Shrill Dusk (City of Magic Book 1)

by Helen Harper

  Irritated with myself for not taking a risk earlier, I stifled a yawn and tossed down my cards. ‘I fold,’ I announced, with more drama than was probably necessary. ‘I shall leave the two of you…’ I paused ‘…adults to continue without me.’

  Valerie crowed in mock triumph but I didn’t miss the flash of disappointment in her eyes. All the same, I stood up and exited the room, leaving the pair of them to play on.

  I’d barely reached the end of the corridor when Valerie’s cry of fake glee changed to one of obvious despair. I smiled slightly to myself. I could have ended the evening in almost complete penury; that it had been a near miss could be counted as a success.

  I blew my hair out of my eyes, shoved my hands into my pockets and strolled out into the chill night. I’d barely gone ten yards when a darkened figure appeared from one of the shadowed alcoves built into the wall on my left. For the briefest instant my mind froze with sudden fear, despite the odd self-defence class I’d taken and the tiny pepper-spray canister I had attached to my keychain. Then he spoke and I realised I was in even worse trouble than a would-be mugger could present.

  ‘Charley. Charley, Charley, Charley,’ he tutted.

  I sighed. ‘You can say my name as many times as you like, Max,’ I told him. ‘I’m on my way home and I’m not stopping for small talk.’

  He stepped forward, the orange glow from the street lamp illuminating his face. Max was a handsome bastard – and he knew it. Dirty blond hair tied up in an artless man bun gave the impression that he’d spent no more than a few seconds on it when in reality it was more like hours, a trim beard and a golden tan. He looked pretty and gormless. Unfortunately, he was anything but.

  Mock amusement flitted across his face and he pushed his hands into pockets as if to suggest this was a casual meeting and he hadn’t been waiting out here for me. ‘It’s not small talk I’m after, Charley. You know that.’

  I matched his relaxed stance, doing everything I could to ignore the thrumming of my heart against my ribcage. ‘All I know,’ I said, ‘is that it’s late and I have to be at work in a couple of hours. The police are quite careful about time keeping. If I’m late, they’ll notice.’

  He moved closer, his breath clouding in the air and the stink of tobacco coming with it. Everything Maximillian Stone did was calculated, including using both his height and weight to loom over me. I’d like to have pretended it didn’t bother me and that I wasn’t in the slightest bit intimidated but we both knew that wasn’t true.

  ‘You drop the pigs into conversation like you’re the fucking Met Commissioner instead of being their skivvy,’ he said.

  I tossed back my hair and sniffed. ‘If you’re trying to make me embarrassed about the fact that I’m a cleaner, you’re going to have a work a bit bloody harder than that. I like my job. I’m proud of it.’ I curved my lips into a tight grin. ‘And skivvy or not, I know everyone on that force by first-name terms.’ I held up my hand and crooked my little finger then pushed myself up onto my tiptoes and lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘That’s all it takes to get them running to my side, Max. They like me, you see. A concept I imagine you’re unfamiliar with.’

  ‘I like you.’ It was quite impressive how slimy he managed to make those three little words sound.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, hoping that I could goad him into leaving me alone. ‘But I don’t think there’s anyone who would say the same about you.’

  My ploy worked – up to a point. Max pulled away from me, folding his arms tightly across his chest. He didn’t leave, however. ‘You’re the one who hangs around illegal gambling dens, Charley. I wonder how your buddies in blue would feel about that?’

  I seriously doubted any of them would care much unless I rubbed it in their faces. All the same, it wasn’t a theory I particularly wanted to test. I reached into my pocket for the only thing I knew that could get Max off my back. When I thrust the wad of crumpled notes towards him, though, his lip curled disdainfully.

  ‘That’s not enough.’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got.’ I wasn’t even lying.

  He regarded me silently for a moment. ‘This is what happens when you stick your neck out for others,’ he said eventually. ‘You shouldn’t have meddled in the first place. Now you’re in deep shit and, unless you find a way to pay me off, it’s only going to get deeper.’ He peered at me owlishly. ‘We can still come to a different arrangement. It doesn’t have to be … financial.’

