by Mark A. King
About bloody time, my boy.
Ryan whispered, “This is a gift from Westbourne”.
Yes, of course. Ryan was acting under orders.
It mattered not. We all come to this point. He smiled. It was time.
Ryan did something to the oxygen tube. The air was harder to breathe. Jimmy’s body wanted to gasp, but he fought it. Soon that reflex passed, and sleep took him once more.
Jimmy dreamed of his childhood, of times that were no longer recognisable.
It was said that your life flashed before your eyes in this moment, but these were not flashes—Jimmy was a pioneer of travel, exploring space and time in a way that only scientists could imagine.
Wrapped up tight in bed, teddy-bear in hand, hot water bottle his weapon against the cold room and ice-framed windows. His dad, drunk, the coal and food rations exchanged for home-brew. Outside, the dark skies were filled with clouds on fire. The rat-a-tat-tat of tracer bullets. The growl of Germanic engines. The whistle of steel bombs tumbling through the ether. The unending wail of sirens. No need to go to the shelter. Everything would be fine.
Later, as an orphan, with a desire to make something of himself. To prove to the world that he was strong. As the city rebuilt, Jimmy took advantage. How he lived! How he was respected! Loyalty was more than a word.
And in the heartbeats, the all-too-quick heartbeats of his life, he became old. Too old to change the world around him. A relic. A bygone curiosity.
Jimmy dreamed and dreamed, until there were no more dreams to be had. Then he shook the welcome hand of darkness.
Charlie
Charlie had lost track of how many medical staff had told her how well she’d done, how she was an example to other patients for determination and perseverance.
She didn’t want the praise. Noah was the only thing on her mind.
Paranoia cloaked her like a second skin. Every noise was someone connected with the robbery, perhaps someone that Robbie knew. Every shadow was the tall, suited silhouette of Ryan, the creep who threatened her boy.
Home seemed like a sanctuary that was too far away to imagine.
Charlie refused home-help, for that would mean assessments and delay. She also refused the help of wellbeing and victim-support professionals. They tried to convince her that post-traumatic stress, limitations on her mobility, and high expectations of coming home could lead to problems. But all that was more delay.
Get home. Hold Noah tightly. Don’t let him go. Worry about everything else later.
Charlie could rely on her friend, Deb. They had grown apart since Robbie had moved in—he didn’t approve of Charlie spending time on anything other than him, Noah, and work.
Deb arrived at the hospital, one hand holding Noah, the other holding a Welcome Home balloon.
Charlie wanted to run to her son, scoop him up, throw him in the air, and make him giggle until he was breathless. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to wince as she threw her arms open in greeting.
The hug was tight and painful, but the warmth of holding Noah, the knowledge that she was with him again and able to protect him, meant the pain was just a mild distraction.
Their place would once again feel like home. Just the two of them, safe behind the locked doors of their little world.
“You look amazing,” Deb said.
Charlie knew this wasn’t true, but Deb knew the role of best friend better than anyone.
“Has Robbie left the house?” Charlie asked.
Deb looked at Noah and asked if he wanted to play with the balloon. “I don’t know, Char. I took Noah to my place. I didn’t feel it wise to pay Robbie a visit. I thought you’d want me to stay safe, with Noah my responsibility. Sorry, maybe I should have checked. It’s not right that you’re going home and he might still be there.”
Charlie shook her head. “No. Please don’t worry. You’ve done exactly the right thing. Worst case is that he’s still there, then I’ll stay at your place until we can get him kicked out. I need Noah to feel safe. Would you be happy to put us up for a bit longer—if needed?”
“Of course. Stay as long as you want. You know I love having you both around.” Deb looked at Charlie and held her hand. “You want a hand getting up?”
“Thanks for the offer, Deb, but no, I think I better do it myself. I need to make sure I’m not reliant on anyone going forward.”
