2.
THE CITY OF LONDON
*
Two years ago
The London Underground at rush hour was hell.
I looked down and arranged my buttons and hoped I looked presentable. My shirt buttons had a habit of popping open to reveal the white skin between my breasts. It didn’t matter if the shirt was two sizes too big, the buttons around my breasts would always gape like a slack jawed mouth, inviting people to stare into it. My breasts weren’t even that big.
Today was the day, the beginning of the end. I breathed deeply and willed myself to smile. What I felt was not happiness. It was a temporary calm. I was just thankful that I had something else to think about, even just for a second. I felt high. I couldn’t sleep when waiting for the appointment. I had waited three whole days. The butterflies in my stomach seemed to get bigger and bigger the closer I got to the appointment. I wasn’t happy; I wasn’t sad. I was just floating. I lived my life in deathly smog that threatened to smother me whole at any second.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked out of the window. “Last Station: Ealing Broadway,” the pleasant but metallic voice filled the carriage.
I kept my eyes trained on the tube map above the heads of the passengers opposite me. I fixated on Shepherds Bush. Three stations to go. Two stations to go. I could stay strong for a little while longer. Please God, I clapped and intertwined my fingers. I blinked back tears, please let the meeting go well.
I knew I would go to hell for what I was about to do. I still begged all of the gods and none at all. I knew it was wrong, but I needed to do it. I knew I would not make it to Heaven. I still pleaded to God and thanked him for watching over me, begged him to give me strength. Just enough strength to last today, I bartered.
The train pulled into Shepherds Bush and the commuters filled out first. I held my messenger bag strap tightly and waited until my way was clear.
I got off the train and made my way up the escalators. I moved to one side automatically where people jostled past me, I had lived in London all of my life, and it was second nature. I hid my face in my mop of limp mouse-brown hair. I kept my eyes to avoid eye contact with other travellers but also to keep out of the eye line of the CCTV.
When I stepped out, the cold winter air ripped through me, but I didn’t shiver. I didn’t react. I tilted my head and let the air hit my face until my eyes watered. I didn’t live far away, Fulham. It would have taken an hour to walk to Notting Hill, but it only took about twenty minutes on the Central Line.
What unnerved me most about the streets of London was the people. I disliked them because the people on the streets had lived. But I didn’t want a life and didn’t want a career. I didn’t even see the point in dressing in different clothes or washing. After all, I would just need to repeat the process over and over, it was tedious and never ending.
Today I did all those things. I had got out of bed, and although I couldn’t see to the end of my depression, I did all of those things.
I held a piece of paper in my clenched fist. A name and address and nothing else.
I followed the GPS on my phone and before I had a chance to second guess myself. I stood in an area that I would never have come by choice.
Notting Hill.
A surprisingly good neighbourhood for a man of this profession.
I stared blankly at the front of a Victorian terrace house with no window boxes and no front garden maintenance. It was nothing special. Dingy even. But with London real estate prices I knew it was worth a pretty penny.
The iron railings felt like prison bars until I reminded myself I was outside of them. The pale blue paint of the building was faded, matched to the rest of the houses on the terrace. The house was at the end of the road but attached to all the others like a stationary end of a chain link. I bit back my last scrap of humanity. I apologised profusely to God and to Jesus under my breath and took the first solemn and irreversible steps up to his residence front door.
1…2…3…
I raised my hand to knock on the door just below the sign that informed me that the residents behind it did, ‘not buy or sell on this door.’ I knocked again. My hand now so cold it pained my knuckles. I grew more anxious as I waited, blood pounded in my ears.
Internally I begged my legs to run for it.
No, I told myself. I always ran away. Today I would be brave. If not for myself but for Mel. I would have to say her name out loud today. My stomach sank, and I was glad that I hadn’t eaten lunch because I was dangerously close to emptying its contents on the pavement.
“Name?” The door was ajar.
“Sophia Taylor,” I blurted out. No need to say the middle name I decided. No one needs to tell a stranger their middle name is Daisy.
“Come in,” a smooth male voice answered.
I pressed my hand on the pebbled glass as the door swung open. I stepped out of the cold quickly, but the hallway wasn’t much warmer. My hands shook and my whole body followed suit. My nerves were going to get the better of me.
“In here,” the bored male voice drawled.
Surely someone who was bored in this kind of situation belonged in hell long ago. I thought.
The hallway was covered in rich wood panelling and smelt of dust and polish. It was furnished crimson red plush velvet and enough books to stock a library. The man turned into the open archway on his left and disappeared. I urged my feet to hurry after him.
I couldn’t see his face as he stood with his back to me. He placed a book back into a slot on one of the tall antique bookcases.
I knew he was who I had searched for.
Henry Blaire seated himself casually in a black leather armchair in the far side of the room. He waited patiently, but his perused my whole body as if he was losing patience fast. I seemed to have failed whatever test he had just thrown at me. His lips pulled into a thin line, and he sighed quietly.
I couldn’t help it. His face had made me speechless. His eyelashes were long like a dairy cow’s and swept his cheeks like ebony feathers. His jaw was square and his face alabaster pale. He looked nothing like a murderer.
