by P. R. Black
‘No – I know the photographer, though. He asked to take pictures of me. Modelling.’ She fidgeted uneasily and began to stammer, as if admitting she was beautiful was a terrible faux pas. Bless her, Georgia thought. Imagine if she’d been Stephanie’s friend, instead of those arseholes. Imagine that. ‘So I, eh, I checked out his past work, back issues. To be sure he was on the level.’
‘You’re sure you know him?’
‘Absolutely – but let me check. The back issues will be saved in the cloud. We should access them here.’ Maria scooted in to take over the mouse and keyboard, and Georgia moved aside.
Ivan cleared his throat, and blushed as he said: ‘Your daughter was beautiful. I want you to know that.’
‘She is,’ Georgia said. ‘And bless you for saying it.’ She took the young man’s hand, and was touched to see that he was the one who was welling up; he was the one who struggled to speak. She wanted to smooth down the curls on his head. There had been a strange shift in balance, here, a subversion of Georgia’s everyday normality.
I am close, she thought. I am close to the truth.
‘There it is,’ Maria said. ‘I knew it. The fashion issue. I think that’s the one where Adrienne started to make her pitch for editor. It looked brilliant. I think it won awards. There’s a couple of them up there.’ She gestured towards Adrienne’s desk, where various trophies adorned the shelves.
‘You know, I thought they were butt plugs,’ Ivan said. When both women stared at him, he shrugged. ‘She does look the type. I would bet on it. But, um, I don’t know for sure.’
‘Hey…’ Maria frowned, and sat up. ‘There are no photo files. That’s weird.’
Georgia nodded. ‘Almost as if someone has removed them. Her?’
‘Yeah. Good chance of it. I mean… our online filing system’s pretty basic. It shows you the pages that were laid out, the images used… but all the images have been pulled.’ She tapped the pen drive, attached to the USB port in the desktop. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Adrienne found them in a cupboard. Wanted me to have them.’
‘Weird that she should have them, and they’re not on the system,’ Ivan commented.
‘It is. She was rooting through an old filing cabinet, and found old data pens. It dates from the time of the photoshoot, for the fashion issue. What I need is the photographer.’
‘I can tell you who that is. I can’t totally remember the name. He used to do a lot of work for the paper, for free. Build his portfolio. Quite talented. He’s a bit of a Ferngate scenester. Sings in a band. Not the Megiddos. Howie something. I can’t quite remember the second name…’
Georgia swallowed. ‘Blond guy? White-blond, I mean? It’s like a baby’s hair. He looks about twelve? Howie Abbot. That’s the name, I’m sure of it.’
‘I think you’ve got it. But that’s a stage name. His real name’s something else.’
‘Don’t keep us in suspense like this,’ Ivan said, drumming his fingers.
‘It’ll be up on the Wall of Shame.’ Maria pointed towards a gallery of sorts along a back wall, framed front pages, some blown up to foyer poster size.
All three crossed over. On the picture they were looking for, two models stood in the same monochrome style, their faces blank. The male model was mixed race and striking, but horrendously stringy with barely any fat worth the name on his frame; he was tattooed and bare-chested, an undoubtedly beautiful man but not healthy-looking, to Georgia’s eyes. She scanned the wrist for pockmarks, and saw none. The girl beside him was similarly attired, her hands covering her breasts, markedly shorter than the male model but even more striking, with deep dimples in her cheeks, thick dark eye make-up and strong bone structure. The type of irritant who would have no need for filters or flattering angles at the chin in her life; someone who takes a good photie, as her Scottish granny would have said.
FASHION SPECIAL, blared the headline, black letterboxed in white.
Maria’s fingers traced around the edges of the front page, corner to corner, before she found a tiny credit lodged at the far right-hand corner. ‘There it is. Howie Abbot.’
The sound of a door being kicked open interrupted them.
It was Adrienne. She wore jeans, a hooded top and a baseball cap, and her skin was even paler than usual, if that was possible. She stood, frozen, a disposable coffee cup in her hand, biting the inside of her mouth for a second. Then she shrieked: ‘Get that bitch out of here, right now!’
