by N. M. Brown
Kicking herself for her silliness, Echo groaned as she realised she’d miss her turning. Now she would have three streets of dead ends before she hit another road that could take her back to the House.
Huffing a breath, she turned around to back track, but walked straight into a solid surface. Broad chested, the man was built like a brick-shit house with a bald head and a rough coating of hair across his chin. He wore a black parker coat and dark jeans.
“Sorry love.” He said gripping her shoulders to steady her.
“Watch where you’re going, Ass.” Echo snapped, quickly tried to shrug him off, sending him an angry glare, but when he still didn’t let go, she had to shrug harder.
“And you should learn some manners.”
Suddenly, Echo was flying sideways, and she stumbled into adead-end streets. Her bags scattering across the grubby floor and clothes tumbled out, but she was hardly concerned. Being manhandled was one thing but fuck a guy who told her to ‘learn some manners.’ Snarling Echo sized the guy up.
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with asshole.” She snapped. He was big, but Echo had seen bigger. She’d fucked bigger too. She’d made men like him beg, but as he walked towards her, it wasn’t lust Echo felt. This man was pissed. A hot, rolling heat of rage crashed against her chest and Echo took a hesitant step back.
“Now, now girly. Hold still so we can have our fun.”
“We?” Every bone in Echo’s body froze.
Suddenly, from nowhere Echo felt the rolling heat turn into a collective blaze slamming into her back so hard she almost stumbled. This was not a natural rage. Spinning on her feet, she saw behind her four more men, each in none descript black clothes. Echo’s breath hitched another notch.
“No need to panic girly.” One said in a deep voice.
“Who said anything about being panicked asshole?” Echo, indeed, wasn’t panicking. Instead she assessed the situation. Five of them, one of her. Mara had taught her how to defend herself, but they were on a somewhat pleasant street, so she wasn’t going to find a pipe or crowbar lying around.
Again, as they all walked towards her, she stepped back, keeping them all in her eyesight. The biggest, the one who’d pushed her down the street, joined the line and promptly kicked one of her shopping bags aside, hoping the violence would spook her. Instead she felt her own anger rise. That was a nice tope she’d swiped; now it was covered in mud.
“What the fuck do you want?” Echo asked through gritted teeth. The building was coming up quick and she couldn’t run; damn her for choosing heeled boots.
As the group prowled closer, no one said a word, their rage building with an exponential pace, and she couldn’t work out why. She didn’t recognise any of the men and since her run in with Pari Badal, she’d made a point of remembering who she was fucking with at the House. But it wasn’t like unhappy customers were a common occurrence. She could be forgiven if she missed a few.
Without warning, a man from the far right approached and slugged a fist toward her face. Blocking with her forearm, Echo staggered, her hand instantly going numb. Eyes wide she watched as the next guy stepped up, taking another swing, this time, a swift upper cut to her gut.
Crossing her arms, she blocked again, pushing back and knocking him off balance. He should have fallen, but he had friends and he was steadied to his feet, while the next one took his go. He led with a left-handed punch, going for her face, which Echo blocked again despite her numb hand, but therefore missed his leg strike out and slam into her left knee. Instantly it gave way and Echo screamed falling to the floor. Before she could gasp her breath back to scream, a solid, heavy boot slammed into her chest, knocking out what little air she had left.
Tight, sharp breaths whistled through Echo’s lips as she tried to breath. Tears collected in her eyes and she was distantly aware of another boot colliding with her shoulder, then her back, then her thigh, before another kick slammed into her knee.
The last one made her sob as air rushed into her raw lungs. She tried to get a hand underneath herself, but a posh looking loafer –crushed it, squishing her bones together. Instinctively she snapped her injured hand to her chest, curling around it. Fists pummelled her back and her kidneys, while more boots repeatedly slammed into her legs and arms. One lucky foot caught her in the jaw, flesh cutting against teeth and blood pool in her mouth.
Echo knew she should be screaming; bellowing for help, but her mind had long-ago stop processing the pain. All she could think was: what the hell was happening? And why?
A soft, sadistic laugh sounded in her ears and Echo knew it wasn’t from any of them men around her. They were huffing and puffing with every blow, putting in every ounce of strength they had. The laugh was so like Adin’s it was scary, but that couldn’t be right. He was gone, six feet under, rotting away with sunken eye sockets and a dead-mans grimace… but that wasn’t to say he wouldn’t be laughing at her now.
He was always the stronger one, winning every fight, pinning her to the floor or pulling at her arm until she conceded. Sometimes she wouldn’t, and he’d break it, only to nurse her back to health when she was stuck in a cast. Brutal, he never let up. He would have had these guys fleeing with their tail between their legs and piss running down their trousers; all for her.
