“I’d rather we didn’t take the bridge. Somewhere this side of the river perhaps?” He scratched his head. Lit-up shops gleamed either side towards Covent Garden.
Sarah drew her eyebrows together, then spoke over the traffic. “If we take this road, it leads us to Covent Garden. I live that way and know a decent restaurant.”
Brock nodded and they made for the pedestrian crossing.
“I want to talk to you about something really important,” she said. But a crowd had formed at the crossing and the green man lit up and started flashing. Brock and Sarah pushed forward with the moving crowd to the other side of the road.
After walking through several busy roads filled to the brim with people, they arrived at a quiet residential street. Sarah pointed to a dimly lit building, a cream canopy hanging over it. Brock squinted, noticing parked cars either side, in particular a black jeep.
“This is it, the Shack Lounge. I’ve eaten here several times. The food is so divine.”
Sarah pulled at Brock’s rigid body. She paused; his face was deathly white.
“Are you OK? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Er, I think so. Should we go inside?”
Wind slapped their faces and rain splashed across the road as they hurriedly crossed, stepping inside the Shack Bar. A fancy mahogany wood bar filled with whiskies and brandies greeted them. Soft music played in the background, and an aroma of garlic and spicy foods filled the air. Brock stepped across the polished wooden floors towards a fancy table; the place felt familiar somehow, but he didn’t recall this part of town. He relaxed into a settee behind a mahogany table and directly under the window, throwing his rucksack under the table, peering at the switched-off disco lights above what he imagined had once been an old dance floor.
Sarah blocked his view by settling into a mahogany wood chair opposite, placing her handbag on the table. The restaurant was surprisingly quiet for this time of night, and she dug her hand into his side, pointing to the right-hand side of the restaurant where the floor was raised somewhat. He tightened his body, staring at the other half of the settee.
“Did you have to pick a table next to the emergency fire doors?” she asked. “There are more glamorous places up for grabs in here.”
“To be truthful, I never noticed them. Do you want to move to another table?”
She smiled as he sunk further into the settee, reaching out for the menu. Slowly, he edged himself up, with a sneaky peek out of the window, and waved a waitress over to the table. A young woman immediately headed in his direction.
“Drinks?”
Brock pointed to Sarah, who was eagerly scanning the drinks menu. As the waitress waited, Brock cleared his throat.
“The house red?” Sarah asked.
He nodded and the waitress pulled out a pad from her pocket, scribbled on it, and disappeared. He glanced into Sarah’s deep-blue eyes, opening his mouth to speak.
“If you don’t mind me saying, that’s an exquisite white dress you’re wearing. Where did you buy such a beautiful garment?”
“Boeuf Bourguignon,” she said.
Brock stretched his neck, taking another peek through the window at the black jeep. It was still parked unevenly and a dark figure of a man was lounging it. Everything appeared normal—except it wasn’t. But he cannot put his finger on why.
“Well, Boeuf Bourguignon makes beautiful garments,” he said.
“They don’t make garments …. you eat boeuf bourguignon. It’s a French dish served here and it’s what I’m ordering. Who’s outside?”
He pulled himself up. “Nobody. I’m admiring this area. I don’t come to this part of town much, if at all.”
Sarah leaned back. “It’s a residential street, not exactly something to admire. Where is the wine?”
“An unusual name for a bar, do you think? A posh place like this, you would have thought it had been named more appropriately, I mean, come on, the Shack? I was expecting to walk into some right dingy haunt.”
He didn’t want to bother her with the black jeep. It was probably a random guy waiting for someone else … except it probably wasn’t.
“Dingy haunts are not my thing. My understanding is it’s been around a long time. Maybe they kept the name on, businesses often do. Brock, I need to talk to you—”
The waitress appeared, placing two wine glasses neatly on the table and uncorking the bottle. They ordered food and she disappeared again towards the bar.
“I’m worried about you. I think you need to get help.”
“What? Where did that come from?”
“I’m talking about your injury. I’ve been watching you around the gym. You’re in a bad way.”
“That’s because your bitch of a friend spiked my drink. She’s a controlling piece of shit. You should see her for what she is. I bet she doesn’t know you’re with me, she’d do her nut.”
“Please don’t swear, Brock. I very much don’t approve of swearing and—”
“Well, does she?”
“Lacy doesn’t swear, and of course she doesn’t know I’m here. And it’s nothing to do with her, she can mind her own business. You know I work in a hospital? I’d like you to pay a visit, get checked out.”
Brock necked a mouthful of wine. “Why do you hang around with her anyway?”
Sarah took a small sip of her wine then put her head in her hands. The restaurant door opened and a couple walked through the door, taking a seat near the bar.
“She has helped me out a great deal. I was in a right state some time ago. I don’t know what I would have done without her.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, but she caused me a serious problem the other night. Worse, you don’t believe me.”
