by A. L. Knorr
Charlie squawked through the radio grille, “Pursuit? Steady on there, hotshot!”
I lost the rest of the conversation as Marcus vanished through the double doors.
I stood there dumbly for a moment longer, wondering just how big a mess I’d made now, and then I checked the time on my phone.
Map or no, if I hurried, I wouldn’t be too late to meet Jackie.
5
Established while Chelsea was still known as the haunt of great intellectuals and artists, The Hen and Bishop was designed for quiet drinks and friendly, intelligent conversation. I couldn’t speak to the quality of conversations within its walls these days, but it was always what I hoped for as I strolled down Elystan Street.
Every month, The Hen ran a special on a different kind of liquor to bring the partiers in. That was the only way that Jackie, who loved clubs, dancing and all things bedazzled and glamorous, had discovered this spot. Since that one drunken night, she’d decided she liked it. So, she commenced a weekly ritual.
The street side tables were empty except for a couple talking loudly to each other over a beer. They looked to be having a good time, but I was glad they were outside. Obnoxious voices would have grated on my frazzled nerves.
The doorman, a craggy-faced fellow named Harris, knew me. With a courteous nod, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Harris’s voice was like wood smoke and old scotch, rough but not unkind. “Jackie’s in the back. Brace yourself. She’s pretty excited about the flavour of the week.”
“Thanks, Harry.” I gave him a peck on the cheek that made his grey moustache twitch.
Ducking inside, I was greeted by a warm interior with exposed beams, soft amber lighting and the strains of a Leonard Cohen song. A set of roped-off stairs led to a second level. To the left was the common room from where the piano playing came, as well as the low-level hum of conversation. Woolshott, the publican — who everyone called Woolsey — spotted me from the bar as I came in. He gave a cheery wave and pointed to my right. I nodded and mouthed my thanks.
The back room was smaller with only a single row of wooden booths along the wall. Two sets of antique double doors stood propped open to a small cobbled yard that had a few tables and chairs.
Jackie had chosen a booth in the back corner. Her face was highlighted by the stark glare of her phone. She looked wan and tired. But when she heard my footsteps, she looked up with the brilliant smile I loved. Jackie was gorgeous, and being her friend — her ‘responsible’ friend — wasn’t easy sometimes.
“I thought you’d never get here!” She leapt from her seat and threw her arms around me.
She was on the tall side with a knockout figure that stood in adamant defiance of her eating habits and occasional binge drinking. Pouty lips, chocolatey-brown eyes and immaculate waves of dark hair, Jackie turned heads wherever she went and with whatever she wore. She laughed easily and warmly, could make anyone feel special and had a charming mischievous streak.
“You say ‘things must be shared.’ I come running.” I released her and slid into the booth. “That’s how this works. Don’t you know?” I pointed to her, then myself and back again in rapid succession with both hands.
Jackie laughed. Catching the attention of a passing waiter, she asked for two glasses and a bottle of wine, before scooping her phone back up.
“Oh, and don’t I just have things to share,” she giggled.
I braced myself. We’d gone through this often enough, as the code implied, and each time I dreaded this part the most. She would show me her new love interest or as she called them, mon chou, which was a French pastry or a candy or something. They were invariably good looking, invariably rich, or at least lived like it and invariably ended up being cads of one sort or another.
Jackie looked up from her phone, eyes twinkling, and she pressed the screen against her chest. “Ready?” She caught that pouty lower lip between her teeth in anticipation.
It was like a child asking you to watch them do something you knew was going to end badly. Nothing you could say was going to stop them, and you didn’t want to crush their spirit, but you also didn’t want to deal with the wreckage afterwards.
I nodded, wishing the wine was here already.
“Isn’t he just delicious?”
I closed one eye and made a show of peeking as she turned the screen to face me. Catching a glimpse, both eyes popped open and I stared openly. “Good heavens.”
“Right?”
