“That’s a slight exaggeration,” I interrupt.
Jack stares at me, sips again.
“Sorry,” I say, “carry on.”
He continues. “Sam’s a good kid. Bags of ideas, bags of energy. And he has great references.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I am.”
He pauses.
“I really like you, Alexa, you’ve got a great eye,” he says. “But if you don’t get it together, you’re fired. I can’t have my work suffer because of your unreliability.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unable to contain my hurt, Sam now heading back toward us, waters in hand. “It won’t happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t. I don’t want to have to lose you, but you’ll leave me no choice.”
67
Daniel Rosenstein
I arrive late, the meeting already started. The Single Mother smiles, revealing new veneered teeth, and uncrosses her legs. Smiles again. A friendly gesture, I tell myself to ease any feelings I may be having—lateness often and understandably frowned upon.
I scan the room for familiar faces, immediately noting that the Old-Timer is missing. I suddenly feel a pang of guilt, remembering I never returned his call. That was slack of me, I think, negligent. His absence viscerally sensed, I check the door and comfort myself with the idea that he’s simply running late as well. Is either stuck on the Tube or waiting for a bus. That he’ll be here shortly.
A newcomer shares how she’s about to leave her fiancé of three years.
“Still no wedding band,” she says, raising her left hand, “and now he’s relapsed.”
She breaks down. I want to tell her it’s not about the ring, but the commitment. But then realize his relapse is testament to that.
The room is silent except for her sobbing.
I check the door.
“My partner caught me looking at a strip club’s website,” I say, surprising myself. “She hates me.”
The room is silent except for my sobbing.
Outside, I call Mohsin, ready to share that I’ve broken my ethical code while playing snoop on Alexa. No answer. I call Susannah instead.
“Hi, Dad, feeling any better?”
She’s referring to the cold I’ve had for the last week, but one would think I’d been struck down with a terrible virus.
“Much,” I say.
“So we’re still on for supper?”
“Of course.”
“You sure?”
“Susannah.”
“Great. Let’s go to Sheekey’s. I’m in need of comfort food.”
“How so?”
A pause.
“It’s nothing, Dad. Really.”
I know this Susannah, the one who puts on a brave face, battling away her struggles in order to protect her widowed father. The Caretaking Child. The one who puts others’ needs before her own to avoid upset. A memory of her in hospital clinging to her parents as though her own life depended on it, telling us over and over:
“Everything will be fine, I know it will. It has to be.”
In that moment, the Caretaking Child was born into a bleached-out room with the stench of imminent death. If Clara had still been alive, there would have been phone calls, putting right whatever it was bothering our baby girl, me catching up later when either of them decided to share their conversations.
“I’ll book a table for eight o’clock,” I say.
“Great. I’ll be on my own. Toby’s got some crazy deadline at work.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“Daaaad!”
“What?”
“I’ll see you later. Love you,” she sings.
My smart cookie, my daughter who doesn’t miss a beat. She knows I don’t give two shits about Toby. I know she knows it, and she knows I know she knows. But both of us refuse to name it. He’s an ass-hat. An entitled, stupid idiot with little integrity and an ugly set of teeth who apparently has to sleep facing a window while listening to the sound of whales. She could have had her pick. But no, she chose him. Toby the investment banker. Toby the divorcé with his fake, nervous laugh, confessional self-deprecations, and false humility. Toby has a fragile ego. And I don’t like the idea of my daughter loving a man with ugly teeth and a weak ego. He also has a thicker head of hair than mine. Thick hair, shallow mind.
68
Alexa Wú
I have no idea what type of clothes a girl should wear for such an assignment. Dark jeans? Black hoodie? A balaclava? A weapon of some kind, should things get nasty? I glance over at Runner, who’s nodding.
Sensing my anxiety, she steps into the Body and hands me a pair of black leggings, a hoodie, trainers, and my vintage eighties choose life T-shirt, me pegging her attempt at irony as a little on the nose.
