by Mark A. King
Iona turned her back on the news-crew once again. This time there were no more questions. Iona should have felt a sense of victory, but all she felt was empty, exhausted, and in need of seeing the place she—loosely—called home.
Iona walked to her West London apartment. She needed the rare release of feeling safe in her own thoughts, behind the barrier of her own front door. She rarely spent time there. She lived a nomadic existence, using random patterns, sleeping in cheap B&Bs or on friends’ sofas. Having a home was foolish for someone with her background. Hackers—ethical or not, working for the police, or against them—tended to attract notice, and sooner or later someone would want to find you.
She would normally have taken the Central Line, but she needed thinking time. Walking always allowed her to process, to explore possibilities and find solutions.
The streets nestled under skies of cornflowers and tumbling cotton wool. She walked the avenues, looking at the trees that had witnessed the city changing around them. When they were planted there would have been horses instead of cars.
Iona loved the side streets awash with independent tea houses, friendly coffee shops, boldly striped awnings, and fluttering banners advertising local festivals. By the time she neared home, the sun was low on the horizon, and everything was filtered in the treacly glow of the drowsy summer sun.
She thought about Maria Mathan. Isolated. Traumatised. For her, there would be no joy in a sunset, only the fear of the night. No beauty in what she saw of the city.
Iona frequently checked for people who might be tailing her. She used the reflections in shop windows and car mirrors, something she had trained herself to do since childhood. Change directions unexpectedly, check again for rushed movements of pedestrians or vehicles. She’d been doing this since the altercation with the investigative reporter, Danielle Greene. There was nothing she could see but her own shocked, gaunt, and colourless reflection.
Iona stopped looking. She didn’t have time for self-pity or paranoia. She needed to find Maria Mathan. She’d been selfish and had put someone else at risk. It wasn’t the first time. But maybe she could fix that, too.
Iona pulled out her phone. Its jumbled components protruded out at angles that made it look like a Lego toy built by a clumsy robot. Iona didn’t care about the aesthetics; she had built every fabric of the phone: hardware, software, operating system. She knew how to build an untraceable phone.
Iona tapped the Contacts icon, scrolled down to the name Rafel. Next to his name was the last contact date, not that she needed reminding.
She knew how long it had been. Every day she’d thought about what had happened to him.
Her finger hovered over his avatar, edging closer, edging back.
In the neighbourhoods near her flat, she savoured the smells of Moroccan food, enjoyed the beautiful, organised chaos of Indian shops spilling onto the pavement, thought about going into one of the small independent Polish shops with the best chocolate and super-strength beer money could buy. Rafel would love this place.
But nearer the high street, the view dissolved into the corporate wastelands of restaurant franchises and glossy images of deliriously happy customers posted in the smoked windows of the banks. Rafel would hate this. It was against everything we once stood for.
What would she say to him?
That she was sorry cracking Operation Scythe had come before his safety? Sorry for involving you? Sorry for getting you beaten to within an inch of death? Sorry for the pain and lost months in hospital?
Iona took a deep breath and held it, closing her eyes as she pressed the green dial icon and held the phone to her ear.
As it rang, part of her hoped he wouldn’t answer, part of her wondered how it would feel to hear his voice again.
“Iona? Is that really you?”
Her hands quivered when she heard his voice. To hear him again was to know that he was alive, he was well. She could start the long process of fixing what she’d done to him. “It’s me.” Raf was silent. “It’s good to hear your voice, Raf. So good. Listen… I’m—”
“There is no need to say what you’re going to say,” he replied. “It was something you knew—with absolute certainty—that I wanted to be involved with. Come on… chasing virtual ghosts online, trying to find the source of the trafficking, the potential corruption, and those oh-so-wonderful conspiracy theories we’d chat over while living the high life, years before, sleeping rough under the stars. You couldn’t have stopped me. You know that.”
In many ways Raf was right. Once he knew, there was no way he’d walk away from something like that. “Listen, I know I’m in no position to ask for favours. You know I wouldn’t have asked—after everything—but I need your help. I’ll fully understand if you put down the phone on me.”
For a moment Iona thought he had cut her off. But there was no dead-tone. “You know I’d do anything for you, Iona. How can I help?”
“Come see me. I’m in all sorts of trouble, and a twelve-year-old girl, Maria Mathan, is missing. It’s my fault—but you can help me fix it.”
Cal
I’m not sure why I went to the bingo hall that morning. Maybe I was just bored from not working.
My mind was spinning because of the last jumper, Gerry, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, I encountered that freak on the park bench who thought he was a living god. Bingo was a much needed distraction. Visit the bingo hall? Yeah, why the hell not?
Before I knew it, I was watching the screens, listening to the cheesy announcer. Scanning my tickets like they mattered. Clutching my dabber like it was the holy grail.
I wanted to forget about the stranger with the winkle-picker shoes and bowler hat. I’d had enough of guessing whether he was real or I was unwell. Enough of blaming the suicide on everything. I’ve always liked people-watching, and there is no better place to watch people than a bingo hall.
The granny gangs get there early. Bag the best seats. The hearing loops don’t always work properly, so it’s handy to be near the announcer in case Mildew Malcom goes into one of his ear-splitting phlegm-coughs, which can be enough to make anyone wanna puke.