But Adin laughed again as Echo watched her tears mix with the blood beneath her. Ears ringing, head pounding, everything hurt. Everything throbbed. Were they still hitting her? She couldn’t tell anymore. Minutes could have passed, but it felt like a lifetime. She dare not lift her head out of fear they were still there, ready to strike again.
When she did feel a hand on her shoulder she flinched, making every wound and bruise scream in protest. “Oh, great God above. Are you alright lass?” An old, gravel voice asked.
Stupid question, Echo wanted to spit, but all that came out was a groan. Slowly looking up, she squinted through her swollen eyes and hissed at the harsh headlights. A car rumbled next to her head and she could smell the thick odour of exhaust fumes curl around her and the cobble street.
“Don’t move- don’t move lass. I’ve got you now. I’m going to call an ambulance.” The old man babbled at her but Echo only swore in her head.
Was she fuck going back to a smelly hospital. Gathering what little strength she had, she tried to push herself up, but felt her muscles quiver in objection.
“No, no you shouldn’t move.” The man said, his smoked haggard lungs wheezed as he knelt beside her. Hetried to push her shoulders back down, but Echo refused, forcing her teeth to move, her tongue to flex and her voice to be heard.
“No… help.” She hissed wiggling her fingers and then her toes. One finger was swollen and purple, but otherwise her hand worked. Her feet did move and ignoring every stab of pain she crawled to her knees. Falling back to sit, she leant against to wall, feeling every bruise on her spine. Her back was tight with spasms and there was no doubt it would look like an abstract painting by morning.
“You should let me call for help.” The man said to her, trying pathetically to brush some dirt off her.
“No.” One eye was swallow close, her vision lose and she heavily blinked the other, trying to focus. Using the wall for support, she staggered to her feet.
“You shouldn’t be standing. Lie back down.” The old man commanded, gripping Echo’s arm but that just made her snap.
“Will you just fuck off. I don’t want your help. Run on home to your cats or whatever god-awful smell is coming off you.” She wanted to spit every word with venom, by her voice was a whisper by the end and she could’ve coughed up a lung if she had the energy.
The man blinked and let Echo go, but still didn’t leave. He just sat back on his hunches and sighed. “I have two budgies and an old terrier. They were my wife’s.”
Echo frowned feeling every stretch of her skin across her chest, unable to decide if breathing hurt more, or frowning. “Why do you have your wife's pets? Did she run off with her bingo coach?”
&nbs
p; But instead of being insulted, the old man just smiled, his chunky white teeth showing through his wrinkled lips. “Run off with her bingo coach… that’s funny.” Slapping his thigh, he stood and without question, looped a hand under Echo’s arms and pulled her towards his car. “My wife would have loved that. She always said she’d leave me for the milk man.” Shuffling across the road, the man put her in his car while she now saw was a taxi. “Do you really think I smell?” He suddenly asked, drawing Echo from her thoughts of pain, suffering and agony.
“Like a pet shop.” Echo offered and slowly collapsedon the back seat and felt every bit of energy flee her body.
She wasn’t going to make it to the House - even in this cab - fuck, even if she did, she wouldn’t make it up all those stairs. She didn’t fancy being the ‘drunk’ all the customers took pictures of as she lay prone on the front steps. Then, an even more horrifying idea came to the for front of her mind: what would her family think? Broken again. Weak again. Useless Again! No, no, no, she couldn’t let them see her again, not like this.
Jolting forward, Echo’s weak, broken fingers grabbed the Cabbies sleeve as he settled back in the driver’s seat. He’s been sniffing his jumper in concern, but turned at her grasp, unable to hide his wince as he saw her face.
“Now, I’m not one to tell a young lady what to do, but I will give you a free ride to the hospital. What do you say?” He asked for the second time. But Echo couldn’t think of a worse choice apart from the House, so let out a strangled ‘No’ again. “Fine, no hospital lass. But I gotta take you somewhere or you’re gonna bleed out on my seats.” he said, giving her a look over.
Echo’s instincts was Home where she could take care of herself, the words bleeding over her taste buds, but as fast as the words came to her lips, they stopped. “I-… I don’t know.” She whispered, not even sure if the cabbie heard her.
“Well, how ‘bout the police station?” The Cabbie suggested. “You could at least send the buggers who did this to the slammer.”
Blinking her one un-swollen eye, Echo slowly nodded.
Yes, the police station. Yes, that place would be perfect. She did, after all, know someone who owed her a favour.
XII
Cassi called with an excited skip in her voice later that day and had the woman been there, McQueen would have hugged her.
“You were right, the traces of drug in Wendall’s system is a match to the sweet you found at the Bell’s home. I still can’t find it in the data base, but it’s a step in the right direction. It’s the same base structure as benzoylmtheylecgonine, but it’s much more complex than that. Crack is derived from the Coca plant but this… this stuff I can’t seem to find its base…” Cassi trailed off; all her science speak going right over McQueen’s head. “I’ll keep looking though.”
