by N. J. Mercer
“Trying to get away from everyone again?” asked Lisa with a cheeky grin.
Meredith was almost a year older than Rachel. She was a good-natured girl with auburn hair and a bulky frame; she cut a contrasting figure to the slim, dark Rachel. Following her was Lisa, the youngest of the foster sisters. She had green eyes and frizzy light brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Of the three girls, Lisa had by far the bubbliest and most temperamental personality, their foster mother referred to her as a livewire and she seemed to revel in this reputation. Like Rachel, they were both dressed casually in jeans and sports tops.
“I just wanted to get out of the house. You know I can’t stay indoors as much as you two, it’s just so suffocating,” Rachel replied quite honestly.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. We just got bored and thought we’d come out to find you,” said Lisa.
“So now you’ve found me, what’s the plan?” Rachel asked. Her two sisters looked at each other and shrugged, all three of them laughed. Meredith looked at her watch.
“Shall we go in? There’ll be some good stuff on TV now.” In agreement, they all walked back to the house.
Meredith had intuitively sensed Rachel’s unease and had allowed Lisa to walk on ahead so she could speak to her sister alone. “Are you okay, Rach?” she asked.
On hearing Meredith’s concerned voice, Rachel’s mind, which was still ruminating over the strange meeting with Martin, snapped back to the present. “I’m fine … just feeling down about living here, in the middle of nowhere, you know?” she replied, not telling any lies and at the same time not revealing what was really on her mind.
Meredith nodded in agreement. “Tell me about it,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder why they’re so strict about us going out of the house. I mean, I know there was the accident and all, but it seems like there’s more to it than that.”
At those words, Rachel turned to Meredith suddenly, wondering if her foster sister knew Martin’s secret. The expression on Meredith’s face was of someone lost in personal reflection, she had made the statement quite innocently.
Chapter 3
It was approaching 10:00 p.m. Martin was almost a hundred miles from the old country house where he had found Rachel earlier in the day. He walked through darkness and drizzle along Billington Road at the very edge of Glasgow’s city centre. It was quiet out and he felt uneasy, which, until recently, was unlike him. He comforted himself by imagining cosy scenes behind the drawn curtains of houses that he passed: children tucked into bed, exhausted parents taking a few precious moments to put their feet up, couples, young and old, sitting in armchairs watching TV together, content in each other’s company. He envied all these people in their houses. They were leading the life he had desired since childhood but to this day had never known – and still there was no peace for him.
He was anxious about Rachel and knew he would continue to be until she was safe again; it was to this end that he had arranged tonight’s meeting. His plan to remove her from under the noses of those ever-watchful foster parents was audacious; she had to be out of that house before it was too late so there was no other choice. Rachel was a smart girl; she might eventually have escaped by herself even without his intervention – he could see that she had already noticed the subtle abnormalities within her foster home. Given time, they might have disturbed her enough to run away; however, he simply couldn’t leave such an outcome to chance, there was too much at stake.
Ahead was the Cavendish Arms pub, his rendezvous, nestled on the corner of two small residential streets. He had arrived earlier than planned; that was the way he liked it. Leaves enough time to settle the nerves, he thought. The pub was a twenty-five minute walk from his flat. It was not the nearest place to get a drink; the reason he had chosen this particular venue was for its atmosphere, it felt private. The patrons never seemed concerned about other folk who happened to be around, preferring to keep themselves to themselves. It was something he appreciated. In this meeting, privacy was going to be essential, and he no longer felt this could be achieved in his own home, which was probably under surveillance by now.
Martin entered the dimly lit mock-Tudor building and was bathed in the inviting warmth of its interior, a stark contrast to the chill creeping into the wind outside. Ducking under a low wooden beam, he passed a crackling fireplace before approaching the bar. True to form, the stout, grey landlord, who must have seen him a dozen times before, served him politely with merely a nod of acknowledgement and no banter. That’s why I come here, no conversation and no questions. He selected a wooden table beside a small side window across from the fireplace; it was set slightly apart from the main seating of the pub. Looking around he noted two sets of drinkers: the first made up of four middle-aged men in quiet, intense discussion and the second, a young couple. He glanced at his watch. Peter Pike, his intimidating, unsavoury, loyal friend would be there in about five minutes.
As he waited, he tried to clear his thoughts. Subtly linked events from the distant and more recent past had been weighing heavily on his mind for months, events like Louise’s death, his attempts to find Rachel, and the malign intentions of her foster parents. Mentally, it was all taking its toll, and he wanted to forget the whole lot just for a few minutes before his meeting. He rubbed his temples to ease the tension headache that had been occurring far too frequently of late; the massage helped a little. He sipped his beer quickly and tried to think of other things, anything, and his mind gradually drifted back to a time before this mess. He pictured the rare occasions from his childhood home when his mother was well, happy times. A few minutes into these recollections he was interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Marty boy!” it growled. This far north the cockney accent was out of place and absolutely unmistakable. He looked up to see Peter Pike standing over him. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not noticed the other man enter.
