by Mark A. King
Iona shook herself awake. Car sickness churned in the pit of her stomach and pain hit the inside of her head like a bee battering a glass jar trap.
What did Jimmy Kinsella want with her? Surely he couldn’t really be responsible for the newsagents’ robbery, could he?
Despite his reputation, Jimmy had saved Iona and tried to save her mum. That single event continued to shape Iona. It fuelled her desire to protect and seek justice. Her almost nomadic existence, her paranoia, and her need to check and re-check everything that could pose a threat to her; ensuring the gas knobs were switched off, shutting doors to stop the flow of free oxygen before going to sleep, examining fire escapes. It all stemmed back to that night.
The bulldog, Josh, was slowing the car and pulling into a car park. In the back, Ryan was pinning her down so she couldn’t make a move for the door. Any attempt to escape from a moving car would be futile. She remembered knocking him out. She allowed herself a smile.
From the limited view, Iona guessed they were nearing the city centre. The surrounding streets were condensed and claustrophobic. The car eased into an empty carpark, and Josh cut the engine.
Josh got out of the car and stood back. He was either admiring his car or waiting for Ryan to drag Iona out, which he did with vigour.
Despite the rough exit, Iona’s grogginess was receding. She looked at the motor, a white MG Turbo Montego. It looked like the sort of car a teenager might have owned in the Eighties.
Keep them busy. Look for information. “Nice motor. You sure know how to impress a lady. You’re a class act.”
Josh smoothed his eyebrows and tugged his collar. Ryan shot him a look.
“Don’t try to be a smart-arse, Detective Stone,” Ryan said. “We’re here for a reason. Enough of your time-wasting. As for you, Josh, don’t be a knob. She’s not interested.”
Iona knew it wasn’t wise to correct him on the use of her job title and reveal that she was currently suspended. She tried to get her bearings. From the buildings, graffiti, street style, and boutique shops she guessed they were south of the river.
The pub, The Tollgate, looked like the sort of place that was once a coach house, hostelry, den of misadventure, and brothel all under one haphazard roof.
They entered the pub’s double doors. It had a retro Lounge and Saloon bar, last seen in re-runs of Seventies cop shows like The Sweeny. It was all crimson age-cracked leather benches and stale beer stink.
Through the bar she could see the saloon. There were no barmen, no punters, just an old guy sitting in the corner in what appeared to be a jacket over a hospital gown. Jimmy Kinsella.
Jimmy’s two employees frogmarched her towards him.
“What the fuck is this?” he shouted, his voice sandpaper-coarse.
“Oh,” Ryan Thistle said shrugging. “She gave us a bit of hassle. We had to restrain her.”
“I can see that,” Jimmy said. “Looks like two of the toughest guys in London couldn’t handle her.”
“She’s dangerous, sir,” Ryan replied.
“Don’t give me that crap, Ryan. You should have been able to deal with it. Cut her free and let her have a chat with me.”
Ryan did as instructed. Sensation filled her hands again. She pumped her fingers, like she did when she donated blood. Iona considered if her hands were functional enough for a fight.
“Sorry about that, Iona,” Jimmy said. He looked pallid and frail, not brutal and hard as she remembered. His gaping hospital gown did him no favours. “How are you, Detective?” Despite his dry, aged and chaffed tone, there was a softness in his voice, a concern.
“What’s this about, Jimmy? I barely remember you. You were just a gangland legend—a story—when I was a girl. Just tell me why I’m here. Why send your heavies, Poodle and Bulldog here? Why risk what little of your empire you have left on me, just another copper?”
“Poodle and Bulldog. That’s nice. I like it.” Jimmy Kinsella tried to laugh, but ended up coughing heavily into a soiled handkerchief.
“Shall I get the oxygen, sir?” Josh asked.
Kinsella swatted him away and gasped mouthfuls of air. “You’re not just any copper, Iona. You have specialist skills. You’re one of the best hackers in Europe. You’ve been working on a case. Operation Scythe, yes?” Jimmy’s breaths were ragged and desperate. Iona wanted to intervene, but she refrained. He was talking, just. “Organised crime. Not like the type I was good at. Real nasty stuff. Hard-core drugs. Trafficking in people, in organs—it all goes on. Regardless of your rather dubious but talented friends, you’re not getting very far are you?”