Deb nodded and stood back. She watched Charlie move the wheelchair out of the way and grab the crutches. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I can’t be a drain on you or Noah. Let’s do this.”
Deb smiled and grasped Charlie’s small bag of belongings. “Come on, pumpkin,” she said to Noah. “Let’s get you and Mummy home.”
As they made their way towards the nurse’s station, Charlie saw a police officer quizzing the staff. “Any idea what that’s about?” Charlie asked her friend.
“No idea. Are you worried it’s something to do with the crime? That reporter, Danielle Greene, seemed to think it could be linked to organised crime, that maybe the witnesses were in danger.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a security guard check on me every so often. The visits have been fewer. That must be a good sign, right?”
“I guess. What will you do when you get home?”
“While I’m here, the hospital say they have a duty of care. When I’m home it’ll be up to the police, but they don’t seem as interested. I guess they just don’t have the resources. To be honest, I’d rather it that way. Just the two of us. Safe behind our own door.”
Deb bit her lip. “Did you see who the suspect of the robbery is?”
Charlie nodded. “Leo Jeffers. It’s one of Robbie’s mates.”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to worry you any more than needed. A few weeks back I saw Robbie with him. Then I saw Leo Jeffers hanging around outside the factory where Robbie works. I’m sorry, Char—Robbie is bad news. I don’t want to interfere. It’s not my business, but Robbie looks like he’s involved more than he’s letting on.”
Charlie stopped, balanced on one crutch, and held her friend’s shoulder. “I have been worried for a while, Deb. I guess I just didn’t want to see it. Let’s see if the police officer will tell us why she’s here.”
Nurse Ciarán was standing to the side as they approached the officer. “I thought I’d given the police everything they needed,” Charlie said to him.
Ciarán bent down and tickled and teased Noah, already spending more quality time with him than Robbie had done in the last year. “Oh, they’re not here for you. There was an incident last night. We’re not supposed to talk about it, but the police are asking for witnesses. It’s serious. Someone tampered with the air supply of an elderly man. He didn’t make it.”
Charlie thought about Jimmy. “That’s terrible. Is it connected—”
“I don’t think so. I can understand why you would think that. I’d be thinking it if I’d have gone through what you have. But it’s unrelated, honestly. I’d forget about the police,” Ciarán replied. Charlie detected uncertainty in his voice. “You just need to focus on your recovery and make sure you have fun with little Noah here. I’d say to forget about the hospital, but we both know you’ll be back for outpatient appointments.”
“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say it, but I’ll miss you, Ciarán. Thank you, for everything.”
“I always appreciate nice words, Charlie—who wouldn’t? Especially when we nurses get so much abuse. Of course, you might want to pop up and see me when you come back. Maybe take out a tired nurse for a coffee in the canteen. The coffee is the strongest in London. I get staff rates, so maybe I could even treat you—treat you both.” Ciarán ruffled Noah’s hair. “If all our patients were like you, our jobs would be a pleasure. If it’s not inappropriate to say, we’ll miss you round here.” He leaned across and hugged her.
Leaving the ward and the hospital overwhelmed Charlie. She had thought she might never leave. Her eyes were streaming and her legs jittered. Sh
e thought about meeting up with Ciarán—not for a while, but sometime, maybe when everything settled down.
Deb picked up Noah and walked beside Charlie as she left the exit doors of the ward, heading out into the dying light of the evening sun.
Iona
Iona walked out of the Cyber Crime Prevention Unit building and onto the street.
She looked back and wondered if she’d ever work there again.
Getting suspended had been a sting to Iona. Being put under supervision was even worse.
It was true that someone with her skills and determination should have been able to make greater inroads on Operation Scythe long ago. She thought about Jimmy Kinsella and everything he’d told her, everything that Verity had glossed over and denied. Iona didn’t think Jimmy was lying. He’d suggested inside corruption, and Iona still felt the responsibility to find the connections to Westbourne and the crimes Operation Scythe had been investigating.