Martin stood up to greet his trusted old acquaintance. “Petey!” was all he said as the two men exchanged solid handshakes and wide grins, old partners back together again. Martin glanced at his watch. Bang on time, he thought, punctual Pete. “Hey, big fella! Sit! Let me get you a drink,” he offered, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him.
“Lovely, cheers.”
“What are you having?”
“Kronenbourg.”
Martin walked back to the bar while Peter Pike took off his long, dark coat and sat down, taking in his new surroundings as he waited for his drink. On the way back to the table, Martin could not help smiling at how his massive, balding friend dwarfed the chair on which he sat; he placed the fresh drink before Pike and returned to his own seat.
“So how are you doing, mate?” Martin asked, the refined Home Counties accent he had spent so long trying to cultivate slipping in the presence of his old friend, betraying his own poverty-stricken East London roots.
“Good, thanks – you?”
“All right.”
Martin sounded guarded and tense. They had spoken to each other briefly prior to this meeting, and he had given Pike an inkling of what troubled him; he had not yet revealed all. “Look, thanks for coming, Pete.”
“Hey, no problem, it’s been a long time.”
“Too right, how long now?”
“God, it must’ve been about six months.”
“Six months? Oh, yeah! That was when we had that storming night in your mate’s club; I remember him giving us an open bar! Bloody generous that.”
“Yeah, Mike’s old place in Farringdon. It was a good one, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah …” Martin hesitated before his next question, “You still doing jobs then, Pete? Last time you mentioned you would consider going straight.”
“Oh, I’m still doing jobs; still in the game I’m afraid. I think it was just the booze talking that night. I’m doing pretty good too; you’ve seen my place haven’t you? In Finchley?”
“Yeah, nice.”
They talked candidly for a while and fi
lled each other in on the six months from when they last met. Martin learned that most of Pike’s income these days was legitimate; it came from a jewellery and watch repair store he now owned. It seemed he still occasionally supplemented his income with a break-in or a drug deal, although these transgressions were much less frequent than in the past.
Their glasses were soon empty. Peter Pike went up to the bar for another round. So far, the meeting had been purely about two friends catching up with each other; on Pike’s return to the table there was a noticeably sterner expression on the younger man’s face and tension in the air, lots of it. Martin thanked Pike for the drink before he spoke.
“Well, Pete, as you know, I’ve called you here for a reason.”
“Indeed,” smiled Pike.
“Did you think about it then, the job I need your help on?”
Peter Pike nodded, his face also looking serious now, a change in expression Martin had seen many times before, the transformation from happy-go-lucky cockney to lawless predator.
“I want to help, Marty boy, God knows you’ve helped me plenty of times before. You never gave me much to go on in those phone calls though. C’mon, mate, you can’t hold back on a potential partner, tell me more.”
Martin noticed Pike was careful to emphasise the word ‘potential’. He nodded and took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know every detail myself, and that’s the honest truth. Basically, there are big problems concerning the people Rachel is living with. I found out stuff about them, things they’re into. Basically, we need to get her out of the house before she is harmed.”
“What are you talking about? Child abuse? Why don’t you go to the police? You don’t have to be a vigilante in this day and age.”
“No, Pete, it could take too long that way. Besides, in this matter, I don’t know if I can even trust the police.”
“So it is child abuse then …” Pike stated with a stony face. There was a pause as the two men looked each other in the eye. “Does Rachel know what you have planned yet?” asked the big man.
Martin hesitated, he had not actually said anything about child abuse, it seemed Peter Pike had reached his own conclusion, and it looked like he was ready to help him for that reason. Martin considered setting his friend straight but reasoned that, in a way, he was right so decided not to say anything that might change his mind. “Yeah, she knows the plan. I’ve spoken to her, earlier today believe it or not. I told her I will be coming so I assume she will be waiting. We go in, get her out just like I explained to you on the phone. You go your own way after that. If anything happens and I get caught with her, then as far as anybody is concerned, it was just me flying solo.” Pike listened carefully; he did not answer. “I need your help this time, Pete,” said Martin, gently reminding his friend of all the times he had been a lookout for him, or a driver, when Pike was breaking into warehouses.
“Look, Martin, I haven’t forgotten anything you’ve done for me. I’m sure you’ll agree that I’ve done shitloads for you myself. I mean, you could have been dead on the street a dozen times if it weren’t for me. Look, I’m not asking for anything, it’s just what mates do for each other, isn’t it?” Martin nodded sheepishly. Pike’s features softened as he continued to speak. “There is something different about this request of yours, so don’t fret. The way I see it, there’s more to it than selfish thieving. This is a chance to help somebody, a child, an innocent. I’ve got no qualms about people being hurt when they have it coming to them, but a kid, no kid deserved to suffer.”
Martin smiled. “So you’re in?”
“Okay,” nodded Pike slowly, “I’m in … for now. Talk to me about the plan first, the logistics of the operation, tell me what we’re up against. If I don’t like what I hear, then I’m afraid I’m out again, okay?”