Iona looked away.
“Ever wonder why that was? Ever think the corruption is so deep and the money so extreme that these people will do anything to protect their assets and investments? This is bigger than people like me. You and I have history, Iona. I have information and you are just about the only person capable of doing anything with it. The system is riddled with corruption, like a cancer. I can’t give this information to just anyone. You are not only capable of using the information, but you are also the only one I can trust.”
Jimmy lifted a whiskey nosing glass. He swilled the liquid and sniffed. He looked like he was about to cough, but he held it in, his face contorted with effort. The old man watched the treacle legs run down the sides and into the deep amber pool below. There was a small jug of water nearby. He tipped a tiny portion of water into the whiskey and repeated the ritual. “That’s better,” he said. “You know, the last time I had one of these was shortly after we last met. I quit after that. Too many bad things happen and you start to blame the drink. Bollocks to all that. I might only have a few weeks, days, or even hours left. Life’s too short, Detective.”
As he knocked back the drink, Iona saw his arm, a mess of old burns. “I’m sorry. I never got to say ‘thank you’. You saved me. You tried to save Mum—”
“That was a long time ago. And as much as it pains me to say it, nobody could save your mum.”
“I think about it every single day.” Iona’s eyes welled with tears. She looked away. “You know, Mum lived for a bit. The fire didn’t kill her.”
Jimmy nodded, “Yeah, I know. I heard she had some bad burns, especially on her head. On her face, too.” He motioned to one of his employees to top up his glass. “Such a shame, she had such a beautiful face. Such amazing hair. She was a good mum to you.”
Iona’s face hardened, her eyes no longer filled with tears but with focused anger. “Cut the crap Jimmy! She was many things, but nobody would call her a good mother. You knew the type of things she was into.” Iona shot up. “Maybe you’re the reason she was into all that stuff. Perhaps it’s your fault she spent her last few weeks screaming in pain. Crying because she couldn’t stand the way people looked at her. Begging for tablets, powders—anything to blunt it out.”
“Sit down, or I’ll make you sit down,” Ryan said over her shoulder.
“Try it, Eighties-man. I’d love to see how that pretty-boy face looks once it’s been slammed into the table. Will it look as good as it did against the concrete?” Iona said with her back still turned to him. She looked at Jimmy, who was shaking his head at Ryan.
“Mr. Kinsella,” Ryan said, his voice a deep warning-growl. “I think you’re making a mistake. Please think very carefully before saying anything else.”
“I’ll do what I want, son,” Jimmy replied. “You want to be careful, Ryan. I might not have long left, but I am still owed respect.”
Josh moved forward and faced Iona from the side. “Look, Detective. I think Mr. Kinsella deserves a few more minutes of your time, please. He hasn’t got long left. What do you have to lose?” His attitude had eased. There was a desperate and pleading quality to his request.
“Five minutes,” Iona replied as she took her seat again.
Jimmy repeated his whiskey-tasting ceremony. “There is nobody in this world who tried harder or cared more for your mum, Iona. But even I couldn’t truly save her. Not even you, something perf
ect that she’d created, could save her. So what chance did I have?” His eyes were faded, like the colour had been rinsed away by illness.
Iona took the glass off him. She thought about drinking it herself but knew she needed to stay alert and sharp. “Mum went back there—to the flat. She got rat-arsed on cheap cider and high on pills and powder she’d blagged off people who felt sorry for her. But the place stank of fire, it seeped into everything. She didn’t stay for long. She went to the balcony and ... she...” Iona held back the tears, as she always did. Jimmy looked away.
“I hope your grandparents took good care of you,” Jimmy said.
They never talked about it. It was forbidden. But the kids at school knew. The bullying knew no limits. “They did great,” she replied.
“I look at you and I see what you have become, young Iona. The state of this city! That a young girl, Maria Mathan, now faces what you went through makes me angry. I can’t help her like I helped you. But I can make amends. I’ve forgotten more about pain than most people learn, and for some of that, I’m ashamed. I’ve stood by and watched the world get worse around me. Now I have this chance to do something about it.