I don’t have time for your satire, I say, her dark twist on humor not helpful in the slightest.
She shrugs and hands back the Body. Only trying to help. She grins.
I look in the mirror, scraping back my hair and securing it in a topknot, my bangs now fully grown out. My arms, I notice, appear thinner and have the look of someone who’s quit their medication. In fact, it’s not just my arms—my whole body appears slightly drawn. My skin a little loose on its bones, chest even flatter than usual.
Oneiroi suddenly steps out, takes a pale lip gloss—a gift from Shaun—and with three strokes covers my lips.
Really? Runner dismisses, pulling Oneiroi back inside, then wipes the gloss away with the back of her hand, Dolly now watching them squabble.
The switching makes my head spin.
“Stop!” I order. “Give me my body back. Now.”
The Flock suddenly stop and stare. OUR body! they demand.
Suddenly overcome with guilt, I hug my chest—
Just for today, I will try my best to be the person I needed when I was young.
I’m sorry, I say. “You do know how much I appreciate you all, don’t you?” I speak out loud.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how mad I must appear, staring at myself, talking to the reflected me opposite. A marionette with no puppet master. A talking head.
That’s okay, Dolly offers kindly, you’re stressed.
“I am,” I say. “I’m worried about tonight.”
Do you know what will happen to Poi-Poi? she asks, her concern and frustration shown as she socks the Nest with her kid-size fist.
“Don’t worry,” I say, not entirely trusting my words, “everything will be fine.”
Runner unclenches Dolly’s fist and strokes her head. A tender and maternal act.
Yeah, everything will be fine, Runner says.
And it’s strange, because for once, her words seem more viable than mine.
Downstairs, Anna is parked open-legged in front of the TV, halfway down a cigarette, wearing faded cotton pajamas and watching QVC—a credit card in one hand, her mobile phone in the other. An attractive woman with a mousey blow-dry and a perfect French manicure holds up a tub of “miracle cream” for a close-up and unscrews its shiny lid. She smears the white cream on the back of her hand, giving testament to how “silky and nourishing” it feels.
I bounce down beside her and the lumpy couch sinks. Preoccupied with the miracle cream and what it promises, Anna says, “For you, sorry it’s late,” and hands me a gift.
“You okay?” I ask, noticing her mood is low and distant.
Anna shrugs. “Ray and I broke up.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You really liked him.”
Her eyes stay locked on the TV, wet and wide open. Not blinking.
Open it, she mouths.
I open the New Year’s gift, a ritual Anna and I have had since my father left. Inside: a mother-of-pearl-effect picture frame, a photograph of us both in Chinese traditional dress. I look to be around eleven years old.
Same age as Poi-Poi, Dolly says.
I smile.
“Thank you,” I say, kissing her lightly on her cheek. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Ray.”
“Shh,” she says again, pointing at the TV, “let me just order this.”
“Okay. But I gotta go,” I say.
She waves, mouthing a See you later, and then turns back to the TV.
I pull down my choose life T-shirt over my sinking leggings and take a gulp of what I assume is wine, Yep, very cheap wine, before kissing the top of Anna’s head. The smell of tea tree oil or some other hair remedy oozing from her scalp.
The wine, or maybe the act of drinking the wine, has a calming effect, and for a moment I wonder if I should tell Anna that I’m going to the Electra, just in case, but then decide I don’t have time. Already running late, I wave goodbye, collect Runner’s denim rucksack, and head out, closing the front door behind me.
I breathe in the early evening air. Relief opening my chest. Each step along the graveled path feeling increasingly alive. I sense myself surge forward—adrenaline rushing in the knowledge that tonight the police will have all the evidence they need to make sure Navid is arrested. That Ella has finally seen sense, her revenge no bad thing.
Keep Dolly inside, Runner instructs Oneiroi. We’ve got this—Alexa and I.