Then there are the pensive squirrels. They dart in, grab a seat near the balcony, and try to go undetected. Sometimes they’re so timid that they don’t shout out when they get a line or a full house. I’ve seen them lose scores. It’s a game of knowing they’ve won, even if they’re not brave enough to collect any winnings. They always wait it out until the big games are finished. Theirs is the land of the small prizes with decent odds.
The announcer was some wide-boy forty-something. Anywhere else, he’d be pitied; here, he was a god. “Staying Alive—Eighty-five.” For those with good enough eyesight, he shot his finger in the air, like Travolta.
The players were too busy marking the numbers to notice.
“Two Little Ducks—Twenty-two.”
The players quacked, as was obligatory.
“Snakkkees Alive—Fifty-five.”
The guy was so in love with himself, Narcissus would struggle to get hold of the mirror.
The lights dimmed suddenly in the wide expanse of the hall, momentarily fading then returning like a power-dip in high winds. I looked around, but nobody noticed. I got that itchy, static-overload feeling—all woollen jumpers or oncoming storms. Then everything returned to normal.
This place used to be blue-rinses and milk-bottle specs. But these days it’s unsightly boob-jobs and saggy, full-arm tattoos that might have once been geometric patterns.
In front of me a woman with librarian-string glasses looked at me abruptly and then silently mouthed twenty-seven.
The announcer seemed to be getting louder. Volume cranked to nine. “Luuuucky Seven—that’s number seven.”
I looked back at the woman, but she’d returned to her game like nothing had happened.
I went to say something to her. Then a man stood up. Turned to me. Stretched both his arms in the air and faced his palms towards me. Ope
ned and closed both fists four times.
“Naughty forty. That’s number 40.”
The man sat back down.
I tried to distract myself. I must have been tired. Exhausted from the stress. I needed to focus. Think about the people in the room. That’s why I was there. The single sheet players—a one-game special, all-or-nothing adventure.
The focus on the other players seemed to be working.
Some had a book of tickets. They were there for the long haul. Win or lose, they’d keep going until the last number had been called.
The announcer’s volume returned to more acceptable levels.
Then there were the semi-pros. Multiple books all laid out in precision lines. A luminous dabber in hand. Dab, dab, dab. Eyes continually scanning the remaining numbers—like chess masters, they were looking several moves ahead. An occasional sip of water to lubricate the throat to ensure their yell would be a winning one.
I was so focused, I could barely hear the bingo caller. It was just excitable background noise, like a school playground heard from a distance.
Nothing. No more nonsense.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go back to the bingo hall. It was where I went when the meds weren’t working, when the therapy only blurred the recurring visions. It’s where I went to avoid the powerful temptation of another drink.
It was more than something to do. Sure, it occupied my mind. There was plenty to see and watch. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel better about myself. The shallow guilt of knowing I was fitter, younger, and still had most of my life ahead of me was like being drunk. But then there was always a morning-after. With drink, it was sickness, headaches, and shame. With bingo, I’d crash with the guilt—the only way I could feel better about myself was to compare myself to people worse off than me. What sort of person did that make me?
The lights didn’t dim this time. It felt more like the feeling you get when you know you are being watched, but the person watching you is not in your field of vision.
Then I saw him. The weirdo with the bowler hat.
Here, of all places. He was in the corner, sitting—resting against the wall—he looked like he was asleep, with his hat tilted downwards obscuring most of his face. He didn’t move, and I made no attempt to approach him.
I hoped he would just disappear, like in the horror movies, where the supernatural character is seen as a reflection, but when the hero looks again, the figure has gone. But, he was there—casting shadows on the floor like anyone else.
His presence unnerved me, but I wouldn’t take the bait. If I genuinely was suffering with a mental illness of some kind—and they’d already told me I had PTSD, maybe more—then how wise was it to talk to him? Entertaining a conversation and engaging with a someone who might only be a manifestation of my illness would be making things worse, surely? I didn’t even want to face the fact that he might be real.
The sounds in the hall became jumbled like a digital radio in a poor signal area. The lights were fuzzy and indistinct—fairy lights in the rain. I was daydreaming, and before I knew it, I was walking through the exit door. Outside the bingo hall the morning mists pooled beneath the ancient trees of Hyde Park.
I needed to get away. Dog walkers, runners, and game players were scattered throughout the park. I felt envious of them. They were in the sunshine; most were not even aware of the park, the light, the warmth.
Sometimes I ended up somewhere and I couldn’t remember how I got there. Going to work. Coming home. A trip to the shops. The journey to the airport on a rare visit abroad. This time, I found myself at the edge of the Serpentine, about to part with money for the hire of a small rowing boat.
The Serpentine is hardly the North Sea, but it can become choppy; even on a mild day the winds can whip across the surface. I pushed the boat away from the banks and headed for the middle of the waterway.