“This can’t go on. You need to find Maria—she’s alone and in grave danger. These people don’t want witnesses linking them to crimes. They’ll try and remove her from the picture. But—it’s not just her, Iona—I can’t leave this world knowing there are people in this great city who are sleeping in dark rooms with no beds, heating, or water. Victims who cower when doors open. Men, women, sometimes girls and boys, who are so ashamed from the things that they have been forced to do that they can’t seek help. I want it to stop. Operation Scythe was supposed to make it stop, but there are too many people afraid to speak out, or they have too much to lose—but not me. Not now.”
Regardless of his background and motives, wasn’t Jimmy just after the same result as her?
“There are victims everywhere, and I have information that can help you, Iona.”
Iona looked at Jimmy. She leaned forward, gently rubbed his burnt arm, and then she kissed him on the cheek. “Tell me everything you know.”
Cal
What the hell was I supposed to do?
Was Abna a deity? An angel? An illness in my mind?
The idea of being handed a Section Order didn’t fill me with joy. If I’d have gone to the doctor’s, she would have Sectioned me, no question. Who wants to be taken away to some rehab place, pumped with drugs, and branded unstable by their employers?
No. I went to the hypnotherapist. He was on offer from the work counselling service. He was free. Confidential. No fear of it getting back to my boss. Also, I figured if people like him could fix addictions and phobias, then fixing my problems might be possible.
I didn’t need him to tell me I had PTSD; I knew that. I knew about the alcohol dependency, the anxiety, and the social phobia. But none of these labels explained Abna.
I needed answers.
The hypnotherapist’s name was Rod. He had a garden full of pervy, naked gnomes. His house was all net curtains, chintz, and doilies.
“Pleased to meet you,” the wizened bloke said. He looked like a ninety-year-old version of Bill Clinton. “Not what you were expecting, eh?”
I shrugged. He made some joke about seeing things that weren’t there. Instead of getting my back up, it put me at ease with him.
He showed me through an outbuilding that looked like a shed, but Rod called it a log cabin.
I smiled to myself. What harm could it do? Just go with it.
Rod waved at a beanbag, indicating for me to sit. “I have a high success rate, even with seemingly hopeless cases like yourself.” He smiled. “No watches. No tick-tock metronomes. No barking like a dog at the moon. That’s all just bullshit stuff for stag-dos in cheap holiday camps. I would like to do some regression though.”
I shook my head. “So you can tell me I was William Shakespeare in a previous life? I don’t think so.”
“No. I’m not a circus act, Cal. That stuff isn’t true. If I work hard, and you’re open, we can go back to your childhood. That’s where most deep-rooted mental issues form.”
I could see why he was successful. He had an easy, playful manner about him, with none of the guarded, robotic responses the other professionals had shown me. I guessed he’d fallen into this profession because of his ability to interact with people. I had no hesitation in sitting in his shed on a beanbag and telling him how screwed-up I’d become.
He went to his iPad and scrolled through menus. The relaxing sounds of nature piped through his wireless speakers: birdsong, rain, rustling leaves and distant waves. Thankfully, there were no whale-songs or heavy thunderstorms (who the hell thought that was relaxing anyway?)
“Relax. Start with gentle breathing,” Rod said, exaggerating his own breathing. “In. Out. In. Out. That’s it, Cal. Keep going. Notice each muscle. Start from the toes. Give each one permission to let go. Feel free to give in. Fall into a deep, perfectly relaxed state.”
I didn’t think it would work, but I drifted off within minutes. It felt as relaxed as sleep, but I was aware of his voice and felt like I was still in control. I was still able to talk and react.
“Tell me about this vision,” Rod asked, almost dismissively.
I talked him through the events.
Rod didn’t ask many questions, he wanted me to keep talking.
When we had finished talking about the day Abna rescued me from the lake and took me to the tea house, Rod asked me to visualise my work and what it was like to work down there in the tunnels of the Underground. How it felt to work in the darkness. The isolation. How did I feel when I hit someone? How did I feel the last time it happened?
