by Helen Harper
The hooded men advanced, knocking Alice out of the way. She was small and weak and a mere shove sufficed. She clattered to the ground and Maria darted forward. If she resisted in any way, Alice would get hurt. Instead she lifted up her chin and stared at the red men, silently telling them that she would come. They dragged her away but Maria was true to her word and didn’t scream once. Alice did, though. Even when the heavy door shut behind them, Maria could still hear Alice screaming.
Maria was gagged and bound to a gurney before being wheeled down a long corridor. The lights flickered above her head and the metal beneath her was icy cold. The walls changed from a dirty green to an antiseptic white, so bright it hurt her eyes. She let her body go limp as a white-coated man peered over then gestured to a mirror behind her. Someone was behind there watching, Maria realised. Someone was there who wanted to watch this obscene play through to its finale.
There was a pinprick of pain on the tip of her index finger. She looked down and saw the white-coated man smear a drop of her blood onto a tiny glass plate then turn to a microscope to examine it. Another man, this one wearing a black coat, stepped forward and began to chant. He was barely five words in when the first man bellowed at him to stop. Faltering, he stared.
‘Gypsy.’ The white-coated man spat the word. ‘She’s a fucking gypsy. Cut her loose and get another one. And tell Verne if he brings us another like this then he’s finished.’
Chapter Ten: Rumours and Spies
I’m glossing over most of what I learned from Maria’s strange mind. It’s her story, not mine, and I came by it involuntarily. The room filled with stolen children and the sinister hooded men are pertinent, however.
‘That’s barbaric,’ O’Shea breathes. ‘What were they planning to do with her if she wasn’t Romany?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say grimly, ‘and neither does Maria. But I think we’re agreed that this takes precedence. Hale and X and whatever else is going in the world are definitely our concern but these children might still be out there. Maria doesn’t know where this prison is but we can find out.’ My voice hardens. ‘We have to find out. Alice might still be there.’
‘So what you’re saying, Bo,’ my grandfather interjects, ‘is that some things are more important than vengeance?’
My mouth tightens. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
He smiles. ‘Good.’
Rogu3 is struggling to hold back tears. ‘Why didn’t she tell us about this before?’
‘I think to begin with she probably wasn’t sure whether she could trust us. Then later, when she realised she could, other events took over our lives.’ Another thing to blame X for.
‘What happened?’ He swallows. ‘What I mean is, how did Maria end up in the place where you found her?’
‘She was sold,’ I say, giving him the unvarnished truth. ‘I suppose the hooded men needed to recoup some of their investment.’ Even saying it makes my mouth taste as if it’s filled with ash. I look at them all. ‘Drop everything else. We need to find out more about these wankers.’
Rogu3 gathers himself together. ‘I’ll begin a search on the dark net.’ His bottom lip trembles and his hands are curled into tight balls. He slams his fist onto a nearby table, splintering the wood. ‘Sorry.’
My grandfather waves a hand. ‘De nada.’ He takes a step forward and stares down at the wood. Then, without warning, he also smashes his fist into it. I draw in a sharp breath but don’t say anything. I don’t need to. ‘I will check on Maria,’ he says calmly. Then he turns and walks out of the room.
‘Devlin?’ I ask.
He won’t meet my eyes. I think the horrifying truth is almost too much for him. ‘I’ll get onto the streets and see what I can learn.’
‘Good. As soon as you have anything, no matter how inconsequential, let me know. I’m going to check on Michael.’ I need to remind myself that there’s still some good left in the world.
***
‘What’s going on?’ Michael asks in a weak whisper as soon as I enter the room. ‘I could hear a commotion.’
I’m tempted to keep the truth from him. He doesn’t need more misery in his life. I can’t treat him like a child though. I briefly outline what happened with X and the other Kakos daemon, then what I’ve learned about Maria and Alice. He closes his eyes.
‘There were rumours about these men,’ he says. ‘Whispers from the street. We heard them from time to time but there was never anything substantial. I sent people to try and find out but…’ He sighs.