“Sit,” he commanded.
I eased myself into an armchair opposite Mr. Blaire, we were separated by a low oak coffee table. A crystal ashtray sat in the centre. It was rare for someone to smoke inside nowadays.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked timidly, my voice barely a whisper.
“Go ahead.” He said. He then buried his hands in his thick brown hair, it stuck up in places as if he regularly combed it with his fingers. I pulled the packet from my handbag and took out a cigarette. I put it to my lips and searched for a lighter when the man opposite cleared his throat and stopped me.
“Here. Please have one of mine,” Henry held out a cigarette pack of his own.
“But I have mine here,” I replied quickly.
I was scared and wondered if I had done something wrong. Why had he waited for me to be on the verge of lighting up before he had offered? The answer came back at once. He’s watching me, missing nothing. The question was why?
“I know.” He finally looked up at me and hitched a corner of his mouth into a cruel smirk. His face was angelic, too good to be true. It screamed trust me, yet his eyes were hard and said the opposite. If I wasn’t so determined and if I hadn’t faced worse, I probably would have run.
He was one of the most graceful men I had ever seen, but something tugged at the back of my mind. That was what made him scary. What I couldn’t see. He looked a young thirty. His eyes were deep indigo, almost black until they caught the light. Suddenly a wry smile replaced his intimating one as he showed me a glint of snowy teeth.
“It is only polite that I offer you one of mine,” he said. “Especially since I cannot abide the smell of that particular brand.”
I nodded as he slid the pack across the table. I stopped it with my hand and lit one. I tried to keep my fingers busy for a second so that my horrid shaking would subside. I saw the pa
in in the man’s eyes as if he was burning at the stake but enduring. I shifted uncomfortably as he watched fascinated by my every move, like a leopard about to fell an antelope.
“Thank you.” I murmured as I pulled the smoke into my mouth and down into my lungs. It made me feel warm again and gave me the concentration I needed. The man ran his fingers through his mahogany hair again. His dead blue eyes watched like a snake.
“How did you get my name? My number?” He asked acidly.
I blinked and started to panic.
“Someone I work with…indirectly of course…I had to go by a roundabout route… I went to the Spotted Grouse, the pub on Lawn Lane…” I looked at him to make sure that this answer was correct.
“Of course you did,” he smirked and tapped the ash from his cigarette. It was strange because I hadn’t even seen him acquire one or light it. It unnerved me, was I not paying attention?
All of the air rushed out of my lungs. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath.
“First,” he said, “I plan to record this meeting. Please bear that in mind before you say what you came here to ask me.”
“Why?” I said as I looked around the room for the recording device.
“It’s for both my insurance and yours,” he assured me calmly, his face an angelic mask as devoid of emotion as I hoped was mine. “Ms. Taylor, my name is Henry Blaire. Half now—I get the rest of the money when I complete the deal.”
“Yes,” I replied as I tried to draw confidence from the surroundings. “Mr. Blaire, I would like a copy of the tapes of this conversation, but other than that I agree to be recorded,” I smiled primly. “And I have the money in my purse.”
“Are you serious?” Henry asked as he searched my face.
“Yes, very.”
I must have looked like a little puppet girl, gaunt and barely able to move without my strings being pulled. I also knew he didn’t know I felt like that. I had to appear strong. Otherwise, he wouldn’t give me what I wanted. I reached into my messenger bag and took out the A4 file.
“Robert Parr and Jonathon Maylett,” I stated officiously as I took out the two mug shots and placed them on the coffee table. I had pointed to each picture as I said each name.
“And?” Henry asked. He lit another cigarette and stared insolently.
“All of the information is in the file,” I whispered and pushed the file across the coffee table, “They are trying to kill me.”
Henry turned the plastic binder so he could read it properly.
“How do you know?” He crooked a perfect eyebrow.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at him, hoping that I did not look guilty.
“I would like to hear more information. It will help me decide if I take the case or not.” He said, not taking his eyes off the cramped writing and photos.
I nodded wordlessly. I didn’t want to say it. “They are both murderers, who are walking free after the trial.”
Henry looked at me as if trying to pull information directly from my brain.
“Why did they get released?”
“Lack of evidence.” I hissed.
“Continue,” Henry said. The smoke from his cigarette rose and caused a thin hazy cloud before the shaded bulb.
I could see it again: the trial. My wet, salty fat tears streamed down my face as every question wore me down further and further. I was telling the truth, and that was meant to win above anything else. But it didn’t. The questions kept coming,
“How long was she gone before you ran to her flat?”
“An hour.”
“Why did you wait that long?”
“Because she told me to.”
I took a deep breath to bring myself back to the present.
“Both men were tried before a jury on manslaughter charges of my sister. Parr got off because he was a policeman. It didn’t matter that the murder was committed five weeks after he left the force.”
Henry took the file while my eyes brimmed with tears.
“Melanie Taylor?” He asked gently.
I nodded.
“It says in the file that she died of a heroin overdose.” Henry continued. “In fact, according to the tox-screen, it was quite the cocktail of drugs.”