  I lifted my chin. I wasn’t cowed. Not completely. ‘By my reckoning, I still have ten days left. You’ll get what’s owed to you.’

  Max let out a low laugh. ‘Oh, of that I have no doubt.’

  I stepped to the side to move past him. He thrust out an arm, barring me from leaving. ‘If you think I’ll treat you differently because you’re a girl, you’re being naïve. You agreed to take on Christopher Rider’s debt. Non-payment means you’ll be treated with the same … regard that he would have been.’ He dipped his head towards me so I could smell his stale breath. ‘There’s no room for heroes in this world.’

  A sour taste of bile rose up in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down. ‘I’m not a hero,’ I hissed, with more emotion than I wanted to convey. ‘I’m not trying to be a hero either. I’m helping out a mate.’

  ‘Your little collection of waifs and strays will get you seriously hurt one of these days.’ Max licked his lips as if he couldn’t wait to deal out the hurt himself.

  I sidestepped and started walking again. ‘Ten days,’ I tossed over my shoulder. ‘You’ll get your money.’

  ‘I’d better,’ he growled after me.

  I expelled a loud, irritated whoosh of air from my cheeks, adding emphasis to my fiction that I wasn’t in the slightest bit of afraid of him, but I couldn’t lie to myself. I was going to have to find the money that was owed to him from somewhere – and find it fast. First, however, there was my legitimate day job to contend with.

  I sighed. No rest for the wicked.

  Chapter Two

  Several hours later and I could feel myself on the home run. The staff room was done. The cells were done. I’d even finished the main investigative work area. In case you’re wondering, I can tell you – unless there was a smearer or overnight drunk in custody who was less comatose and more vomitastic, it was usually far more pleasant cleaning up the arrestees’ area rather than the arresters’. The police were slobs. It didn’t matter how much lemon-scented polish I used, there was no getting rid of the combined odours of stale coffee, deodorant-proof body odour and half-eaten Maccie D’s. I’d found enough ancient French fries in forgotten corners to create a modern art installation worthy of the Tate.

  I wandered into the main female restroom, which was open to all comers be they visitors, coppers or those of a criminal persuasion, ready to finish off my last section. For once it appeared relatively empty, with only one stall door closed. I’d be back home and catching up on sleep long before the next shift change. I turned up the volume on my music, enjoying the peppy pop that ensured my energy levels stayed high, and got to work on the sinks and mirrors.

  If you think like Max and believe that cleaning is a mug’s game that anyone can do, you don’t have enough imagination. First of all, there’s almost immediate gratification. I didn’t need a supervisor or a passer-by to tell me when I’d done a good job and I didn’t have to wait to find out whether my efforts were passable or not; I could see the evidence with my own eyes. Secondly, to do this sort of work you needed to pay attention to detail. Most people would miss the odd dusty corner or half-hidden cranny, but I saw them all and no cobweb or smear of grease was safe from my scouring.

  I could size up a room in five seconds or less, instantly estimating to the minute how long it would take to turn it sparkly and clean. I defy anyone to do a white-glove test and fail me once I’ve had my time somewhere. Not to mention that when you were as adept and experienced as I was, you could whizz through in fifteen minutes and get paid for a full hour while
still maintaining full employer satisfaction. And, although my work required a certain kind of focus, I was able to free other parts of my mind to work over other problems. Such as how I was going to get hold of ten grand at short notice to keep slimy Max at bay.

  I had a couple of hot tips for the horses at the weekend but there were always other sporting events, even small ones, where I could make a few quick bucks. I was a veritable gold mine of information when it came to different ploys and details that could foretell a sports outcome in my favour. Besides, I’d been in worse situations before. Perhaps taking on Christopher Rider’s debt had not been the greatest move I’d ever made in my life, but it meant that he no longer had to worry about getting his fingers chopped off, and I had the not-unpleasant buzz from the pressure to do well and make the right bets. Really it was win-win.

  I was envisaging myself smugly handing over a fat wad of cash to Max before the deadline ran out when the door to the closed cubicle swung open. The reflection of a pale-faced woman with vivid green eyes blinked at me in the mirror. Distracted as I’d been by my own thoughts, her sudden appearance made me jump. I flashed her worried face a quick grin of reassurance and returned my attention to cleaning the glass.