In a way, Jimmy’s tip that her own unit might be involved in some way shouldn’t have been a surprise, given how many roadblocks Iona had encountered.
Frustrated and angry, Iona now found herself without access to the resources she needed to investigate, and with her new watchdog, Vanessa Coleridge, surveying her every move, if she took less legitimate routes to gathering information, she might be caught by Verity.
She had no way of undoing her mistakes and finding Maria Mathan. Lack of progress on the case was one thing, self-preservation was another, but her actions had caused life-changing consequences and preventing further damage was a kind of moral imperative for Iona.
Let Coleridge follow. Let her watch. I’ve been doing this my whole life. I will run faster. I will hide in places where I can’t be found. I’ll use dirty tricks they don’t teach in Hendon, Scotland Yard, or a university classroom.
Iona wanted to phone Raf. She had almost forgotten her request for his help—with the run-ins with Jimmy Kinsella’s henchmen, Jimmy himself, and Verity Armitage, she needed to fill Raf in on everything. He would be able to help her—if he was still willing—but phoning him was impossible while her shadow, Coleridge, was nearby.
At the bottom of the street, Iona saw a familiar figure. Shimmering perfect copper hair, immaculate clothing, and a blinding smile noticeable even from twenty feet away. Danielle Greene. Great. Just what I need.
The reporter approached. Iona scanned the pavements, bushes, cars—looking for Danielle’s normal cohort of camera and sound operators. But Danielle was alone.
“Detective Stone, can I have a few moments, please?” the reporter said, her voice smooth and calm, almost natural. “Off the record. I promise.”
Did anyone actually believe that conversations with media professionals were ever off the record? “I’m sorry. I don’t think so.”
“Why not? It’s not like you don’t have time on your hands now, is it?”
Iona rubbed the back of her neck to quell the tension creeping into her lower skull. “What do you mean by that?” Iona looked behind her. Coleridge wasn’t there, but Iona could just make out her reflection in the window of a park car. “We can’t do this. Not now. Not here.”
“Is it true they’ve suspended you?” Danielle Greene asked, hands on hips, body tilted. “That doesn’t seem fair to me. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Why are you so concerned, Greene? Making out like you’re bothered. I’m not buying the whole thing. Like I said, I can’t talk about it.”
“What if I said I could help you?”
“How could you possibly help me?” Iona shook her head and smirked. “You’ve probably been responsible for putting me in this position. I don’t like you, but I have to put up with you and people like you because it’s part of my job—but it makes my skin crawl.”
“You had to put up with me,” Danielle retorted. “You are no longer in that position, are you? Besides which, I’m doing my job. You were somewhere you shouldn’t have been. You let a vulnerable girl slip through your fingers—what else was I supposed to do? It’s what I’m paid to do.”
Iona looked back again. This time she couldn’t see any sign of Coleridge. Despite her dislike for Greene, Iona thought about the parallels between the reporter and herself. Determination and unwavering tenacity in a cause they believed in, regardless of the consequences.
“Why do you keep looking around, Iona?” Danielle Greene asked. “Are you being watched? Have they really gone as far as following one of their own? Bloody hell, this is worse than I thought.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can understand why you’re reluctant to talk, Iona. Let’s talk, somewhere we can’t be observed or monitored. I can help you. Actually—we can help each other. Believe it or not, we are after the same thing,” Danielle said.
Iona scanned Danielle’s face and body language for signs of deception. Danielle’s posture was open and comfortable, her gaze steady and firm, lips and cheeks motionless without tiny involuntary tremors. “Let’s just say, for some crazy reason, I take your word for it. What now?”
“Now we need to lose your shadow. Which will be virtually impossible given her training.”
“Maybe not.” Iona took a step back, rotated, and swung hard for Danielle, slapping her firmly on the cheek. Iona knew she was being watched and that it wouldn’t take long for her chaperone to scuttle back to Armitage with tales of police brutality on a high-profile member of the media—that was the point.
