Black

by Sophie Lark

  “I’d love to come,” Holly said, “and we can go as whatever you want. I’m not worried about titles. I just like spending time with you, Byron.”

  “Me too,” Black said.

  After a moment’s pause, he added, “I haven’t been in a relationship in a long time. The last woman I—there was someone I loved, very much. But I was mistaken about who she was, and what she wanted.”

  “Violet told me,” Holly admitted.

  “It’s all over,” Black assured her. “It was two years ago. But I haven’t been able to connect with anyone, since.”

  “It leaves a mark,” Holly said.

  Almost unconsciously, she traced her fingers over the physical mark on Black’s side—the scar from where Wright had stabbed him. It had left a deep weal on his left side. Black had other marks, on his shoulders and back, from other altercations in the line of work. And a very small scar on the right side of his face, from a car accident that had involved the woman in question, Lex Moore.

  “I’ve taken some damage,” Black said, sighing.

  “We all have,” Holly said, “visible or otherwise.”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you,” Black said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t,” Holly said.

  There was that effervescent hopefulness again.

  She kissed him softly on the lips.

  “I’m not perfect, either,” she assured him. “I work too much, I forget everyone’s birthday, I’m a terrible driver, and I lend money to people when I shouldn’t. I hope you like me anyway. I like you, scars and all.”

  She kissed him lightly on the chest, some way above where she’d been trailing her fingers.

  “Actually,” she began kissing farther down his body, “I quite like your scars. They make you look very rugged.”

  Her voice, her smile, and her touch were irresistible.

  Black lay back, letting go of his worries, and losing himself in Holly.

  10

  The next morning, Black woke up with Holly still wrapped tight in his arms.

  He could hear rain pattering against the window. It sounded oddly soothing. The cool gray light coming through the blinds, instead of appearing dreary and dull, seemed quite lovely to his eyes.

  Oh my god, he thought. Am I becoming an optimist, too?

  “Oh no!” Holly cried, rolling over and checking the time. “I forgot to set my alarm last night!”

  She kissed him quickly on the cheek and hopped out of bed.

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” she said. “And maybe bread for toast, though I can’t promise. Stay as long as you like! I’ve got to run.”

  “It’s alright, I’ve got to go, too,” Black said, likewise getting up and going to retrieve his clothes from the dryer.

  He didn’t have a clock to punch like Holly, but he had a lot he wanted to get done that day.

  Once he’d gotten dressed, he poked his head around the corner to see Holly trying to brush her teeth and apply mascara at the same time.

  “I’ll call you later if I find anything of interest to you or Morris,” he said.

  “Thanks!” Holly said, around a mouthful of toothpaste. She spat, and added, “I’ll do the same.”

  Black took the elevator down to the ground floor. He stepped out onto the street, turning his collar up against the rain. He had no umbrella, and he was wearing his good suit, but it wasn’t that much nicer than his usual suit, so he wasn’t too concerned about it.

  He pulled out his phone and called Emerson.

  As he suspected, Emerson was already in the office. He’d probably slept there, if he’d found a couple hours to lay down.

  “What’s the update?” Black asked.

  “Lab said it’s definitely the same bomb-maker—identical tool marks on the casing, and same chemical signature in the explosives. We’re no closer to figuring out who that person is, however.”

  “How does it line up with the bombs the Citizens were using sixteen years ago?” Black asked.

  “It doesn’t exactly. The type of device is similar, but it looks like a different craftsman. Close, but not identical.”

  “That doesn’t mean much,” Black said. “Membership changes over. Terrorism is a young man’s game.”

  “Right.”

  “What about Clark?”

  “Well, he’s pretty clean. You have to be to work in government. But he does have a history of activism. Got arrested for illegal protests outside a slaughterhouse in ‘96.”

  “Anything violent?”

  “Not exactly, but he also threw paint on some people, and he set loose about a hundred rats and rabbits from an animal testing lab.”

  “Hmm. That might be true of a lot of people in government. You start by protesting the system, then move on to working on it from the inside. After all, bills have to be paid. Not a lot of money in throwing paint on socialites.”

  “Well, that’s all I’ve got on him. Not so much as a parking ticket otherwise.”

  “Thanks for checking,” Black said. “I know you’re swamped right now.”

  “I’ll follow any lead at the moment,” Emerson said. “I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but we’ve got nothing.”

  Black had little more than nothing himself. He had, however, managed to track down Morris’s grandmother. His grandfather had passed away, but the old woman was still alive, living in Kettering, just like Pamela had said.

  No one had answered the multiple times he’d called the house, so he had no other option at this point except to hire a car and drive out there.

  He knew he might be overly fixated on Morris’s mother, but he had no other angle of attack at the moment. And he didn’t believe that she’d been grabbed at random, especially not after speaking to Pamela, who said that Gemma had not actually been close to the door or to the hijackers. They had deliberately sought her out, Black was sure of it.

  So, he got the car, a dodgy little Nissan that drove like a go-cart, and he headed up the M1 to the little town in Northamtonshire.