‘I was just going, Adrienne.’ Georgia strode towards her, and Adrienne backed away, towards the safety of her desk. ‘Hey, you look a bit peaky. Have you had a long night?’
‘I’m calling security.’ Adrienne fumbled with her phone. ‘First of all, I don’t know what you two fuckers are doing here on a Sunday. On top of that, I don’t know what the fuck she is doing here, when I specifically told you she shouldn’t be within half a mile of this office!’ As she dialled a number, she glared at Maria and Ivan, in utter fury. ‘You’re sacked, incidentally. Both of you. Right now.’
‘Don’t bother. We’re resigning,’ Maria said, coolly. ‘We’re not doing any more work for you.’
‘We’re mutually assenting,’ Ivan corrected her – though he bore clear signs of distress and agitation, fidgeting with the collar of his T-shirt, eyes watering. But he went on, bravely: ‘And we should have done it within five minutes of meeting you.’
‘Whatever. Get the fuck out, all of you.’
Georgia moved over to the computer and closed down the files from the pen drive, and then removed it. Adrienne came over, squawking; her coffee cup rolled loose on the floor tiling, the grubby blue fibres gulping her drink down fast. ‘Get your hands off my property! What were you doing here! This is a breach of security!’ And the girl actually hit Georgia then, grabbing her upper arm and then turning the gesture into a punch, connecting painfully in Georgia’s breast.
Georgia ignored this, pocketing the pen drive. Maria moved in between them, shoving Adrienne roughly. There wasn’t much in this, but she staggered comically with the force of it, making a hilarious three-point turn, almost losing her balance entirely, twice, before she steadied herself on a desk.
The heart shaped-faced scrunched up, a parody of a spoilt little girl’s, and she broke out into fierce sobs. ‘You can’t do that to me! You can’t! I’ll ruin all of you!’
Maria laughed. ‘You going to get Daddy to fix us? How about your big brother?’ She winked at Georgia and Ivan. ‘Time we were going. Adrienne, can we count on you for a reference?’
Adrienne simply screamed; the sound wasn’t like anything that would be made by a human throat. It couldn’t be classed as syllables; it couldn’t be written down. It reminded Georgia of a sound effect from a science fiction film, where aliens could take people over.
‘Have a nice life, Adrienne,’ Georgia said, heading towards the door. ‘Keep hustling, won’t you?’
*
‘Mrs Healey, I thought I’d made it clear that we had nothing to gain from any more conversations? Every meeting I’ve had with you has ended abruptly and I’ve been made to feel I did something wrong. When I didn’t.’
There was no warmth in Tony Sillars’ voice, on the other end of the phone. Cold and civil would be as good as it got. I am not making many friends on this journey, Georgia thought. ‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve been good with me, Tony, for what it’s worth. You’ll have to excuse my manners, given the circumstances. I just want one more thing from you. That’s all.’
He sighed. ‘I had half a mind to just hang up on you there. More than half. Go on. What is it you want to know?’
‘You mentioned people who hung around on the periphery. There’s one person in particular I am interested in. Someone who might have had access to your special message board? The one near the refectory?’
‘I don’t… how did you know about that?’
‘Never mind. You haven’t done anything wrong, as we’ve already established.
I just want to trace this person. I want to be sure.’
‘What person?’
‘Name of Howie Abbot. One T, if that helps.’
‘I don’t quite recall… I don’t recognise that name.’
‘Funnily enough, the student roll doesn’t seem to recognise him, either. He’s never officially been a student, it seems. He sure has been busy around the campus, though. And other places, too. He sings with a band called Prat Spaniel. I don’t think Howie Abbot is his real name. Maybe a description might help?’
‘Sure.’ She sketched him out, in as much detail as she could. ‘Key thing to remember is the hair. I think it’s dyed – pure, stark white, like that horrible trend the footballers had years ago, when they all went for a bleach job.’
‘That kind of rings a bell, but… Honestly, it could be a dozen people.’
‘He takes photographs. He’s good at it.’
‘Now, that is kind of interesting. There is one guy that could be. He floated around the Hephaestians for a bit. He was interested in taking pictures of them; he sent some to us, so they could be shared. Communal message board, just between the Hephaestians. From the cheese and wine night. I spoke to him a few times. He said he was into poetry. He submitted a poem, after we had a chat one time, but of course, I can’t be sure…’
‘Are you in your office?’