“My dad was murdered when I was twelve. He was a sergeant in the Royal Navy and his ship had been drafted over to Argentina after they’d invaded the Falkland Islands. One night his ship was attacked by mortar fire and that was it, gone. His body was hardly recognisable when they flew it back. My mother took it very bad. I think she took it out on me. I ended up hating her so much that on my sixteenth birthday I moved out. That’s when I ended up on the streets.”
She coughed, picking up her wine and fidgeting with the glass.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Brock.
Sarah screwed up her face and tears rolled down her cheeks. Brock pulled a tissue from the table, handing it to her.
“We were always travelling around from base to base. After this episode, we fell on hard times. I met Lacy a couple of years ago in a club in Leicester Square and we’ve been friends ever since. She knew I was unemployed and had little money and I lived in a horrendous place, better than the street, I suppose. She told me they were looking for an assistant receptionist in the hospital where she worked. One thing led to another and I got a placement, bit of college to learn the job, and the rest is history.”
Brock leaned on the table, took her hand, and took a generous gulp of wine. Tears continued to roll down Sarah’s cheeks.
“She took me under her wing. I owe so much to her.”
Sarah wiped her eyes on another tissue, and they both sat in a moment of silence, the soft music playing in the background.
“Eventually I managed to rent a flat above a pottery shop around the corner here in Covent Garden, overlooking the opera house. It’s getting too expensive now, but I’ve enjoyed every beautiful day there.”
Brock tried to imagine such an exquisite flat overlooking London’s opera house. He grabbed the bottle, filling both glasses up again.
“Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with my life. What about you? I want to know.”
“There’s not much to tell, and you probably know most of what I do already.”
“What about your parents? Have you located them yet?”
Brock shook his head, his
mind wandering off into another world, and Sarah interrupted.
“Enough of all our miserable troubles. I need to talk to you about something really important.”
But as she opened her mouth to speak, a smartly suited man in his fifties hovered over them holding a tray of food.
“Brock!” he said. “I haven’t seen you for years. Kind of you to drop by. What are you up to these days?”
Brock gazed at the man with a blank expression on his face as he lifted the plates of food from the tray.
“Incidentally, you are still banned from this place. However, that was a while ago, so I’ll reinstate your custom—for now, providing you behave yourself.”
“Banned?”
“Yes, banned! I’m the manager of this club, remember? I’ve lost count of the number of times I used to kick you out of this place. As I recall, we agreed to a lifetime ban. Mind you, it was a lot rougher back then. As you’ve probably noticed, we’re a little upmarket these days. We take in different clientele, and it’s a lot easier I can tell you.”
“Can you tell me what I would have been doing in here?”
“What you were doing in here? I’ll never forget. Anyway, mate, we’re a bit short-staffed here. I’ll speak later.”
The man wandered to the other side of the room, handing a menu to a couple, and disappeared through a door behind the bar.
“You really can’t remember a thing, can you?”
Brock shook his head. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. Might have me mixed up with someone else. I’ll chat to him another time. So, what do you want to talk to me about?”
She laughed, relaxing back into her chair. Picking up a fork, she stabbed it into a piece of the tender braising steak. Brock peeked out of the window; the black jeep was still parked with the dark figure inside.
“My friend at the hospital wants a chat. I mentioned you … hope you don’t mind. She offered to help.”
“I’ve had enough help to last me a lifetime. I don’t need any more help.”
“Do it for me, please?”
She took a long draught of wine and then came to sit right beside him. He moved closer and she ran her hand through his hair. Brock tentatively placed his lips on hers, and she responded enthusiastically.
“That’s blackmail,” he said when he caught his breath.
Laughter poured out of their mouths and Sarah pulled herself from the settee.
“Fine,” Brock said. “For you. On one condition. We go on another date and you tell me where that favourite place of yours is.”
“That’s two, and this isn’t a date. Oh, it’s just this stupid big house on Hampstead Heath.”
“Stupid house?”
Sarah glanced away, smiling enigmatically. Brock peered through the window; the black jeep was still parked and the dark figure appeared to be staring at him.
Chapter 7
Brock wandered along the pavement, passing expensive designer shops. Men wore exquisite suits and the women fancy dresses. Mayfair was indeed the land of the rich, and it was unusual for him to deal with an estate agency here. But his bank statement informed him otherwise, and rent by direct debit was being taken every month by Condour Housing. Crossing the road, he pulled out his mobile phone. Unsurprisingly, there was a missed call from Sergei. He ignored it, slipping the mobile back into his pocket.
A smart woman in expensive business attire gave him a second glance; he had a new gash cut into his face after another agonising nightmare last night. A weird lucid dream of a strange old woman screaming a warning for him to get out of the box.
Finally, he reached Berkley Square in the heart of Mayfair, where houses stood tall around a square and well-maintained greenery. He stepped up to the tall building of Condour Housing. It was not the glorious, prestigious building he’d imagined. Instead, it was a simple, tall brick building with a shiny black door, strangely bare with no numbers or signs. He checked the numbers each side of the building to make sure this was the correct one. A tiny silver intercom sat to the left of the door and he reached out his little finger, pressing it once. The intercom crackled, ringing several times, and a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“Err, yes I need a copy of my tenancy.”