McQueen was pleased as punch. “That great news Cassi. Thank you. Any extra news, let us know, Cassi. Anything.”
Thanking her again. McQueen hung up and stretch. It had been a long day and thought he felt like it was a baby step, he was elated to have taken any steps at all.
Looking around the floor, most of the officers were heading home, the night crew coming on shift. McQueen had seen Detective Armstrong come in late afternoon; the fellow officer ignoring him but stopped beside Hale. They’d talked- about what McQueen didn’t know - and then left.
Hale was currently getting more coffee, but McQueen had forgone another tea. So many leads to follow, so little time, he didn’t want to be running to the toilet every five minute just for that extra boost of caffeine. Cracking his back, he looked through the latest reports Armstrong’s team had kindly sent through. Every interview with the neighbours, the family and any evidence found.
So far, there had been none except the sweets McQueen had discovered. However, before he could get into an in-depth review, his name was called across the station.
“Detective McQueen.” Spinning in his chair, he was surprised to see Officer Ramirez walking over with a tight smile and a professional nod.
“Officer Ramirez?” McQueen answered, also keeping his greeting professional. “What can I do for you?”
“This gentleman was at the front desk. He says he’s looking for you.” Throwing a nod over his shoulder, McQueen’s eyes followed and prepared himself. Used to seeing someone he’d much rather not have to see; McQueen was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t recognise the man. “Said he wasn’t expected.”
Giving Ramirez a smile in thanks, McQueen approached cautiously, but kept a pleasant enough smile on his face. “Hello, I’m Detective McQueen. I was told you were looking for me?” he shot out his hand to shake, all the while examining the gentleman.
He was pale, with ugly black rings under his eyes and he sniffed hard as if he might have a cold. Cargo short knocked around knobble knees and a polo shirt covered his chest. Gripping McQueen’s hand, his shake was firm, and he gave McQueen his full attention. “Yes. Sorry.” The man blabbed. “I’m sorry for the state I'm in. I- um… I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” McQueen smiled in understanding and indicated for the man to sit beside his desk. As they walked, McQueen thought there was something about his voice…
“What can I do to help you Sir?” he asked.
In the man’s hands, he folded a slim piece of white card, the creases deep as he did it over and over again. Looking down, McQueen finally took note of the guys shoes which were strangely sandals. None of what the man wore was English weather attire, and McQueen quickly understood who sat in front of him. “I’m Arthur. Arthur Dalton.” The guy’s eyes glassed over, and he sniffed again. “You called, about my baby girl, Wendall.”
“Mr. Dalton,” McQueen said slowly, half to calm the emotional man, but to also hide is shock. This man had made it clear he, nor his family would be coming back to England. “I’m sorry for your loss. You and Mrs. Dalton have been through such an ordeal. I wish I could have called with better news.” There was no refuting that Mr. Dalton’s pain was still fresh. “May I ask, Mr. Dalton, what made you decide to come? I was under the impression you weren’t coming?”
The poor man nodded and looked guilty as hell, folding the white boarding pass over and over. “They’re not… I mean, I'm the only one that came, and my wife… she doesn’t know.” Mr. Dalton, now talking seemed able to centre himself. “I flew in on the red-eye this morning. My wife thinks I'm at work and work thinks I'm sick.”
McQueen nodded at the grieving man. It seemed the guy very much needed the conformation that what he’d done was ok.
“My wife and I agreed many years ago, for the sake of our other children we would put Wendall behind us. We love her, always will; but never knowing what had happened, if she’d come home…? It was killing us. So, when you rang with the news, all I could think of was my wife and my family. The accusations and the lies the press spread… I couldn’t do that all again.” Mr. Dalton almost sounded bitter, but his sorrow quickly swept it away. “We decided not to do anything, that coming back would start a horrid spiral again. But knowing my baby was on a cold slab, alone… with no one here for her… I couldn’t…”
He let out a ragged sob and McQueen had never seen a man so broken. Whatever decisions had been made; they tore at Mr Dalton like feral beasts with no remorse. His baby girl had been abandoned, not only now, but all those years ago when they’d decided to move. McQueen knew that feeling; that hollow pit of guilt because you’d left someone behind. To this day he didn’t know where his Da was, or if it was even worth looking for him. Moving away had been his Ma’s idea, but McQueen sometimes wished they’d stayed, just in case.
“Mr. Dalton, I want to assure you that as part of our investigation, we won’t need to speak with you or your family.” A little tension dropped from the man’s shoulders, but he continued to sob into his hands. McQueen move the tissue box on his desk, precisely for this moment, towards the father and suddenly from the side, a steaming cup of coffee was pushed under Mr. Daltons nose.
“He
re, Mr. Dalton. You look like you need it.” Hale said, catching up quickly with the situation. “I'm Detective Hale. I’m sorry for your loss.”