  The green-eyed woman shuffled out, heading towards me and the nearest sink. I bobbed my head approvingly; you’d be horrified how many people don’t bother washing their hands. As a cleaner, I guess I’m beneath their notice and they don’t care whether I note their lack of hygiene or not. On the one hand that’s both irritating and ego-sapping; on the other hand, it allows me to discover a vast amount about the human psyche without anyone paying me any attention. That is always useful, considering my other line of work.

  I moved slightly to the side to give the woman access to the taps. Of course, I mused, there was more than the odd sports event that I could gamble on. It was only September; betting on a white Christmas, while always fun, wasn’t going to pay off any time soon. Neither was a gamble on the first manned mission to Mars (don’t tell anyone, but I’ve already laid money down for that one). One of the younger members of the Royal family who’d not long been married had, according to a gossip mag, been throwing up in the toilets of an exclusive nightclub as a result of too much tequila. What if it wasn’t tequila but extreme morning sickness? I considered the possibility that the happy couple would announce their news in the next ten days. It was improbable but…

  The woman tapped my shoulder, interrupting my reverie. Curious as to what she wanted, I took out my earphones and glanced at her.

  ‘Cool hair,’ she told me.

  I grinned at her. It was normally only children who remarked upon my brilliant-blue hue. ‘Thanks. I love blue.’ And then, because I couldn’t help myself, I added, ‘Did you know that it’s been proved that weight lifters can lift heavier weights in blue-painted gyms?’ It was true. Plus, it was useful to know; I’d won a decent-sized bet thanks to that particular fact.

  I laughed and flexed my biceps, amused by the woman’s dumbfounded – and discomfited – expression. She really did look stressed. She didn’t have the air of a criminal about her, but I’d never seen her here before. Perhaps she was a new detective. Deciding to put her at ease, I tapped my nose. ‘I’ll let you into a secret about my hair.’ I paused. ‘It’s not natural.’

  She laughed loudly, like someone who’s been told a joke that’s not really funny but who’s trying to ingratiate themselves. Interesting. It was a rare day when my cleaning apron encouraged that sort of behaviour. Then she stumbled slightly, as if thrown by her own hilarity. I put out a hand instinctively to steady her.

  ‘I’m so sorry! I’m hopelessly clumsy!’ she said. Her words were strangely accented as if she hailed from a different continent despite her obvious fluency in English. Regardless, her smile remained friendly and her demeanour was suddenly less stressed. Perhaps my lame comment about my hair had relaxed her more than I’d realised.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said.

  Her eyes drifted down to my name tag and she nodded oddly before leaving. Yeah, I get that a lot. I only work for Pixie Dust Cleaning Services, however; I’m not responsible for the name.

  I finished up, locking away my mop and brushes in the closet. As I strolled towards the front door of police station, a wave of dizziness overtook me. Man, I really was tired. I blinked away my fatigue, only belatedly noticing the wall of wide-eyed police officers gazing out into the street. That was unusual.

  I shuffled to the side and attempted to gain my own vantage point. Try as I might, I couldn’t edge my way through. Beyond the fact that the sky appeared extremely dark for the time of day, I couldn’t see a thing.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Anna Jones, one of the friendlier officers, glanced at me. ‘First of all,’ she muttered, ‘it was some sort of gang shit. As we were about to go out and stop it, that storm blew in out of nowhere and…’ She shook her head, her face pale.

  ‘And what?’

  She didn’t answer. I frowned. If there was one thing I prided myself on, it was being in the know; it wasn’t being trapped behind twenty-odd police officers with nothing but broad shoulders and worried faces.

  I straightened my posture and did the only sensible thing.

  ‘Charley, wait!’

  I ignored DC Jones and pushed my way to the front, nudging the array of stiff-backed coppers out of my path. One or two of them tutted but most were too focused on what was going on outside to care. It was only when I elbowed in front of the podgy desk clerk that I realised why no one was venturing out and why everyone was staring.