The young man on the screen was a wild motorcycle ride along a rugged coast. He was a warm bear hug in front of a crackling fire and big happy shrieks on the wildest ride at the fair. Handsome didn’t cover it. Dark but not unruly brows, skin that was no stranger to the sun, and a way of holding his head on sculpted shoulders that seemed a perpetual, careless shrug. It looked as though he was trying too hard, posing too much, in what he thought was an edgy half-grin, but it could have just been the picture.
“His name is Dillon Sark,” she went on, gazing dreamily at the phone. “We hit it off at that party you couldn’t make it to last weekend.”
Yeah, I’d been ‘sick.’
Handsome, carefree and just enough edge to whet a girl’s imagination. He had ‘Jackie’s type’ stamped on his wrinkle-free forehead.
“He’s hot.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes … but,” she started as her eyes flashed up and down again. “Is that all you’re going to say?” Her voice turned soft, vulnerable.
“Jackie, what do you want me to say?” I pleaded. “I don’t even know the bloke.”
Jackie stared tenderly at the picture. “You just sound so … so, unenthusiastic. Almost like you’re disappointed.”
Tired and stressed as I was, I felt for my friend. Despite her high-flying lifestyle, I was one of the few people Jackie actually felt close to. She partied with lots of people, but she ‘trusted’ me.
“Jackie,” I began emphatically to get her attention. “If you say he is lovely, then I hope to God he is. I just don’t want to see you hurt like all those other times.”
“What do you mean ‘all those other times’?”
The wine arrived and not a moment too soon. Jackie measured us out two healthy glasses. Jackie’s would be gone in two swallows. Sigh. Responsibility.
“I’m just saying,” I explained gently, “that when you are as beautiful and fun as you are, men are drawn to you. Many of them don’t have the most honourable of intentions.”
“I don’t want them to be too honourable.” Jackie rolled her eyes and giggled at the stricken expression on my face. “Jokes, Ibby. Just a joke.”
“Joke or not, you remember Eric, don’t you?”
Jackie stared at me for a second, looking like she was searching her memory, then rolled her eyes again. “I try not to.”
“What about Yusef?”
This time Jackie winced and tried to hide behind her nearly empty wine glass, cheeks flushing. “Eh, let’s not.”
I should have stopped there, but I was on a roll and felt a powerful sense of vindication in taking a trip down the gallery of rogues and aborted romances. “Sammy? Carlo?”
Jackie gave a little groan of despair and crossed her hands in front of her face. “Mercy, please!” She half-whined, half-laughed. “You’re going to make me cry.”
She was playing it down, but we both knew the words were hitting close to home. As I watched Jackie pour herself another glass of wine, I cursed myself for letting fatigued irritation sharpen my tongue. I reached across the table and took her hand. She stopped pouring and looked at me.
“Jackie, I’m sorry,” I said, utter sincerity making my voice shake a little. “I just want you to be with someone who treats you well and who you can fall in love with. Someone you can trust. That’s all. I get my guard up because I want to protect you.”
Jackie put the bottle down, gazing at me in surprise at the sudden show of seriousness.
“I’m sure he’s fantastic,” I affirmed before t
hings got too uncomfortable. “I’m just being a grouse because my day went completely pear-shaped.”
Concern creased her flawless brow as her dark eyes went wide. “What happened?”
This is why I loved this mess of a girl. At a word, she would be quids in to hear my problems.
“Was it that brute, Shelton?” Jackie was well aware of my boss-zilla.
“Nothing too terrible.” I took a sip of wine, which I didn’t taste. “I don’t want to whinge.”
“Come off it, Ibby, tell me.” Jackie leaned in with interest. “If not for your own sake, then for mine.”
“What do you mean?”
Jackie rested a hand tenderly on her phone. “Dillon is a poli-sci student, but he’s finding politics a bit crass.”
I resisted the urge to take a much larger gulp of wine. Dillon thought politics was crass. Poor baby.
“He’s been talking about switching to archaeology,” she continued. “I told him about your run-ins with that nasty wanker, Shelton, and encouraged him not to, at least not at our uni. Anything more you can tell me is another opportunity to steer him clear.”