‘I am.’
‘Can you check? Either the pictures, or the poems. If they’re in your files. This is really important.’
‘Of course I can. Hold on. I’ll call you back.’
When he got back to her, he had it. ‘Yeah, he sent me loads of pictures. He took them at a meeting – it was a feature for the student newspaper. He sent me one or two poems. I think he was a songwriter, or wanted to be. They were nonsense, truth be told. That’s never stopped anyone making it in the music business, but he was no poet. Abbot wasn’t his name, but… I think he submitted a poem or two in his real name. Or a different name, at least.’
‘Tell me,’ Georgia said. Her fist was clenched at her side. ‘Give me the name.’
She could hear Sillars typing at his desktop. Then he said: ‘Yeah this is it.’
He gave the name. Georgia could not suppress a gasp.
‘That ring any bells?’
‘It does, Tony. Bells and whistles. Thank you.’
*
‘I don’t appreciate this,’ Lil Baikie said. Her hands were linked across the café table, fingers digging in tight among their opposite number.
‘I appreciate you’re busy,’ Georgia said. ‘It is important.’
‘If it’s important, and it’s to do with your daughter, you should go to the police. I think this Nancy Drew bullshit is going to land you in trouble – maybe big trouble. Just my opinion.’
‘Stuff your opinion up your arse,’ Georgia said. Then, not bothering to wait for a response or even a reaction, she turned to the girl sat beside her.
Judy was even more of a fright during the daylight, and direct sunlight. The yellow skin, the dark eyes, the wasted frame, and somehow worst of all, the posture, was something that most people would be instantly repelled by. She wore a long-sleeved white top that was clean, but the kind of clean that came with extreme old age for a garment, edging towards bleached. It was of a style that might have been in at the same time as the Spice Girls, and might come back any day now. Judy was amused at seeing the hostel manager abused in such a way; perhaps that was something Georgia could work with.
‘Judy,’ she said, ‘I want to know about any photographers who were involved with Stephanie. Anything you can remember.’
‘That depends,’ was all Judy said. She sat back and folded her arms, smirking. There were three or four painful-looking sores at the corners of her mouth; one of them was open and red.
Georgia took out a twenty-pound note.
‘No – I’m sorry, stop right there,’ Lil said. ‘That’s not helping anyone’. She reached out to intercept the money, but Georgia snatched it out of her way, and then proffered it to Judy.
Judy took the money, still smiling. ‘Yes, there was a photographer. He asked to take pictures of me. I said no. He kept telling me again and again that it wasn’t the wrong kind of pictures, you know. Sleaze. Pervert stuff. I told him I didn’t mind if he was that kind of photographer. I just didn’t like him.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Yes. But I don’t remember.’
‘Did he look like this? This person?’ Georgia opened her phone, and expanded an image she had saved in her files.
‘Could be. I’m not sure.’ She laughed aloud, sitting back in her seat, and folding her arms. Georgia saw that some of her front teeth were missing. Under the streetlights of Bewley Street, or in the gloom of her car, she had not spotted this. ‘It was a while ago. I meet a lot of men.’
‘Maybe this will help?’ Georgia held out more notes – two tenners.
‘Oh – that’s it,’ said Baikie. ‘Get out, Georgia. Get out before I throw you out.’
‘Shut up,’ Georgia said simply, locking eyes with the taller woman. Then she turned back to Judy, and said: ‘This is the last one you’ll get, Judy. Tell me what I want to know.’
She took the money. ‘Yes, Georgia. That was the photographer. I am sure of it. He took pictures of lots of girls. He took pictures of Stephanie. He was with her – I thought they were a couple, but he was so interested in all the girls, and in me, that I thought maybe they weren’t. Or maybe that didn’t bother her. Stephanie was a strange girl.’
‘Thank you,’ Georgia said.
‘OK, we’re done here.’ Lil slapped both hands on the Formica-topped tables, making the sugar bowl jump. ‘I’d get out of here if I were you, Georgia. Fast.’
‘Sure.’ Georgia turned to Judy, and held out a hand.