I had no hesitation and found myself back on the train, again.
I feel the familiar texture of the dead man’s handle in my grip—the safety-lever continually prompting me to push forwards or the train would slow, and eventually alarms would trigger—a failsafe designed in case a driver became incapacitated.
The cockpit cut through the underground blackness and smashed into the over-ground wall of sunlight. Residual bright images lingered on my eyelids like sunlight ghosts, returning with every blink when I went back to the Underground once more.
The outside was a world of promise and hope, a mask the darkness had dreamed up to tempt the poor, the weak, and the desperate. Under its mask lay a world of violence and fear.
At least the darkness was honest.
I approach the station, and the fear of the advancing platform grips me. My hands are cramped as they hover tentatively over the braking systems. I watch the passengers jostle and move like giant ants. In my head, I urge the commuters to stand back—they are too close. What if someone falls, or is pushed, or jumps?
As the platform looms, I see the man, Gerry. He hunches over. He jumps. He waves. He smiles—it is the most beautiful, perfect smile. Then. Then.
In my hypnosis, I was shaking. Fear consumed me like a hungry fire. I must have gasped, for Rod put his hand on my shoulder and said it was all right to feel scared or emotional. To release poison inside of me.
“Do you have time for this?” I asked, figuring he’d be clock-watching like therapists on the telly do.
“I have as much time as you need. Keep searching. Tell me a story about your childhood.”
I find myself in London. I am twelve or so, a boy who thinks he’s a man. I’m on the outskirts of Hyde Park, standing on one of the side streets.
It is a brooding winter’s day. Dense, icy rain slices the air, numbing my face and chapping my lips. The frigid wind rams me like it is not happy enough trying to force me off the edge of the world—it also wants to rip through my armour of skin and bones to pummel my spirit.
I try to pull the hood of my parker jacket over my face and hold it there, but liquid pain filters through my chapped hands and onto my eyes, lips, and nose.
I stand on the pavement, facing the onslaught with my closest
mates. We contemplate our next move.
It wasn’t unusual for us to be out for hours. Our families paid no attention to where we were; they were glad of the peace, just grateful we didn’t come home stinking of cheap super-strength cider and fortified wine.
The traffic is sporadic. In these times, the buses require powers of prediction that are found only in circus tents.
No cyclists. No pedestrians. Very few cars.
Beneath the road is a tunnel, so we are told. Some say there are child-eating sewer-rats down there, or a lost underground river full of ghosts of the dead, but I’m cocky and I pass it off as a storm drain. Nothing to worry about.
I need to prove myself. Don’t all but the smallest number of popular kids?
We wait for about an hour, until our hands and faces are almost solid. No cars pass. We head for the middle of the street where there is just another innocuous manhole cover, circular and solid enough to take the weight of the traffic. Terry hands me one of the lever-keys he’s nicked from his dad’s garage. Our hands are barely able to prise the heavy cover from its housing. It feels like we’re lifting the entire street. Pride and acceptance are strong forces, and I grind my teeth as we finally prise the disc from its housing.
In the hole is a vertical ladder, the first few rungs barely visible in the bleak, torrential rain. My mates gather and urge me to go down, but I am hesitating, building my courage.
Without any warning, sirens scream, urgent and fast. They are accompanied by approaching headlights that grow in brightness. An ambulance pelts towards us.
Fearing the ambulance cannot see us, I dart down the ladder, unsure where I am going, how deep it is, or what to expect. I hear the rapid scraping of metal on tarmac, then the rushed, unmistakable clonk of the cover sinking back into its housing. Shouting. Running footsteps. Then the flamboyant wail of a passing siren and the defining sound of the ambulance passing a few feet above me. The vibration and noise are so loud that I cling to the ladder like it’s an extra limb.
In the rush, I don’t have time to prepare. The shaft is a dark abyss, and I have no way of retrieving my torch without releasing one of my arms. I strain and attempt to push the manhole cover back open, but if two of us struggled, I have no chance alone. I have no option but to cling to the ladder until morning and hope that my mates come back for me, or work my way down into unknown depths, into goodness knows what.
