The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  ‘Welcome to our, uh, soiree. I want to start with a slower number for you,’ Riley said, nodding towards Georgia. ‘You might have heard it earlier when we played it at The Orchard. It’s called “She Said”, and it’s about a friend of mine.’

  But Georgia was not moved, impressed or even flattered by this new rendition, echoing out in that weird space, brightly lit by the spots up in the ceiling. She moved in among the spectators, engaging them in conversation. Some were polite, a few ignored her, and one girl with chestnut hair and blonde streaks seemed to shriek: ‘I mean, I’m just sat here not bothering anyone, and you’re here getting in my face and screaming at me!’

  ‘No one’s screamed at you,’ Georgia said. ‘Don’t tell lies.’

  Adrienne steered her away. ‘I’ve got your tea here. Have a seat and listen to the show.’

  ‘Did you know who Riley’s father was? I didn’t know. No one said.’

  Adrienne’s grin was fixed to her face. ‘Darth Vader? That was a joke.’

  ‘Funny how it isn’t well known. You’d think it would be well known.’

  ‘It’s no big deal, Georgia.’

  ‘We sure about that?’

  ‘Maybe I should call you a cab?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll stick around. What are you doing here, in fact?’

  ‘I’m a fan. I’m also a journalist.’

  ‘Riley giving you an exclusive?’

  ‘I’ll ignore that tone of yours, for now. I’m going to call you a cab.’

  ‘And I said, don’t bother.’

  ‘Georgia love, you’re out of your head. It’s about time you went home to sleep it off.’

  ‘How many meetings of the Hephaestians did you attend?’

  ‘Most of them.’ Adrienne applauded as the Megiddos finished another number.

  ‘You weren’t part of the hard core, then?’

  ‘Hard core? In the poetry society?’ Adrienne burst out laughing and sipped at a beer. ‘No, I suppose I wasn’t. I showed up now and again. Sent in one or two lines, but poetry’s not particularly my thing.’

  ‘Good cheese and wine though, eh? That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Yeah, to be fair. Those were always good nights. You got a lot of folk attending. Like Scott Trickett.’

  ‘So you weren’t so much into poetry, but you got into the poetry society? Funny, that.’

  ‘What’s funny about it? I like socialising. Most young people do. Even people your age, I guess. It’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘Just seems a bit off. If it was something like skiing, and I wasn’t into skiing, then I’m not sure I’d join the skiing society.’

  ‘I work hard, Georgia. I didn’t come to university to have a laugh and act the fool. I don’t have time for poetry. It was a useful society for me, though. I discovered I liked to write about real things, real people, in a way most people can understand.’

  ‘So, poetry’s not your thing? You don’t get it?’

  ‘Oh, I get it all right. It’s just not my thing.’

  ‘To be fair, that was an interesting piece you wrote about drugs on the streets of Ferngate. A good exposé of, what was it – people trafficking?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Based around Bewley Street, I’m guessing.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that. It’s in places you’d never expect, in this town. Or any other. But Bewley Street was an obvious place to start. I’ll call you that cab now. They’ll be here in about ten minutes. I know the manager.’ She pulled out her phone and started dialling.

  ‘Was this an idea that you and Stephanie had?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Bewley Street. People trafficking. The working girls there.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Someone told me that Stephanie’s big project was something to do with Bewley Street.’

  ‘I don’t know a thing about what Steph was doing on any project.’

  ‘It’s interesting that you were such close friends, and you were examining the same kind of project.’

  ‘It’s interesting, but I don’t know anything about it.’

  Georgia considered her a moment. She was enjoying the other girl’s discomfort. ‘Stephanie had a diary, you know. She’d written in it since she was a girl. But the later entries weren’t found until recently. Somehow the police missed it. Amazing that that could happen, but it did. She wrote quite a lot about you.’

  Adrienne’s jaw worked. ‘That a fact? Nice things, I hope.’

  ‘Some nice things, yes. She wrote about a project she was working on. Capital P, Project. Going by what she wrote, I think the girls on Bewley Street had something to do with it.’