“Okay, no problem.”
For the next half an hour, Martin explained his plan while Peter Pike fired questions at him about security, transport, locations, everything. Martin remembered how thorough his friend was in what he did; once a professional thief, always a professional thief. They spoke intensely in hushed voices, pausing only for Martin to fetch more drinks. When both men were eventually satisfied that there was a workable scheme in place, Pike gave Martin the details of his hotel in the West End and left, explaining that he had other jewellery-related business to see to whilst in Glasgow.
Martin remained behind to finish his drink and savour the pub’s relaxed atmosphere a little longer – the fire opposite his table was far too inviting to leave so soon, especially as it would be much colder outside by now. He looked around again. From the original group of four middle-aged men only two remained, they both looked tired, and their faces were flushed from the alcohol they had been steadily consuming. The couple from earlier on had left, and in their place were two young men and two women laughing and drinking. Martin watched them discreetly before his mind drifted to the past once more, and his own drink sat on the table, forgotten. He remembered the time when he first met Peter Pike and thought about the circumstances that had led to that chance encounter, a long train of events that revealed much about his early life.
**
Martin was born in East London. His father was a machine worker in a factory with an alcohol problem that was undoubtedly made worse by the fact that his wife, Martin’s mother, was mentally ill. She was a loving woman by nature but subject to long spells of crippling depression during which she was a different person; someone who neglected her children and alienated her husband, sometimes for months at a time. Growing up in this situation created havoc in Martin’s early years and eventually caused enough emotional turmoil for him to make the decision to leave the family home and live on the streets despite being only sixteen years old – he remained of no fixed abode until the age of twenty-four, eight long and difficult years. It was the streets where he met Peter Pike in a confrontation over discarded food. Supermarkets routinely dumped sealed and perfectly edible produce past its sell-by date in large padlocked bins, plenty of fodder for those in possession of bolt-cutters and hungry enough to use them. Pike, who was also homeless at the time, turned up scavenging at the bins one night a few minutes later than planned, and was galled to find the young stranger taking the bread that he felt was rightly his. He didn’t hesitate in making his feelings on the matter quite clear. Refusing to be intimidated by the bigger, tougher man, Martin stubbornly clung to the food and earned Pike’s admiration in the process. Martin soon learned that beneath Peter Pike’s street-hardened, flawed exterior, there was a good heart and a man willing to take a bold youth under his wing. Pike, who was a few years older than Martin, had plenty of experience living rough and was also a rising talent in the criminal underworld. He looked after Martin, taught him how to survive on the street and even thrive. In return, he had an able accomplice for his illicit endeavours. Their partnership eventually and inevitably led to one place: prison.
It was only because his older sister was able to track him down that Martin managed to turn his life around. She had escaped the traumas of their childhood home even before he did by way of a desperately impulsive and short-lived marriage. Her divorce turned out to be the stepping-stone she needed to build a successful life with her second husband. With help from her influential spouse, she had been able to move Martin out of London and set him up with a new life in Scotland, near to her. She helped provide him with training for a career in IT that gave him the means to eventually purchase his own flat.
Peter Pike had no such break. Notorious and already well known to the authorities, he received a longer sentence and, unlike Martin, was more than happy to continue his life of crime on release. Despite going their separate ways, Martin had kept in regular contact with Pike. He appreciated the way the older man had mentored and looked after him for so long; he also accepted that he ended up in jail because of him, but what was twelve months in prison compared with the very real possibilities of a violent end on the streets of London – stabbed, shot or overdos
ed? At least with Pete he had protection and a ready supply of quality drugs. He never had to take chances with shared needles, unknown concentrations of heroin or aggressive dealers; besides all that, he actually enjoyed the old rogue’s company.
They remained good friends, spoke to each other over the phone and met up for drinks if either happened to be nearby. Pike would talk openly about burglaries he had undertaken, the stolen goods he handled and other misdemeanours. He quietly hoped Martin would join him again, just like in the old days. Despite this desire, Pike never applied any undue pressure on Martin because he was genuinely happy that his young partner had found a better life for himself. Martin was, in turn, determined to continue forging ahead with his new, law-abiding existence in Scotland. He did not want to let his sister down and so never felt compelled to join Pike again.
**
The landlord calling last orders interrupted Martin’s recollections. His thoughts moved from the past back to the present, and the events around the old country house returned to the forefront of his mind. The meeting with his friend had been positive in many ways, and much of his anxiety was replaced by steely determination. Their plan would be executed the following night, just as he had told Rachel. To contact her now would be impossible. He prayed she would be ready for them.
Chapter 4
As Martin concluded his meeting with Peter Pike, elsewhere, Johnny M. completed his preparation for a journey north to investigate the aberrant psychic energy that had been the source of so much recent concern. He was a light traveller and preferred taking only a single piece of luggage filled with essentials. Johnny had packed according to the forty-eight hour deadline knowing the length of these assignments was notoriously unpredictable.