I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists.
“They were put in her system.” I barked. “Mel would never—I know my own sister.”
“How do you know?” Henry said as he arched his brow; the expression was too old for his young face.
“Because I know my sister.”
“What happened that night?” Henry asked.
I cleared my throat and gripped my arms around my chest.
“They were together two years. Robert Parr was abusive. Mel stayed with him, but we rarely saw her. When we did, she had bruises. Marks. She was a shell of a person—I did not know what went on behind closed doors, but I had my suspicions, she only admitted to rape, but she never told me the rest. She left him a week before she was killed, ran to us with only the clothes on her back. She was staying with my mother and me.” I took a drag of my cigarette as if it was a life preserver. My hand shook, “She went back to get her stuff, she said she would only be an hour—I would have gone with her, but I didn’t think…”
“And she didn’t come back.” Henry murmured bleakly.
“Yeah.”
“What about the heroin?” He asked with a sad, wry smile.
“Well,” I said bitterly. “Mel didn’t pump it into her own veins. It was murder, she tried to leave but they wouldn’t let her. Those fucking bastards!” I shook “All I know is, she goes to her house to pick up her things, and she ends up with bruises and needles jammed in her arms.” I shuddered and tried to control myself before I got too angry.
“You want the two of them, Parr and Maylett?” Henry asked. “Why Maylett?”
I looked at the pictures on the table staring up at me. It was only after a drop of salt water landed on Parr’s smarmy face did I realise I was crying.
“Jon was there, he used to join in. She told me.”
“Why did they get off the charges?” Henry wondered.
“Parr has an alibi and so does Jon Maylett because of his girlfriend.” I rasped, “The times did not add up, but it was the first offence for Parr. And as for all the drugs were found in Mel’s system, none were found in his possession or his room. He is a sneaky—”
I said the C word—it made me shiver as it left my mouth. Here I was thinking I was a rebel for hiring a hit-man. I had been numb after Melanie’s death, but I started to cry, slow and silent. The tears fell down my cheeks and dropped off my chin.
Those murderers didn’t deserve to live after what they did to my sister.
“And Robert Parr is an ex-police officer?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“That makes it difficult.” He sighed but didn’t sound as worried as I was.
I tried to remain stoic, but I could tell Henry caught the flinch.
Don’t say no. I watched the small disks turn in the voice recorder. I waited in silence.
“I want them both dead,” I whispered harshly. “Before they kill me.”
“You said that before. Are you certain that they wish to take your life?” He asked.
“Yes,” I said. “My house was recently broken into. They left a note.”
Henry held eye contact for a second. “Do you have the note?” I removed it from my bag and handed it over to him. My hands shook.
You’re next. It read.
“Give me three days, and I will decide if I take the case.” He whispered.
We stared at each other for a few seconds, but Henry didn’t say anything else. I couldn’t stop the creeping sick feeling in my chest, rising up my gullet. I reached for my handbag and brought out the cosmetics pouch I had brought from home, patterned with a pink Hawaiian flower with the spongy waterproof lining, I undid the drawstring and held it in front of me and over the coffee table.
Murderer.
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My hands shook as I removed the crisp bank notes, bundled up in red strips. They fell out of the unassuming make-up bag and sprawled over the photos of John Maylett and Robert Parr, the red fifty-pound notes seemed oddly fitting. The colour of blood. In both pictures the men looked unaware, going about their business.
“Five thousand now,” I said calmly, “and five thousand when they are dead.”
I stared at my bedroom ceiling. Studying the swirled ivory paint and the hanging dim ‘eco’ light bulb, as I replayed meeting Henry in my mind over and over. This was real. I was going to become a killer, and I was going to burn in hell.
Still, Henry could say no, and that was what I was afraid of. If Mr. Henry Blaire said no, then the next logical step would be to do it myself and go to prison. I pictured myself with an illegally acquired gun, stood in Mr. Parr’s stupid studio flat, shaking, as I screamed about how I was going to ‘make him feel my pain.’
I clutched the duvet to my face and I closed my eyes. I hoped that killing them would make me human again. I played back my favourite memories of my sister like a well-used video reel. Mel’s smiling face as she told me she got accepted to a university, telling our mother and father the minute she set eyes on Robert she was going to marry him. She said to me that she saw a vision. Melanie Taylor and Robert Parr with two kids and a white picket fence.
My pleasant memories started to taint with black seeping mould as I ran through them again. Mel’s bruises. How she said she fell. How she’d panic when she was with me, and how Rob phoned when she was late.
It took three broken ribs to get Mel away from him. He had called her every hour in the week after she left. When he stopped calling, Melanie thought she’d be safe. It was only ten minutes then she’d be back with her things and she could finally be rid of him.
Mel always wanted to see Australia. She was a desert and heat kind of girl.
The bruises layered over all the other memories, along with the image of blackened veins. The darkened poison of heroin had eaten Mel’s veins before it killed her. Her violet eyes, the same eyes as mine, had been devoid of life when I found her body.
Daemons of London Boxset (Books 1-3) The Bleeders, The Human Herders, The Purebloods Page 2