  ‘News to me, Georgia.’

  ‘You know the codename she had for you? In her diary? Magpie. That was you. The Magpie.’

  ‘Yeah. You told me that already. I’m truly sorry for you,’ Adrienne said, sincerely. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for. I’ve got a cab ordered for you on my app. It’ll be here in about fifteen minutes, tops. I can’t remember where you said you were staying.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Get some sleep. You look so, so tired.’ She laid a hand on Georgia’s arm.

  ‘Yeah. And you,’ she muttered, and got off her seat.

  The room seemed to tilt. Georgia grabbed hold of a worktop. There were a few sniggers from the dozen or so spectators. Someone held her up.

  ‘Time someone was leaving,’ the snarky girl with blonde streaks said.

  Georgia held up her hand. ‘I’d just like to say… Thanks for having me over. And thanks so much for helping me look for Stephanie, my daughter.’

  Silence from the stage. All eyes were on her, now. A dreadful quiet descended. ‘I think that Cornfed and his friend have been… instrumental. That was a joke. Ha.’

  Riley and Trickett’s heads snapped up at this; they shared a look, then burst out laughing.

  ‘Cornfed!’ Trickett said. ‘That’s the very man! Hey, that explains a lot, Riley, I have to tell you.’

  ‘You OK, Georgia?’ Riley said. ‘Maybe have a lie-down, yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely fine, thank you.’ But she did sit down. Georgia planted herself on the still-slick black and white tiling. All the shoes lined up at the far wall, worn by his adoring crowd, she supposed. She hadn’t been able to afford shoes like that when she was a student here. Assuming they were students, of course.

  ‘Georgia…’ Riley carefully placed his guitar on the stand, then approached.

  ‘No, absolutely fine.’ She looked for something to hold on to, to get back to her feet. But suddenly, staying on her backside seemed like the best option. ‘I think I have a cab on the way.’

  Then a bloated, fuzzy face appeared on her lap. ‘Are you my mummy?’ Scott Trickett yelled. ‘Will you be my mummy? Can I nuzzle you, Mummy?’

  The shrieking laughter seemed to crystallise, coruscating from every surface, reverberating off the glass above and to either side. Outside a security light clicked on and off, flaring a long flat lawn in yellow-green.

  Georgia shrugged him aside, found a chair leg, and got to one knee, then the other.

  Riley tried to steer her towards the door, but she shook him off, and staggered out of the door. Adrienne Connulty, finally, took her by the arm. ‘Your car’s here,’ she said.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine. You don’t have to worry about me.’ But the dark out in the hallway disorientated her. She had come from a place of light into one of darkness.

  ‘God almighty, Georgia, please look after yourself. Go home. I would go home, if I was you.’

  ‘That’s mighty suspicious of you.’

  Adrienne gave a cry of disgust, as if she’d discovered Georgia had soiled herself. Had she, in fact? She hadn’t had much to drink… she hadn’t had anything to drink.

  ‘I think someone gave me a dodgy drink somewhere,’ Georgia said. ‘I don’t feel drunk.’

  ‘You’re wasted, Georgia. You
don’t remember swigging the whisky? The cocktails and the wine?’

  ‘What? I didn’t do that!’

  ‘Here we go.’ A door opened, and another security light blinked on. A car was at the bottom of a long driveway, lights washing red gravel. ‘Take care, Georgia. Call me if you want anything. But not anytime soon. Safe home.’

  ‘Yeah. Safe and sound.’ She didn’t look back. The driver, a tall, thin, middle-aged man, intercepted her halfway down the driveway, alarmed.

  ‘Sure you’re going to be OK, miss?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Fifty-quid charge if you’re sick.’

  ‘I won’t be sick.’ She slid into the back seat of the car, groping for the seatbelt, and she thought: I might be sick, you know. She took a deep breath, focused on the lights of the house until her head steadied, then said: ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Where to.’

  ‘Bewley Street.’

  The face turned slowly, its look incredulous. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘Whereabouts on Bewley Street?’