Oneiroi lets off a nervous smile while Dolly gives me two tiny thumbs up.
Good luck, they chime.
The Fouls suddenly appear.
Come to help? Runner asks.
But they don’t answer and simply stare without a word. Their eyes like slits of night, mouths petulant and unmoving. Dramatically they drape cloaks of self-loathing across their shoulders, the smell of rotting meat surrounding their vigil. Farther back they go, into my mind, their voices gently whispering of no such alliance.
“Right. Let’s go,” Runner says.
Walking along Great Eastern Street I watch the night unfold. Restaurants and cafés swamped and bristling with life. Bars swell with overenthusiastic dancers: rushing, pie-eyed, and loose, their happy chemically induced smiles tuned to the music.
I feel an uneasy funk inside me remembering Shaun’s house party. How I’d danced: high, carefree, loved up, and thrilled from the night filled with sex. I am suddenly overcome; an unwanted missing of him quickly pushed away with a firm and clear head while my heart feels something else.
For Christ’s sake, Alexa, Runner says, exasperated. Get a grip!
I cross the road, dodging the close wind of cars, then reach into my coat pocket to feel the coolness of the silver letter opener, reassuring in my hand.
Music behind me now and thumping like some ferocious soundtrack in my mind, I look up at the Electra’s neon light for the last time.
Ella has already arrived and comes to meet me at the door, squeezing my hand three times with a smile.
“Hey.” She winks. “Drink?”
“No. What’s he doing here?” I whisper, nodding toward Shaun behind the bar. “He’s meant to be at the bank. What’s going on?”
Shaun heads out back, leaving the towel he was using to dry glasses.
Asshole, Runner snarls.
“Change of plan. Cassie needed to get a manicure, so she said she’d stop at the bank herself,” she says. “Don’t worry. Have a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink,” I say. “Let’s just get the codes and go.”
“You need to calm down,” she says firmly.
I take a deep breath, locking my eyes on hers.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “Where’s Navid?”
“At the Groom House. Apparently there was a problem.”
“What kinda problem?” I ask.
“Some psycho followed one of the girls back there. He’s been leaving her gifts, blah, blah, blah. And tried to crowbar his way into the house.”
“Are the girls okay?”
Ella shrugs. “Not sure, I guess,” she says, indifferent. “Anyway, where’s your rucksack?”
Annoyed at her lack of concern, I swing my shoulder around so she can see it.
Ella takes my arm and rubs her palms along the hips of her jeans, her eyes a little wider than when I first arrived.
“Are you high?” I say.
“Just a little. For the nerves.”
I notice her movements get a little sharper now she’s named it. Her senses alert to any sound or movement. Eyes feral. Alley-cat wild.
She leans in, sensitive and vigilant. “Here,” she whispers, placing her gold necklace with the dainty key in my palm. “I think it might open the top drawer of Navid’s desk.”
“So why haven’t you tried it already?” I ask.
“Cassie’s only just left. And I didn’t want Shaun to suspect anything. Just try the key,” she insists. “If it works, you’ll be able to get the codes for the dark web.” She closes my fingers. I feel the heat in my palm like a forest fire.
The Banana Hater and Amy pass me on the stairs, black skirts worn even shorter than before. No pockets.
Amy grabs onto the handrail as we walk by, avoiding eyes, adjusts the bow on her ass, and wipes her nose. High as a kite. She glances back at me.
“What?” I say.
Amy sways on the step.
“I never had a problem with you,” she says. “You should know that.”
Mouth turned stale, nerves alive, I enter Navid’s office. I stare at his desk, the incriminating top drawer. The key in my hand pressed so tightly in my damp palm that it leaves a clear imprint.
Do it, the Flock call.
The key slides in, but as I try to turn, it sticks. I wiggle it around, my wrists shaking, heart jacked up, but it refuses to twist. I pull it out and try again. Nothing. I blow on it, wipe it down the thigh of my leggings, and try again.
