smartly-dressed and with a very formal, clipped tone to her voice, Kelly Park seems unimpressed by my arrival, and as she glances at her phone it's clear that she's already waiting for me to leave. In fact, I'm getting the impression that the mere mention of her ex-boyfriend's name has put her on edge.
"Right," I say after a moment, "but it -"
"So that's all I can really tell you," she says firmly, with a kind of tension in her voice that makes her discomfort very clear.
"I believe the two of you dated for a while," I continue. "Is that -"
"Two years," she replies, interrupting me. "Why? What have people told you?"
"Nothing, I -"
"It's not my fault," she says defensively. "I'm not his fucking keeper or something. It's his life, his choices."
"So you're not in touch with him anymore?" I ask.
"Are you kidding?" she replies, sounding genuinely disgusted by the question. "Those two years with George were a complete waste of time. Well, after the first few months, anyway. He was a nice guy at the beginning, and I felt a bit sorry for him. He'd been laid off and he couldn't find a new job, but I thought I loved him so I tried to help. At first he seemed to be putting his life
back together, but..."
I wait for her to continue, but she seems lost for words.
"But what?" I ask eventually. "What happened?"
"After his old man got out of prison," she continues, "it was as if someone flicked a switch in George's head. He just kept going on and on about how he wanted us to have a kid. The more he pestered me, the more I realized I didn't want to have a child with him."
"So he was close to his father?"
"Not while the old bastard was in prison," she continues, checking her phone again before taking an electric cigarette from her bag and taking a puff. She seems nervous and highly-strung, and I can't help feeling bad for bringing up something that obviously causes her so much distress. She's defensive, too, as if she thinks that somehow I might blame her for what's happened with George.
"What was their relationship like?" I ask, hoping to push my luck a little further.
She shrugs.
"Would you say it was normal?" I add.
"Define normal."
"Was it a loving, father-son relationship?"
"I don't think he even went to visit him once," she replies, "but then after Nat got out, George just let himself get lured right back into it all. Nat's a total piece of work, and he knows how to press George's buttons. I'd made George see that he had to work hard, but Nat offered him easy answers and George..." She pauses, clearly still bitter about the whole situation. "In the space of about three months, George went from an alright kind of guy to just this empty-headed little idiot who ran around doing whatever his father told him to do. Meanwhile, I started noticing money missing from my purse, things like that." She pauses, and for the first time she lets her concern show through. "Why, what's wrong? Is George in trouble?"
"I'm just trying to find him in connection with an urgent matter," I tell her. "So did you and George live together?"