  ‘I’ll stop you when I know.’

  17

  Magpies are such a pretty bird up close; the black feathers have an iridescence to them, a hint of blue and green. It’s wrong to call them black and white, but then – cliché klaxon alert – nothing is, boys and girls. It’s unlucky to see one on its own, you know. My Magpie is never alone, of course. She’s always paired up with someone, and if she isn’t, she’ll soon be paired up with someone else’s someone. I wouldn’t want her any other way. Some people were just born to be material. A gift, although, thank God, not in the way they imagine themselves.

  Magpies also have one of the ugliest calls in the whole bird family. Second only to the vulture, I guess.

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  Grey light filtered through the curtains, and Georgia woke up with a gasp. She was fully clothed, on a bed, beneath a thin quilt without a cover. The room smelled of cigarette smoke; there was nothing in it bar a scarred bedside table and a lamp that hadn’t been dusted in aeons. The carpet might have been purple, salmon or cerise at one point; it too was covered in cigarette burns.

  Georgia threw off the quilt, and began to check her pockets; no sign of keys or phone, no sign of purse, no sign of shoes, no sign of—

  Already in tears and panicking, she sat up, holding a shaking hand to her mouth. The mattress she was sleeping on was thin, like a camp bed, and the legs felt unsteady.

  Underneath the bed was her shoes, one lying on its side, and her bag.

  She tore it open. Everything was there: phone, purse, cards, even money. She hadn’t spent anything last night.

  And now to the question of where the hell she was. She snatched open taupe curtains the texture of an old dishtowel and looked out of the type of windows she didn’t think existed any more – single-glazed but steel-reinforced – staring out onto a flat pebblestone roof space garlanded with birdshit.

  In the background was the clock tower; still in Ferngate, thank God. But where?

  Memories flooded in. As if in a mist, approaching women standing by a brick wall at the site of a long-demolished bakery. The women hostile at first. Then she had pleaded: ‘Please, please, I’m looking for my daughter, you have to help.’ And they had. Until a man had come along and told her to get lost. Georgia had been cheeky to him but his hand had been firm on her upper arm. And then…

  A gentle knock at the door. Georgia sat up straight. She didn’t feel hungover exactly, but a spasm of pain travelled along her temples. She pinched the bridge of her nose. She felt frozen, unable to speak.

  Another rap at the door; then the handle turned.

  ‘Hey… you awake?’

  A black girl with close-cropped dark hair came in. She was smartly dressed in a grey trouser suit and white blouse, open at the collar. Georgia would have put her in her twenties, but only just. She held out a huge mug of tea and a packet of paracetamol in her hands.

  ‘Reckon you could use these?’

  Georgia’s throat was dry. She nodded numbly, and accepted the cup as the girl bent down. She popped two pills, dry-swallowed them, and then held the tea, willing her hands to stop shaking. The varnish on her thumbnail was tarnished, she saw.

  There was no way out but to be straight with the girl. ‘I have no idea how I got here.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ The girl smiled. ‘For double points, I’m going to guess you’ve got absolutely no idea where “here” is.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I’ll take it from the top. I’m Lil. You’re at a hostel.’

  ‘Homeless hostel.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘You’re a resident here?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I help run it. I was on last night.’

  ‘Jesus. What am I doing here?’

  ‘A good question. You’re in the wrong end of town, that’s for sure.’

  ‘My name’s Georgia Healey. I’m here because my daughter, Stephanie, she…’

  ‘It’s OK love – I know who you are and what your story is. You told me, lots of times.’

  ‘Last night, I… It’s complicated.’ Georgia dared a drink of the tea. It was scalding hot, but she needed to wet her mouth. ‘I don’t know what happened to me. Someone said I was drunk, but I don’t remember…’

  ‘You were on some kind of drugs, that’s for sure. Maybe roofies. I can’t be certain. I did wonder if you’d taken K. You got confused, kind of spacey. You wouldn’t let me take you to casualty, though. Kept saying you were a doctor. I almost believed you.’