Shit.
My chest thumping, my head turns light with fear. The sound of clattering bottle crates makes me jump. I pause. Listening to the sounds of men’s gruff voices on the other sides of the rice-paper-thin walls.
Ella was supposed to deal with this, I say. Dammit.
I scan Navid’s desk for a sharp object to pry open the drawer. Nothing but pens and porn and receipts. An ashtray. A stapler.
I check the shelves, rising up on my tiptoes and running my hand the length of the top one. But there’s nothing.
“Think,” I speak out loud, rapping my fist on the side of my head.
Check your pocket, Runner orders.
Of course. Daniel’s letter opener.
I slide it in the gap between the drawer and the frame and try wrenching it up and down.
Let me, Runner says, seizing the Body.
She rams harder with her fist, her whole weight pulling up and down on the drawer.
Wait, I say.
Outside, the sound of girls’ voices near the door.
Runner flinches.
Quick, I shout.
Twice more and the drawer finally bursts open.
“We’re in,” Runner says, sweating.
I take over. Inside are passports, note slips, coin bags, a Moleskine notebook, a page of phone numbers. I open the notebook and see hundreds of webcam addresses. Bingo. I quickly stuff it in my rucksack. Next: a folder of invoices, beneath that a letter addressed to Navid written in pink ink. I quickly scan it, the words pregnant and kill myself jumping out in the second paragraph. The last line stating how much she loves him.
Put those in too, Runner orders.
At the bottom of the drawer is a slim black binder.
Open it, Alexa.
That’s it! Runner shouts, the dark web codes listed on the single sheet of paper I’d seen Cassie place in the drawer. On a separate sheet of paper: descriptions, ages, and names written alongside photographs of the young, naked girls.
Holding my breath, I scan the next page.
The girls are no older than nine or ten and are sitting on the knee of a man whose head has been conveniently cropped off. One girl holds the hand of an out-of-focus woman wearing a jade bangle.
Cassie,
Runner says.
I note she is also cropped, just above the waist. Avoiding any chance of recognition.
I turn the page.
There, staring back at me, is Poi-Poi. A white pleated gym skirt, tank top, bobby socks and pumps. Two hair baubles meant for two pigtails. A miniature cheerleader.
I throw up.
Quick and violently.
All across Navid’s desk.
I take a deep breath and wipe my mouth. Steadying myself, I move the rucksack away from the heave of my tummy. The weight of evidence now dropped to the floor.
Then, as if waiting for the perfect opportunity, Anna steps out, seizing the Light.
“Oh my goodness,” she speaks out loud, staring down at the photographs. “What on earth have you gotten yourself involved in?”
69
Daniel Rosenstein
I drive toward Soho’s pay-and-display at speed, seething. My back wheel scraping against one of the yellow bumper curbs. I wouldn’t mind but she’s so goddamn childish; leaving my belongings in black garbage bags outside my front door. A message attached in an angry scrawl: DON’T CALL ME. So unreasonable and unnecessary. Cruel. Anyone could have stolen them, mistaken them for rubbish. Call her? She’s out of her mind. Good riddance, I think.
I step out of the car and feel light snowflakes landing on my cheek as I set out toward Old Compton Street. My hope that nightlife and a short walk among civility might ease my rising disquiet. Walking slowly, I check the road for traffic and enter a liquor store—twenty Camel Lights dancing in my mind—my conscience reminding me that I gave up smoking twelve months ago.
A plump man with a kind smile who appears to be wearing his son’s T-shirt looks up from a copy of Men’s Health.
“Twenty Camel Lights,” I say, “and a lighter.”
“Cold out there,” he says, handing me the requested items.
“Winter,” I reply.
Outside, I take the hit, not having smoked for at least a year. My addiction sliding over to smokes instead of liquor. The nicotine’s reward floods my brain as I walk. The kind smile of the man behind the counter softening my mood.
The Eighth Girl Page 33