The impact almost knocked Danielle over. She yelped and dropped to her knees. “What the hell was that?” she spluttered.
Iona bent down and whispered, “Sorry about that. Meet me in an hour, at the Underground station where Maria Mathan went missing.” Iona prodded Danielle with her foot, making the reporter fall over. “Don’t bother me again. Do you hear me, Greene?” She shouted at Danielle.
That should look convincing enough.
Let’s see how Vanessa Coleridge deals with it. She’ll have to either follow me or try to prevent Danielle Greene from appearing on camera, bruised by one of the unit’s staff. It would be just the sort of scrutiny that Armitage would avoid at all costs.
Iona walked away, her chest tight as she thought about hitting Danielle and leaving her lying on the ground. Only a few hours ago, what she would have given to smack that fake grin from the reporter’s face. At this moment Iona wanted to go back and help her off the pavement, but she needed to continue the charade for the audience.
Iona glanced in the wing mirrors of the cars she passed. Coleridge had taken the bait. She was fussing around Danielle. She looked desperate to pacify her and keen to limit the damage. She’ll probably scamper and tell Armitage as soon as she can.
Iona followed a haphazard pattern of streets until she was sure that Coleridge wouldn’t find her by accident or guesswork.
Then she called Raf and arranged to meet him at Upton Park station twenty minutes before Danielle Greene was due to meet her.
Approaching Green Street, Iona was taken back to visions of the violent events that had engulfed her. She passed the spot where she’d hidden, trying to track the petty criminal, Leo Jeffers. Iona remembered how convinced she had been that just a few hours later that day she would have the first major break-through in her case.
As she passed the newsagents’, Iona relived the attack, replaying the events over and over—desperately seeking new outcomes, attempting to visualise interventions that could have prevented the carnage from unfolding.
She remembered the look in Maria Mathan’s eyes just before she disappeared into the station. Her skewed posture, the imbalance and uneven gait caused by her cerebral palsy, which Iona only came to learn of later through the news coverage.
Another day Iona might have let her thoughts slump her shoulders and drag her footsteps—but as she thought about Maria—her medical condition, the trauma and danger she faced—Iona stretched herself tall, controlled her breathing and quickening her step. The past was an x-ray image, a skeletal picture t
hat couldn’t be changed—but looking at it could help make the future better.
Upton Park Tube station lay beyond the market, its understated beauty hidden by grimy brickwork and rumbling double-deckers.
Outside the station, hiding his face underneath a pulled-down baseball cap, she saw Raf. He continually moved, not only covering his face from the multiple surveillance cameras, but also trying to disguise his body-movements, which could be detected as easily as facial recognition.
From her angle, he was easier to see. His hair was longer, curling from beneath his cap in soft, liquorice-coloured curls. Stubble grew over a face that was less tanned than she remembered—he had spent too many winters away from his Catalan home. For the first time, she saw his scars, and guilt welled in the corners of her eyes. She brushed away her tears before he noticed her.
Iona crept up behind him.
“Hello, Detective Stone,” Raf said, spinning around to face her.
His nose had clearly been broken. It did nothing to harm his looks, but Iona felt a cold chill in her lower back as she thought about the pain he’d gone through.
God, it’s good just to see him again.
“Raf, let me just say—”
He embraced her. Tight. Secure. Like the old times, but it felt better than it ever had. It was a moment of forgiveness and redemption for Iona. “There is no need to say anything.”
She thought about their past. All the things he had meant to her. She had dragged him into her case, and he’d paid the price heavily.
“But—” she said, desperately needing to apologise.
“Like I told you on the phone, there is no need to say what you’re going to say, Iona. I don’t agree with your career choice, but you know me better than anyone. You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do. It’s not every day I get a chance to use my skills to take down major criminal networks with the help of someone on the other side of the fence. I knew the risks.”