‘But people don’t trust vampires, especially those people who are already vulnerable.’
He curses to himself. ‘Exactly.’ He turns over and looks at me. ‘We should never have kept quiet about Alice. I wanted to tell the press we didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance.’ He meets my eyes. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’
‘I do. But it wasn’t just you, it was centuries of stupid tradition forcing your mouths shut. Things are going to be different from now on.’ There’s vehement promise in my tone.
Michael gives a short laugh. ‘You’re a good person, Bo.’
People keep saying that. I wonder what they’d say if they knew just how strong the darkness is inside me now. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘How many other people would put aside their own interests to save a bunch of strangers?’
‘I think, given these circumstances, everyone would.’
‘It would be nice to believe that, wouldn’t it?’ He smiles faintly. With a surge of sudden hope I think that he’s starting to look a bit better. He can certainly speak for longer and in real sentences. ‘But you’re one of the few who are actually in a position to do it.’ He reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Turn me. I can guide you through the process. Turn me back and I can help.’
I think of X’s warning. ‘I can’t. It’s not going to work. Turning you will kill you.’
‘I’m willing to take that risk.’
I put my other hand over his. ‘I’m not.’ I bite my lip and make a decision. ‘It’s not safe for you here. I can’t look into the hooded men and worry about the Kakos daemons and keep you safe all at the same time. I know some people up north. I can send you…’
‘No!’ His voice rises to a shout and he starts to choke. Alarmed, I reach for a glass of water but he waves it away angrily. For a moment I see the old Michael. He coughs. ‘I’m getting better.’ He points at the discarded kebab wrappings. ‘You were right about the food. I don’t know what was in that but it tasted bloody good.’
I try to smile. ‘It’s probably better that you don’t know.’
‘Probably,’ he agrees. ‘But more of that and less of O’Shea’s chicken soup and I’ll be back on my feet before you know it.’
There’s a strange sound. I frown and glance down at him. ‘Was that your stomach?’
He shrugs. ‘I suppose it was.’ A slow grin eases across his face, lessening the shadows I can still see there. There’s even a flicker of wonder. How long has it been since his belly rumbled for something other than blood? I feel a wistful jolt of jealousy. ‘Get me more of the same,’ Michael tells me, ‘and I might even be strong enough to take a piss on my own.’
‘Them’s fighting words,’ I say, kissing him on the forehead.
He curves his hand round my neck and draws my mouth down to his lips. ‘You’re the warrior around here,’ he whispers. ‘I have to give you something to be proud of.’
Before he can start feeling sorry for himself, I growl, ‘You’re my hero, Michael. I love you. Even if you’re a grouchy prick who’s going to get fat on fast food.’
He laughs softly and kisses me. ‘I love you too, Bo Blackman.’
We grin stupidly at each other. For that one brief moment, all my other worries are pushed away. As long as I still have him, I can still believe. Just.
***
After Michael drifts back off to sleep I’m too antsy to get any rest. Maria’s door is firmly closed and I’m certain tha
t I’m the last person she wants to see. Rogu3 is hunched over the computer screen muttering something about a possible lead. When I lean over his shoulder he snaps in irritation, so I leave him in peace. O’Shea is out pounding the streets for info. Perhaps I can do that as well and get some more additive-filled food for Michael at the same time. It’s better than sitting around here with my mind full of images from Maria’s past.
I grab a delighted Kimchi and go outside. There are two shopping areas near here, one filled with farmer’s markets and organic produce and artisanal shit and the other with a food bank and discounted products for the less affluent. If I’m going to find anyone who’s heard of the hooded men, it’s not going to be amongst gleaming aisles of imported lychees or bloody civet-poo coffee beans. We head in the opposite direction.