“Oh, pop to the first floor.”
A loud buzz cracked out of the intercom and Brock pushed the shiny black door, stepping inside. Warm air blew into his face and his feet sank into a red carpet. He climbed the stairs, glancing at the boring white walls and bare stairs. As he reached the top, he was greeted by a red-haired woman dressed in an unusual white suit.
“Sorry, how can I help you?”
“I’m after a copy of my tenancy. Your agency never provided me with one.”
The woman brushed down her white suit, glancing at him as if lost for words.
“We are not an agency.”
“You are Condour Housing, right?”
“Yes, we are a small housing association. Please come through to my office and I’ll see if we can print one for you. Who are you anyway?”
Brock didn’t answer and followed her through a white hallway and into a small office with barely any furniture. He looked through the window, which overlooked the quiet park in the middle. Several people were sitting on the wooden seats, including a woman fumbling with her glasses and nattering on her mobile phone and a man standing adjusting his black suit.
“Sorry, what area are you living in?”
“Camden.”
The woman stared at him. “Camden? We don’t have any properties in Camden, do we? Well if we do, they have kept that one from me. Hang on a sec, I’ll be back in a minute.”
She scrambled through the door, returning with a thick file in her hand.
“I’ve spoken to Tina and we do have some properties in Camden. It’s certainly news to me, I can tell you. And, might I add, that gash on your face looks pretty serious. She’s told me to take your name and she’s going to pull your file up and print you a new copy of your tenancy. We do, of course, require some identification—you know, like a passport or driving licence.”
“I haven’t brought anything. I don’t have those documents anyway. My name is Brock Steele—”
She let out a huge gasp, darting out of the room. Brock rubbed his hand across his head and glanced at the blood on his palm. A few moments passed and she came back in holding some white sheets of paper.
“Tina said that we do need identification. Are you able to come back?”
Brock snatched the white paper out of her hand.
“You can’t do that. Get off!”
She moved towards him, attempting to snatch the papers back, but he blocked her with his body.
“Tina? Tina, help me?”
“Who is Dalton Fisher? Why did he sign my tenancy?”
A smartly dressed woman appeared in the doorway . Brock hid the papers behind his back.
“I didn’t sign this tenancy. Why did somebody else sign my tenancy? And why is it only nine months old?”
“You moved in nine months ago, and as far as I can remember someone signed it on your behalf. Now please give that tenancy back and leave or I will call the police,” said Tina.
Brock threw the papers across the table and charged out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the shiny black door into Berkley Square. He peered towards the square and over at the man in the black suit, who was looking back at him. He stepped into the road, took a deep breath, and spotted a white van heading towards him.
Brock hurried onto the pavement, but the van swerved, scraping the curb and knocking into his side, sending him crashing into the hard ground. A sharp pain ran through his leg. Distant screams filled the air, and the van reversed and headed towards him again. Jumping up, he hobbled out the way of the van hurtling towards him. It skidded up the ker
b again, narrowly missing him, and he fled in the opposite direction, emerging onto a busy street. At the end of a side road, he spotted a red double-decker bus. He limped over to a bus stop, and a woman in jeans and white T-shirt stared at him.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
He nodded and she threw him a white handkerchief, which he folded and placed over his cut. The bus jerked into the stop and his phone started ringing. Jumping on the bus, he fell into a seat on the bottom deck and answered it. It was from Audrey.
“Can we meet urgently today?”
“Yes, I could get to your office in about a couple of hours. I—”
“Forget the office. There’s a coffee bar a couple of streets away from where you live. Meet me there in a couple of hours.”
The phone went dead. Brock sat back, firmly holding the handkerchief onto his forehead. His leg was in agony. He contemplated calling her back, but he couldn’t make his mind up. He’d wait. The double-decker pulled into another bus stop and a crowd stepped in. An old woman perched on the seat beside him and he adjusted his body, sinking further into the seat. He racked his brains on what had unfolded minutes ago. Questions poured into his head, but one thing was for sure: it had been no accident.
Brock crossed the street, lurching into Camden Avenue. Spots of rain splashed onto his face and he sped up his pace. As he approached the door, something in his stomach tugged. It was ajar—or rather kicked in. Racing down the stairs, he flung the lounge door open and stared at the mess. The settee was turned over and glass ornaments were smashed across the floor. In his bedroom, clothes were scattered everywhere and his bed was smashed up. He let out a shaky gasp, putting his head into his hands, fury welling up. His head was throbbing.
He picked up the landline phone and slammed it back down. Sure, he could hear the dialling tone, but what was the point in calling the police? Whatever he was caught up in, he doubted they would help. The internet router lay sideways across the floor and the tiny lights flashed. In a moment of uncertainty, he stepped across the room to his secret hiding place, pulling up the floorboards and searching for his laptop. He slipped his hand underneath and it brushed along the hard plastic. It was there.
Brock Steele Sphere Page 4