  ‘I am a doctor. And I think someone spiked my drink. I’d only had a sip from a glass of wine, then a bottle of water… I was at the benefit concert last night.’ How long had the bottle of water been sitting there beside her? It had been opened, beside the glass. Or perhaps the wine glass that she’d left behind for a moment. She had returned to it briefly. That was all she’d had to drink. But what had Adrienne said? About her necking Scotch? She couldn’t remember that. But then most of her recollections had been foggy, like half-remembered dreams. It might have been a movie she’d watched half-asleep one night.

  ‘How did I end up here?’

  ‘One of the girls who was working out on Bewley Street contacted me. Said you were going to run into trouble. Some of the lads who look after them wasn’t taking too kindly.’

  ‘God, I could have been killed.’

  ‘They were worried about you. More along the lines of what you might do to yourself, rather than what someone else would do to you. I came out to pick you up. You took a lot of persuading to get into my car and come back here.’

  ‘Thank you. You say you work here? How much do I owe you?’

  ‘It’s not that kind of place.’ Lil raised a hand. ‘It’s a volunteer service. A lot of women from foreign parts end up in Ferngate. Lots of them don’t have a place to stay, for one reason or another. Some can’t speak English.’

  ‘Trafficked?’

  ‘Afraid so. The lucky ones end up at the Knees Up club, which is exactly what you might imagine it is. The unlucky ones end up here a few nights a week. The very unlucky ones end up on the streets, and on the gear. It happens here the same way it happens in London, Las Vegas, anywhere. Sometimes we help move them on. Sometimes we get to send them back home. Some of them have to go back out onto the streets.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Georgia looked around at the sparse room, once more. Just a bed, a table, a lamp, the curtains.

  ‘They don’t operate out of here, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Lil said, at length.

  ‘I’m just glad someone was here to help me. You say it’s community-run?’ Georgia fished for money in her purse.

  ‘Don’t give it to me,’ Lil said. ‘Do it through the online portal. It isn’t cash and carry. You want to freshen up?’

  ‘No… I’ll head back to my room.’

  ‘You k
ept saying you didn’t have a room. You said there was no one for us to call, either.’

  ‘I don’t know why I said that.’

  ‘I do. You said you weren’t going to sleep until you found your daughter. You kept saying it, right up until you passed out. I got your shoes off OK, but you tried to fight me when I went to get you undressed, so I thought it best to leave you as you were.’

  ‘Sweet mother of God.’

  ‘If I was you, I’d take a day off or two.’ Lil’s voice grew kinder, less sardonic. ‘You know, I remember that case. The missing girl. I saw the posters for the concert. I even remember your face. Don’t you have a husband, or someone?’

  ‘Yes… He’s, kind of… out the scene.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry. It must have been tough for you.’

  ‘It happens. It might have happened anyway. Probably.’ She took a sip of the tea. It lit a cosy fire in her belly, and her shoulders relaxed. She began to sweat immediately, hands shaking.

  ‘Well. I’ve got to get some sleep myself, Georgia. Long old shift. I think it’s time for you to go.’

  Lil led Georgia out through a musty-smelling hallway that hadn’t been dusted in a long time. She was tall but not elegant, viewed from behind – something in the set of her back and shoulders made Georgia think of an athlete, but perhaps more suited to the javelin or discus rather than track events. A woman in a white towel with wet hair coiled about her shoulders nodded at Lil as they passed; Georgia stared straight ahead, not wanting to meet her gaze.

  The stairway had a surreal slant to it as she made her way down the stairs, and it was here that her balance suddenly, shockingly shifted. Her nails scraped down a length of 1980s Artex with nicotine stains in between the swept arches before Lil caught her.

  ‘Hold your horses, party girl. Everything all right?’

  ‘I think so… my head’s spinning, here. I’d love to know what they slipped me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Some tits at a party.’

  ‘No, it does matter.’ Lil’s hand on her back was a little more than concerned. ‘If someone really did spike your drink, you need to get in touch with the police.’