After a while, I felt calmer. A sense of history overwhelmed me, and I started to feel at ease with my surroundings, with the city, even with myself. I lay down in the boat. It was an uncomfortable position for me, as I was just over six foot; my legs bent, my back skewed, and my head rested on nothing but the thin, fleeced hood of my top. The weather was unpredictable. Above, I could see the baby-blue skies between the clouds, and I could feel the sun darkening my cinnamon-coloured skin. When the clouds veiled the sun, the world went murky and the temperature drop caused goose bumps on my forearms and neck.
Sitting up, I marvelled at how the clouds changed the city. In the light of the sun, the buildings seemed to glow, to radiate history—the people in the park looked like the sort of people in sales brochures. Under the clouds, the buildings looked gloomy, oppressive, grubby—like centuries of city dirt clung to them, and the remnants of horse dung, industrial soot, and moral crimes were not just a surface taint, but had become part of the stonework itself. The people seemed to shrink and walk with less purpose. They plodded along aimlessly.
I lay back down. Despite my cat-like swimming skills, I felt a sense of tranquillity as the boat bobbed on the water. Maybe it was the medication finally kicking in? I forgot about hat-man as I drifted towards sleep. I chose to relax, to be spontaneous—I was fed up with rules. What harm could possibly come to me there? I wanted to experience the moment—in every detail—just for what it was.
I’d nodded off but suddenly jolted awake with the rumbling of thunder overhead. The skies churned, and the world was a smear of charcoal. Light drizzle coated the park, obscuring the shore. Wanting to row back to the riverbank before the weather worsened, I found that my oars had disappeared. I was a weak swimmer, so I was certain that I had checked that my oars were secure before drifting into sleep. I foolishly looked around the boat—then did it again—as if they would suddenly appear. Nothing.
I looked tentatively over both sides of the boat—the waters were choppy and topped in white. I could not see anyone in the park, just the blurred, shadowy shapes of distant trees. While the Serpentine was not big, nor deep, it was enough of both to drown an incompetent swimmer in rough weather. Fearing for my safety, I tried to sit as centrally as I could in the boat. However, this meant that when I tried to paddle with my hands I did nothing more than skim the irregular waves.
The rain turned from drizzle to torrent and the wind from gust to squall.
The gale varied between whooshing bursts and screeching whistles. The small row boat pitched violently at the frantic will of the elements.
I struggled to see anything. When I tried, instinctively, to wipe my face with my hands, I only succeeded in making them sting.
I thought I heard something beneath the whistle and the growl of the wind, something beyond the white noise of violent water. It sounded like someone rowing. I dismissed this, as it simply couldn’t be. There was no one in the park—I had just checked—and who in in their right mind would have ventured out to rescue me anyway?
Then I saw it. A shape. A boat. With a dark figure on it. I could make nothing out other than blurred shadows.
It seemed to be getting nearer.
Nearer for sure.
The belt in my jeans dug into my stomach as I inhaled.
I worried about my mental health again. I knew I was not well. The discussion with a strange man who claimed to be the personified spirit of the city should have told me to seek a greater level of professional intervention. But I knew they would either increase my medication or section me under the Mental Health Act. Neither of these outcomes would have been pleasant, and I believed them to be unhelpful longer term. I needed to find a way to deal with this myself.
“Callum.” The wind seemed to groan my name. Perhaps it came from the person on the boat? In the clamour, it was hard to hear anything clearly.
The approaching figure terrified me. I released my pent-up breath and grabbed another while I still could.
It was not the man with the hat. The shape in the other boat was more feminine, and it moved like the long shadows of winter rather than the po
ised, slow movements of the dapper gentleman from before.
My hands scooped at the water like useless, porous oars. I leaned to one side using both hands, plunging them deep and sweeping them from front to back. This pushed me forward, but the boat started to turn in an arc. I leaped, quickly, to the other side, trying to power forwards to rectify the alignment so the boat went straight. It was working.
I increased the power of my strokes and switched sides more rapidly. The boat rocked, teetered. Unbalanced, it capsized and jettisoned me into the cold white surface and down through the dark waters below.
I gasped. Swallowed a mouthful of cold, muddy, Serpentine water. Then needle-sharp coldness penetrated my clothing and stabbed me every time I treaded water.
I tried to clasp at my upturned boat, but the hull was greasy, and even when I managed to gain hold for a moment, my weight caused it to tip, pushing me further under.
The chasing boat was gaining on me. The figure was female, but I couldn’t see her features—just a long, dark cloak.
My already numb fingers trembled. My desperate flailing caused my clothing to become more saturated, and I was unable to resist the pull of the current. I was dragged under.
The orchestra of sound became only a soloist. An elongated muffled note. The noise of drowning.
I clasped at the surface, as though I could grab hold of it and lift myself from the liquid underworld.
I was too far away.
Once more. Don’t give up. I pushed against the current. Willed my pulverised and stunned muscles to give me a chance, to fill my burning lungs with cool air. Any air. Just one inhalation.
I broke the surface and gasped—sucking the air in like it was my first breath, again.
My ears were waterlogged. All I heard, at first, was that muffled, panicked underwater noise. As I went under again, I heard a voice. “Cal.” I surfaced again, choking on dirty water as I attempted to respond. I was weaker and perhaps disorientated. “Cal,” the muffled shout said again, from what might have been the shoreline.