It’s early enough in the morning for the streets to be quiet. There’s the occasional jogger from whom I keep a wide berth. Despite that, Kimchi insists on barking at them with such force that I’m sure they think he’s an enormous beast ‒ until they look round and realise he’s only vast horizontally. Other than that, we’re left on our own. It suits me. Although I’m coming round to the idea that the warehouse is pretty much the safest place in London, it does feel rather claustrophobic, especially after my Kakos-daemon induced meltdown. I let the fresh air fill my lungs. I’ve really missed this sort of freedom.
We pass a small newsagent’s that is opening up for the day. I’m pleased to note that the front page on the stack of newspapers waiting outside displays the photo I snapped of Berryhill. It wouldn’t normally make the headlines but, as I surmised, people are hungry for any news of vampires now that most of us are dust. It means I’ve kept my promise – not that I imagine Berryhill is happy about it.
I keep walking. It’s amazing, I reflect with a curious detachment, how much of a difference there is between this area and the other side of the warehouse. The further I go, the more unkempt the streets become. There’s more litter, less greenery, less sense that anyone cares. It’s more than a money thing, it’s about pride and respect and believing there’s a point in getting up again tomorrow. I’m not sure if there’s any way to fix all that.
I massage my shoulders, kick a rusting old shopping trolley out of the way, round the corner and see the small collection of shops right in front of me. At this hour they’re all boarded up, their heavy metal shutters keeping out would-be thieves. I check the signs displayed outside; they’ll be open within the hour. That gives me enough time to find the right sort of people to ask about the hooded men.
To the right I spot a small park with ragged bushes and some forlorn looking trees. There’s a rickety slide and a set of swings which I eye dubiously. I doubt many parents would let their children come here, judging by the air of abandonment and the discarded syringe I’ve just crushed under my heel. There’s a bench in the corner with a lump draped on it. As far as my mission is concerned, this is as good a place as any to begin.
I tie Kimchi to the gate, hop over the fence and approach. I can’t see any facial features but there’s a mop of stringy grey hair visible over the top of the sleeping bag. Wrong age group but there’s no one else around. The nice thing to do would be to wait patiently until this person woke up. I reach out and shake what I presume is a shoulder.
There’s a grunt and a moan then, with a sudden movement, the shape sits bolt upright and thrusts a blunt-looking knife at me. ‘What?’ he snarls.
I hold up my palms. ‘Morning,’ I say cheerfully. ‘I’m Bo.’
He has piercing blue eyes but he’s all human. I’d estimate his age at around fifty but he looks a lot older. Living on the streets will do that to you. Still, he doesn’t have the vacant, slack-jawed expression of a drug addict, so maybe I can get some sense out of him. He looks me up and down and sighs resignedly before pulling down his grubby shirt to reveal his neck. ‘Thought you guzzlers were all dead.’
I stare at the dirt embedded in his skin; I can’t imagine anyone more unappealing to drink from. ‘I’m not here for blood,’ I say softly. ‘I’d like information.’
His eyes dart from side to side. He’s still clutching the knife; his yellowing fingernails, which are gnawed down to the quick, are curled tightly round the hilt. We both know I can take it from him in an instant. ‘’Bout what?’
‘Missing children.’
‘Don’t know nothing,’ he grunts. ‘Piss off.’
I put out a hand and gently squeeze his shoulder. ‘I’m looking for the hooded men.’
‘You’re the bloodguzzler. You should know. Thought you lot knew everything.’
I shake my head. ‘Unfortunately not.’ I lean forward. ‘This is important. They steal children.’
‘Kids? Why they do that?’ he asks suspiciously.
‘I don’t know. Have you seen anything? Heard anything? Rumours? Whispers?’
‘If I had,’ he says, ‘why would I tell you?’
‘Because they’re hurting the innocents.’
He snorts. ‘Ain’t none of us innocent, darling. Not even kids.’ His lip curls. ‘Bunch of them here yesterday, throwing things at me, yelling.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, you’re sorry. Everyone’s sorry. You’re not going to do anything ’bout it though, are you? No one cares.’
It occurs to me how unattractive self-pity can be. I should remember that the next time I start feeling sorry for myself. ‘Thank you for your time.’