  He found Mrs. Morris’s house—small and drab-looking, with chipped paint around the windows, and an overgrown yard. When he knocked on the door, a woman answered—about fifty years old, redheaded, too young to be Mrs. Morris.

  “Hello,” Black said. “I’m Byron Black, I’m a friend of Tom Morris, Mrs. Morris’s grandson. Does she live here?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, hesitantly. “Are you sure you have the right person, though? I didn’t know Mrs. Morris had a grandson.”

  “He’s Gemma’s son,” Black said. “He sent me here to speak to Mrs. Morris.”

  “Alright,” the woman said, still uncertain. “She just woke up. She’s not in a good state—she has dementia, among other things. I’m Cecilia Palmer, I take care of her.”

  She let Black inside. The house had the unpleasant, dusty smell of too many belongings crammed into too little space for far too long. Indeed, the living room was stuffed with furniture, knick-knacks, stacks of old magazines, and ugly, dramatic religious art. At least one crucifix hung on every wall, as well as oil paintings of Jesus in which he inevitably seemed to be suffering or just plain sad.

  The kitchen was a little better—at least clean and uncluttered, though still burdened with dozens of pill bottles and other medicinal items. Black assumed that Cecilia kept this room in order since it seemed to be her base of operations. She had a tea pot and a single steaming mug of tea ready on the table—he had interrupted her.

  She led him through the kitchen, to the bedroom. This was the most depressing space of all. The blinds were drawn, the TV blaring some game show. The walls had long ago been painted a hideous salmon-pink, in awful contrast to the forest-green ruffled bedspread.

  An old woman sat up in the bed, wearing a housecoat. She had a vast, fleshy face, patches of wispy gray hair on her scalp, and pouchy eyes of indeterminate color. She was staring blankly at the television.

  “Mrs. Morris,” Cecilia said loudly.
“This is Mr. Black. He says he’s a friend of your grandson.”

  “I don’t have any grandson,” Mrs. Morris said, her voice flat and disinterested as she stared at the TV.

  Cecilia squinted at Black, suspicious once more.

  Black said, “I’m talking about Tom Morris, Mrs. Morris. Gemma’s son.”

  Now she turned to look at Black.

  “Gemma’s son?” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “What about him?”

  “I had a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  She paused a long time.

  “Fine,” she said at last.

  Black glanced over at Cecilia.

  “You could finish your tea, if you wanted,” he said. “This won’t take long.”

  Cecilia glanced back toward the kitchen. She seemed to think that she probably shouldn’t leave this strange man alone with her charge, but at the same time, she didn’t want her tea to get cold.

  “I’ll be right in the kitchen,” she said, to reassure Mrs. Morris and give Black a warning not to try anything funny.

  Once she was gone, Black pulled up a chair next to the old woman. He didn’t like getting any closer to her, as she had the same musty smell as the rest of the house, but he knew proximity was the first key to persuasion.

  “I was wondering when you last saw your daughter, Mrs. Morris,” Black said.

  “It’s been awhile,” Mrs. Morris said, watching the TV again.

  Black took the remote from the nightstand and surreptitiously reduced the volume.

  “Was it before or after she had Tom?” Black asked.

  A long pause. He thought the old woman might not answer.

  “Before,” she said at last. “She came here with a big belly, thinking that would win us over.”

  “Why did she have to win you over?” Black asked.

  “Because she ran off,” Mrs. Morris said angrily. “She was supposed to stay here and take care of her father. He had MS. We told her there was no way she was going to university. But she packed her bag and left, like a thief in the night.”

  “She came back though, once she was pregnant?”

  “That’s right. She didn’t get any degree either. It only took her eighteen months to get knocked up, the little whore.”

  Black bristled at the old woman’s tone, but he tried not to show it.

  “Who was the father?” he asked casually.

  “How should I know?” she demanded, turning to glare at Black. “I never met him. Why would I? They were living in sin, and the baby was a bastard.”

  “What about after the baby was born?”

  “I never saw it,” Mrs. Morris said stubbornly. “Or Gemma either.”

  “Is that why you didn’t take Tom, after his mother died?” Black said, fighting to keep his voice calm. “Because he was a bastard?”

  “That’s right,” the old woman said, unembarrassed. “His mother was rotten, and I’m sure his father was too. The boy was sure to be rotten, too. Besides, who would have taken care of him? I was working, and my husband was getting sicker by the day. Gemma should have been taking care of us, not the other way around.”

  “Well, you were wrong about Tom,” Black said. “Do you watch the news? He’s an MP now.”

  The old woman scoffed, turning back to the TV.

  “Fruit of the rotten tree,” she said.

  Black got up, disgusted. He was about to leave, but then he said, “Do you know any friends of Gemma? People she might have kept in touch with, when she was at university?”

  Mrs. Morris slowly turned her eyes back to Black. They looked glazed and unfocused, as if she’d forgotten who he was and why he was there.

  “Eh?” she said.

  Black repeated his question.

  “Maybe…maybe Marina Schneider,” she said at last.

  “They were good friends?”

  “She lived on this street,” Mrs. Morris said. “A long time ago.”