  My first thought was that there was a flood, that a nearby river had burst its banks, but the undulating river of brown wasn’t water. When I looked more closely, my stomach turned and dread flashed through me. Rats. Hundreds of them. In fact, scratch that – there had to be thousands. Even with the dark skies, it was possible to see their tails and the teeth.

  ‘We’re getting calls in from all over the city,’ someone said. ‘We have to do something.’

  ‘You got the number for the Pied Piper?’ came the reply. ‘What the hell are we supposed to do?’

  I blocked out the responding mutters and murmurs and continued to gape. Sure, I knew the old adage that you were never more than a metre away from a rat, but I’d never realised that there were so many in the city. Where were they going? And, more to the point, where had they come from?

  I heard a plaintive scream. My eyes flicked to the left and I spotted a figure halfway up a nearby lamppost. More rats were swarming at the bottom of it, leaping upwards as if attempting to spring upwards and eat the person. They were getting closer, their bodies creating an ever-growing mountain that was enabling them to scrabble upwards with unerring accuracy.

  I didn’t stop to think. I had to do something. I flung open the door and ran out, ignoring the screams behind me as several rats sneaked into the police station.

  Part of me expected to tread upon several of the creatures as soon as I reached the pavement. Instead, they seemed afraid of me, moving round me as if I were an immutable force that they dared not get close to. With a brief yelp of relief, I jogged across the road towards the helpless lamppost clinger. The rats parted for me, in a manner akin to the Red Sea and Moses.

  Halfway across, I turned and yelled back. ‘It’s okay! They’re not trying to attack!’

  Some of the watching police had obviously already recognised this and were edging out of the building to help. Unfortunately, they weren’t having the same good fortune that I was; in seconds, rats were swarming up their legs, squealing in triumph. As I stared, the officers retreated back to the relative safety of the police station.

  For a moment I stood immobile in the middle of the road, the skittering of the rats’ tiny feet roaring round me. I half expected to be overwhelmed at any moment. A questing pink nose edged towards me, bravely pushing into the gap at my feet, then it recoiled and rejoined the flood of others running to goodness only knew wh
ere. Maybe the furry bastards instinctively recognised me as a cleaner and the scourge of their kind. But I wasn’t pest control; I just scrubbed floors.

  It wasn’t worth wasting time worrying about it. At any moment the rats might change their minds and decide to attack me after all. Yes, they were small but there were enough of them to turn me into a half-eaten carcass before I could say that I smelled a rat. And, boy, they smelled bad.

  I clamped my hand over my nose and tried to breathe through my mouth. I turned back towards the lamppost, noting that the figure, whoever it was, was now barely clinging on with his fingertips. His head turned towards me and I registered that he was little more than a kid. I swallowed and stepped towards him, the rats continuing to avoid me whenever I moved.

  The boy jerked his head frantically, his mouth moving as he yelled something. He could have been shouting at the top of his lungs; I wouldn’t have a heard a word over the squealing and skittering of the rats. I waved at him, indicating that he should stay put. Easy for me to say, of course. He momentarily lost his grip and slipped half a foot down the post. Three rats leapt up and started gnawing at the hem of his jeans. He did his best to kick them off, but more were on their way.

  Steeling myself, I stopped pansying around and ran. The rats parted for me, adapting to my movements rather than the other way around. Within moments I reached the base of the lamppost.

  ‘Let go!’ I shouted.

  ‘You’re nuts!’ the boy screeched back at me. ‘They’ll eat me alive!’

  I spread my feet, making even more rats scatter. ‘Look down,’ I said, sounding much calmer than I felt. ‘They’re not coming near me. Drop down and I’ll piggyback you to safety.’

  With eyes as wide as saucers, he stared down at me without moving. Strangely, when he registered the lack of flesh-eating rodents around me, he seemed more disturbed rather than less. ‘What the hell is wrong with you if those fuckers won’t go near you?’

  Ordinarily, I’d have thought he was making a good point. However, given that several of the fuckers in question had swerved away from me and were still attempting to clamber up to him, albeit at a distance from me, I didn’t think this was the time. Gritting my teeth, I gave him my best glare. ‘Jump now,’ I hissed.