He mutters to himself and lies down again. ‘Whatever. S’not hooded men you should be looking out for, it’s the damn aliens.’
I halt my steps and turn. ‘What did you say?’
‘Go on,’ he says sourly. ‘Laugh at me.’
‘I’m not laughing. What about aliens?’
He raises his head. ‘Friend of mine told me about them over in the East End. Googly eyes and green skin.’ He wags his knife at me. ‘Better watch out or they’ll take you. They’ll cut you open just to see what’s inside.’ He cackles loudly. ‘They won’t find a heart in you, that’s for sure.’ He pulls the grubby sleeping bag over his head, indicating that this conversation is over.
I wonder if I should press him for more details. ‘Where can I find your friend?’ I ask finally.
‘I’m trying to sleep here!’
‘Just tell me where he is and I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘Unmarked grave in Ashton Cemetery,’ he says. There’s an air of tragic finality about his words muffled. ‘Them January winds’ll kill you.’
Sodding hell. I feel like I might be onto something, though. I nod to myself in satisfaction. I wonder whether the aliens belonging to Alice’s crazy neighbour had googly eyes and green skin too.
Chapter Eleven: Junk Food
I wait impatiently for the first of the shops to open then dart inside and start throwing things into a basket. My choices would make a nutritionist faint with horror but I reckon Michael can worry about getting his five a day later. O’Shea’s kebab gave him more energy than I could have hoped for, so the more salty, sugary, fatty shit I can find, the better. No doctor would prescribe a junk food diet but they’ve never treated an ex-vampire before. I grab pickled onion crisps, fizzy cola bottles, tinned luncheon meat and noodles coated in a thick sweet and sour sauce that would make a self-respecting Chinese person huddle in a corner and give up on life. At the last minute, when guilt niggles at me, I toss in a bag of apples.
There’s only one till, located right at the back of the shop. I’m so focused on the shelves that I don’t notice until I’m there that the person manning it has the distinct, throbbing tattoo of a black witch. I stare at her and she stares at me. Uh oh.
I draw myself up and bare my fangs. I might be short but I can look threatening when I need to. The witch isn’t intimidated. She just continues to stare.
The door jangles as someone else enters. A female voice calls out a cheery hello. Neither the witch nor I move.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask e
ventually.
The witch doesn’t answer.
‘You can try to hurt me,’ I continue. Her tattoo pulsates faster, flashing at me as if in anger. ‘But I’m betting you’re not that strong. If you were, you wouldn’t be working in this shop.’ I pause and drop my voice to a silky whisper. ‘I can take you.’
She swallows nervously. I think she’s going to speak but the other customer strolls up without even noticing who or what I am. She is a human woman with greying hair and a stiff waddle that suggests years of painful sciatica. ‘Have you seen today’s headlines? You were right, Thomasina. That Bo Blackman isn’t done. I bet we’re going to see more bloodshed before long.’ There’s an unpleasant note of anticipation in her voice. She tosses a newspaper next to the till and jabs at it. ‘He runs an insurance company. Maybe he was part of that Toe Rag outfit.’
The witch rips her eyes away from me. ‘Tov V’ra,’ she says, her voice barely audible. She clears her throat. ‘They were called Tov V’ra.’
The woman airily dismisses the correction. ‘The police said they’d caught most of them but I bet they’re lying. Bo Blackman will sort them out. She’ll make sure they pay for what they did.’ She nods. ‘We need more people like her around here. If Bo Blackman was here, she wouldn’t let that prick round the corner keep dealing.’ She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I heard he was hanging around the primary school yesterday. Trying to get them young.’
The witch darts a quick, nervous glance in my direction. I step back, pick up a box of cereal and pretend to read the back. Apparently, if I collect five tokens I can get an orange plastic daemon all of my very own.
‘He’s not a drug dealer,’ the witch says.
‘Oh yeah? Then why was he at the school?’
‘His son goes there.’