I’m not sure I appreciated Jackie using me as a lesson in why to avoid a field I loved, despite everything, but I wouldn’t wish Shelton on anyone.
“Well, for such a noble cause …” I began, taking another drink.
I left The Hen later than I should have.
I couldn’t tell Jackie ‘everything,’ especially if she planned to tell Dillon. The business with me discovering and then accidentally absconding with the artifact, was glossed over with, “I thought I found something important, but my boss would just use it to crush me.” From there, I moved into the weirdness with Professor Lowe, being late for my lectures and running into potential-student, Daria.
Jackie was a great listener, commiserating and crying out in outrage at all the right moments. Even while keeping some things from her, I felt lighter, less stressed.
The tube ride was quiet, almost restful. The swaying hum of the subway almost lulled me to sleep, so my feet were dragging on the walk back to my apartment. The streets were almost bare, and the night was humid. I found myself savouring the cool night breeze as I mulled things over.
Tomorrow, I would put the artifact back along with the last bit of Archive filings, getting rid of that headache for good. Then I was going to trust that by doing my job and taking Meredith’s and Professor Schottelkirk’s advice, I would survive the immediate future. Uncle Iry was going to be okay, because he was skilled and the hardest worker I knew. Even a man-eater like Greater Nile would see him as an asset worth protecting.
There. Comforted by the gentle English night, everything was going to be okay.
A sharp, high scream cut through the air. The hair at the nape of my neck bristled, and goose bumps swept my arms. Hissed curses followed by a wounded grunt brought the uglier memories of my younger days surging to the fore like a cold tsunami.
I froze, sweeping the dark corners. A knot of people stood in the doorway of an apartment complex just ahead. The lights in the entryway were not working or had been smashed out. All I could see were the shapes of people grappling.
I looked up and down the street, where I’d seen other pedestrians only moments before. Gone. I was the only other person in the alley. I scrambled for my phone, intending to call the police, but as my fingers fumbled, I caught the glint of a knife. Another scream pealed through the air, a woman’s voice, fraught with panic.
The knife looked like a meat-cleaver or maybe a garden machete. Either way the victim’s life could be measured in seconds.
“Hey!” I screamed advancing forwards, hefting my bag like a bludgeon. “Get off her!”
If either heard me, they didn’t act like it. The knife-wielder reared back for a strike.
“Fuzz!” I screamed. “Coppers are on the way, you bastards!”
Both figures whirled, the one with the ugly knife taking a step towards me. His partner kept a hand on the struggling woman. Both looked young, mean and wild. A better view of their faces dissolved any confidence the threat of police would scare them off.
The knife-wielder took another step, pointing the knife at me menacingly. “Rat us out, did you?”
The steel flashed in the moonlight, and I was struck by how close I’d gotten and how very big and sharp the blade was.
I tried for a forceful reply, but my voice sounded weak and small. “They’re coming. Get out of here before you and your mate get in serious trouble.”
He gave me a snarling, gap-toothed grin. “Only one in serious trouble here is you, little rat.” His face was positively demonic in the twilight of the street.
My heart began a full-on sprint.
His partner continued to struggle with the woman. She thrashed against him, trying to say something through the hand he had clamped over her mouth. His eyes widened and took on the cast of fear.
“Let’s beat it,” he said, hissing the words. “They ain’t worth it.”
The knife-wielder snarled and took a step closer to me. I hefted my bag and shook it threateningly. Not much of a weapon, but what else did I have?
“Donnie,” the other called. “‘Come on’ - ufff!”
The struggling woman drove her knee into her captor’s belly and twisted out of his grip. He wheezed a string of curses and groped at her, but she was up and swinging the door open, slipping inside. His fingers jammed against the door as she slammed it. The sound of a bolt clicking into place made me give a whoop of triumph.
Something blurred across my vision, and I realised with a scream - of fear this time - that the knife was coming towards my face!