Judy took it. Georgia took a firm grip, then sprang forward and yanked back the long-sleeved top.
Judy spat something in her mother tongue. She tried to twist her arm free, but Georgia applied more pressure, turning the arm over and presenting it to Lil.
‘Look at that,’ Georgia said. ‘Look at the state of that. You work here, you know what that means.’
Judy screamed, a terrible sound; other people in the café gaped at the scene, alarmed; one man got to his feet, but stopped short of coming over as Judy jerked her arm free, got to her feet, gathered her bag and fled.
‘I ought to bust you in the mouth,’ Lil said to Georgia, radiating menace. ‘She’ll go to ground, now. You might have killed her, doing that. It’ll be on you.’
‘She’ll be dead before long. You run that place. You know the score. What are you doing about it? What are you going to do to stop this from happening?’
Lil stood up, her face twitching with suppressed rage. ‘Don’t let me ever see you again, Georgia.’
‘There is a huge problem in this town. What are you doing about it? Table tennis clubs? Knitting circles? What is it called, a fucking drop-in centre? Drop-in for what? A coffin? These people are going to die. They already are dying.’
Lil strode towards her, and Georgia had to fight the urge to shrink back. The taller woman stopped herself from striking out, but it was a close thing. Lil took a breath and said: ‘What have I done? What have I done? What have I not done, you miserable bitch! Sitting there in your fucking Boden coat. What do you know about life for these girls? I’ve tried everything, everything to get them clean. I put everything on the line for them. I have done for years. And you know what I’ve learned? Do you? I can’t save them all. I’ll turn one or two of them around, every other year or two. That’s it. That’s all I can manage. Apart from that, they get a safe place, somewhere to sleep, a place they don’t have to worry for a while. Somewhere to get washed, have a hot shower, brush their teeth. Somewhere they can find new clothes, underwear; somewhere they’ll get their old clothes washed. And yes – somewhere they can use safely, sometimes. Somewhere they get clean needles. Would you rather the alternative? Would
you rather I rounded them up in a big pen, maybe? Or a jail? Is that your solution? Don’t you dare sit there and ask me, Mrs Country Doctor, what the fuck I’m doing about it! Don’t you dare!’
Georgia weathered the retreating footsteps, the front door crashing shut; then the alarmed glances of the other people in the café, and the short, buxom woman at the till, whose good cheer and rosy colouring had utterly dissipated.
‘Are you all right?’ a man asked Georgia.
She dabbed away tears at the corner of her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. I have everything I need, now.’
37
And then Stephanie the Selkie travelled far from the sea she called home to the deep dark woods where the troll lived. Every step she took on dry land felt like you or I standing on a sharp stone.
From ‘Stephane The Selkie’s Magic Journey’
You wouldn’t knock on the door of the dragon’s lair, of course. She had to be canny. In reality, Georgia wasn’t canny, but for a little while at least, she was lucky.
After walking along the same old road, watching out for cars in front and behind as before, she spotted the fake gate within moments. It was a case of knowing what you were looking for. The webbing and the fake fronds looked ridiculous close-up, though they probably wouldn’t merit much of a glance when passing in a car. The real wisteria or ivy helped to complete the picture, snaking across from the dry-stone wall framing the gap. It took Georgia a while to work the mechanism, but soon she had slipped through and closed the gate behind her. Even though it was a mild day with plenty of blue visible in gaps above the clouds, the enclosed space seemed dank and soggy, and the path grew steep very quickly. She was out of breath by the time she had bypassed Chessington Hall and kept heading north, into the wilder woodland outside the grounds of the house.
‘PRIVATE – KEEP OUT’, read one sign. Georgia passed through, although it had the curious effect of making her feel more nervous than ever before from that moment. As if she had wandered into a minefield. Here be tygers, she thought.
The old OS2 maps had brought her here, rather than online ones. When patients’ records had been fed into computer systems, Georgia had once wondered how much this placed the system at risk of utter catastrophe – either through data being lost to software corruption, or leaked out into the wider world through hacking. She had always thought that physical copies, no matter how unwieldy, were a failsafe that they should consider having. So it was for digital maps, which she knew didn’t tell you the full story.