  Black left without thanking Mrs. Morris for speaking to him. He was repulsed by the old woman and her abandonment of her grandson. On the other hand, maybe she did Morris a favor. He was probably better off in foster care than growing up with that hateful old bat.

  Before he drove all the way back to London, Black tried to look up Marina Schneider. After some searching, he found a Marina Schneider Lopez on Facebook, who seemed to be about the right age to be a contemporary of Gemma. He sent her a message.

  That done, he ate a sandwich at a cafe in town, and then drove back into the city.

  11

  Violet had texted Black the address of the club where she was singing on Thursday nights. He wanted to go see her, to support her, and also because Violet was genuinely talented and lovely to listen to.

  Black didn’t consider himself any sort of connoisseur of music, but he knew that Violet had a gift from a young age. Even at three or four years old, people would stop to listen when they heard her singing to herself on the playground.

  It was one of the reasons Black sometimes wondered if she did have a different father, because god knew, none of the rest of the Blacks had any musical talent.

  She had taught herself to play the piano and guitar, and even a little bit of the cello, during the years that they’d had a proper band program at their primary school. She’d even had a period of time where she made and recorded her own songs using cups and buckets and anything else that could be made into a percussion instrument.

  She had once sung a cover of a Sean Mendes song that had gotten three million views on YouTube. But getting attention for her own music was, of course, a much more difficult proposition.

  “What are you singing at this lounge?” Black had asked her.

  “It’s mostly classic stuff,” Violet said. “It’s an older crowd. Lots of Russians.”

  The building did indeed look extremely dilapidated when Black stepped out of the cab. Though there wasn’t any line of people waiting to get in, two bouncers stood at the door, wearing heavy overcoats that might have concealed anything.

  Black could see tattoos on their necks and knuckles—the kind common to the Russian mafia.

  He showed his license, and the bouncers looked at it for a long time before allowing him inside. They could probably tell what he was, just as he knew what they were.

  The club was dark, small, shabby. He could feel the sticky residue of spilled drinks beneath his shoes. Almost all the patrons were men above the age of forty. The waitresses were young and pretty—most looked Eastern-European.

  Black felt decidedly uncomfortable with Violet working here, but he didn’t want to rain on her parade. He knew she was excited to have a paying job that wasn’t bartending.

  He took a small table close to the stage and ordered a beer while he waited for Violet to come out. The beer was good, but the girl who brought it to him looked pale and underfed. No marks on her arms, at least.

  Black couldn’t help running over the case while he waited. Mrs. Morris hadn’t been particularly helpful. He hadn’t heard back from Marina Schneider Lopez, if he indeed had the right woman. So, the next plan of attack would be to try to shake down Daniel Clark. Perhaps he’d drop in on him at Morris’s office—without warning him first.

  Black tried not to put too much stock in hunches. And there were plenty of reasons why Clark might have a hostile attitude—lots of people instinctively disliked detectives. Especially liberal animal-rights activists who’d had run-ins with the law before.

  Still, with leads so thin on the ground, Black would chase down anyone who looked the slightest bit suspicious.

  Violet came onstage at last, as Black was running out of beer. There was no band, only a rickety old piano that looked like it had lived in someone’s attic for a hundred years.

  Violet sat down on its bench, illuminated by a single spotlight. She was wearing a brocade dress that might have been made out of a couch cushion, with black tights underneath. Her hair was twisted up in a bun atop her hea
d, with a pencil pushed through it. This qualified as very dressed up indeed, by Violet’s standards.

  She started to play. The piano had a muted, untuned sound, but somehow that complimented the old-fashioned music. Violet started with “Fever,” then moved on to “I Only Have Eyes for You,” “Black Magic Woman,” and “That’ll Be the Day.” She finished with “Anyone Who Knows What Love Is,” which Black knew was a particular favorite of hers.

  Her voice was mesmerizing—low, smooth, sultry, but clear as a bell when she rose into the upper registers. And of course, she was beautiful: ash-blonde hair, Nordic cheekbones, pale green eyes beneath dark brows. Even the oldest, most jaded men in the room had to turn to look at her.

  Black had always had a soft spot in his heart for Violet. He loved both his sisters and would have done anything for them. But he had always known that Violet was special, that life would find her one way or another. He never worried that she would throw herself away, because she had a spark inside of her that could never be quenched.

  He hated to see her struggle, trying to find her way. He wished she would let him pay a few more of her bills, until something clicked for her. But she was proud. She wanted to be independent.

  At least he could cheer her on.

  As soon as she finished her set, Black clapped louder than anyone.

  Violet grinned, seeing him sitting so close to the stage. She blew him a kiss.

  Black ordered another beer, in case she wanted to come out and sit with him. Sure enough, after twenty minutes or so, she came over to his table, wearing her jacket.

  “You done already?” Black asked.

  “I had a set earlier. I only sing twice.”

  “You were amazing. As always,” he said. “Do they let you do your own songs?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “I sneak them in. Nobody notices.”

  “Have you been writing new stuff?”

  “Sure. Whenever I’m in a bad mood. So, pretty often.”

  She laughed softly.

  There was a streak of melancholy in all the Blacks.

  “You’re so sweet to come listen to me,” Violet said.