I lurched back, arms windmilling. The edge of a blade flashed close enough to feel the wind of it. I scrambled backwards as Donnie’s other hand reached out like a claw to grab at my jacket. If he got a hold of me, I was as good as dead.
I dodged his lunging grab twice, and then he made to ram the blade into my chest. My feet tangled, and I nearly stumbled, just managing to avoid the first thrust, but the second was coming. I lifted my bag like a shield and winced, preparing for the blow.
The blade and bag met with a queer clang, the blade veering wide. My attacker staggered after the spoiled stab as though he was being dragged, losing his footing, his free hand pinwheeling. I leapt out of the way as he flew past me, towards the unforgiving bitumen.
This jump put me right in the path of the other attacker.
He smacked into me with enough force to rattle my teeth, and I spun to the ground. For an instant, lying on the concrete, I saw the mugger looking down at me with bulging, bloodshot eyes, and I thought I’m dead. Then to my surprise and relief, he stumbled past me to haul his friend to his feet.
The one with the knife looked as dazed as I felt and held up his weapon for inspection. I must have hit my head when I fell because it looked like there was nothing but a handle in his grip.
He shook the neutered handle at his friend. “What the bloody h-”
“Shut up and let’s go!” The other grabbed him by the collar and began to drag. “Come on!”
The now blade-less mugger gave me a venomous glare, and he shoved the useless hilt into his pocket before turning to run. I could hear the slap of their trainers on the pavement, long after I’d lost sight of them.
The street went quiet once again. The nightmare was over.
I sat down on the street, panting and processing. I shivered as an icy sweat broke out all over my body. Drawing my knees towards my chest, I wrapped my trembling arms around my shins as my mind conjured a rapid string of memories. The woman’s scream, the flash of the knife, that strange clang. The jarring impact, the empty hilt. It played over and over until my chest was tight and my breath was coming in gasps. A small sob escaped, but little by little, the grip of fear released. My breathing slowed, and the memories stopped chasing one another like ponies on a merry-go-round.
I’d nearly died, truly, but since I was in fact still alive, I co
uldn’t just keep sitting on the street. My arse was damp.
Climbing unsteadily to my feet, I swayed for a moment or two, looking around. The street was abandoned now. Even the buildings seemed vacant. Most of their windows were black. There was no sign of the woman. The door she’d disappeared into was shut up tight.
I expected the police to arrive, but then remembered I’d made the threat without actually having made the call. I’d been too panicked. Unless the woman I’d saved had made the call, I was standing around for nothing. Heaving a sigh, I dug for my phone, thankful to find it undamaged by my fall, and I began to dial 999 for emergency services.
I reached down for my bag and spotted something shiny poking from the side. I’d just thumbed in 999 when I turned the bag over and stared at a coil of metal jutting from my bag. It pierced through the exterior of the tough nylon and seemed stuck fast. My thumb hovered over send as I stared at the oddity. Tugging on the corkscrew of steel, I watched in fascination as the corner of the artifact box protruded through the gash in my bag, stuck fast to the knife.
I stared stupidly at this strange sight until I realised I still hadn’t dialled. I cleared the 999 and hurried down the street towards my flat.
Suddenly I was desperate not to be around if any police did show up. The last thing I needed was a bobby asking what was jutting out of my bag.
Oh nothing, officer. Just something I stole from the museum where I work.
6
Back in my tiny, alley-side flat I sat on my only stool, hunkered over my bag.
One hand wrapped in a doubled over dish rag, the other holding the artifact box, I tried to prise the spiral of metal free. I managed to rip the hole in my bag wider and rattle some bits in the box around, but nothing else. My frustrated efforts were delicate work because — as one bandage already proved — the coiled blade was wickedly sharp.
With a grunt of frustration, I dropped it all onto the countertop and pressed both hands to my temples. I needed to get this coil away from the box if I was going to file it tomorrow with the rest. A cut, even a hole in the box, would be shrugged off as part of the normal wear and tear, and I could get a new one if need be. A warped knife? Not so much.