by Adam Carter
“Maybe. But we don’t know that. Not until we find her.”
Thompson pouted while she thought. “Well ... I’m about finished here anyway and I could really do with test-driving all my customs.”
“I’m gonna have to sit on the back aren’t I?” Baronaire groaned.
“Depends whether you can keep up otherwise.”
Yes, he thought, I could. But there were things about him that Thompson did not know, and did not need to. He had his own secrets to keep.
“Just ignore me if I scream,” he said. “I tend to like keeping my feet firmly on the ground.”
CHAPTER TWO
Their first stop was a local homeless shelter Baronaire had been to several times before. It was approaching nine in the evening when they arrived, and as Baronaire stepped of the bike he had to admit it had got them there fast. Thompson shut the engine down and looked about slowly. “Nice area,” she said. “Think my bike’ll be here when we get back?”
“It better be. For the neighbourhood’s sake.”
Thompson followed him into the shelter. It was her first time there, but she knew Baronaire was on familiar terms with the people who ran it. It wasn’t much as informants went, but if they failed to glean any information from here she knew they could always fall back on beating up the local low-lives. Scanning the faces as she stepped through the door, she wondered how many of the kids here would in a couple of years’ time become those low-lives she’d so happily take into a back alley and batter.
The shelter was cramped, the first room they came into pretty much like the soup kitchen Thompson had expected. Everyone was doing little of anything. There was a television against one wall, the sound trickling out at low volume. There was evidence some of the kids had been eating something or other, but what food was here was long gone. There were a few dog-eared magazines and a well-worm deck of cards a small group was utilising.
In all, there were eighteen occupants, including two in the corner trying to hide their faces in the shadows – she reckoned she should call the regular cops and get them to come take a look at those. The oldest kid in the place was probably around sixteen, the youngest may well have been about twelve. What a twelve-year old was doing in a place like this Thompson could not say. She was just about to question Baronaire on it when she noticed a girl curled up by herself, apparently asleep in a chair. She couldn’t have been much older than four.
Baronaire was passing into the next room when Thompson caught up with him. “What are these kids even doing here?” she whispered. “Do social security know about this place?”
“These kids have nowhere else to go, Jen,” Baronaire said sadly. “Social services find places like these a Godsend. They can’t take in every kid with issues, so at least with places like this they know where to find them.”
“I didn’t even know this place existed.”
“Most people don’t. They don’t make the papers, and if it’s not in the news it doesn’t exist, according to most folks’ mentality. If anyone ever bothered looking at the actual stats for runaway kids in this city alone, they’d realise social services wouldn’t have a clue how to cope.”
“But ...” she lowered her voice, “that kid’s only about four.”
“Believe me, I’ve seen babies in here before. No one cares, Jen. That’s the problem with society.”
They came to another door and Baronaire opened it. “Just a minute,” he heard someone call, and went in anyway.
“Mel? It’s me.”
A woman appeared then, a smile to her rounded face. Melissa Laurens was a short, kind woman in her fifties. Thompson had seen her type so many times before; those who actually believed that anything they ever did could make a difference. Her children had likely all grown up and moved away, maybe didn’t want anything more to do with her. She was either overbearing or overprotective, perhaps both. Maybe she interfered with her children’s lives too much, maybe she hadn’t cared enough when she should have. This job was something she had likely taken as penance, to make herself feel better about herself. She was likely a religious woman who thought this was her only way into Heaven now she had so royally screwed up her life already.
Or at least that was Thompson’s somewhat cynical outlook on the woman she had never met.
“Charles,” Laurens beamed. “It’s good to see you: come in, come in.”
“You’re looking well, Mel.”
Jeez, Thompson thought; if this was Laurens looking well, she would hate to see her on a bad day.
“And you’ve brought a lady friend,” Laurens said suggestively. “It’s about time you settled down, Charles. And a pretty thing you’ve found for yourself.”
Thompson actually felt like hitting her. “I’m not his lady friend,” Thompson said as kindly as she could, smiling through gritted teeth. This woman was Baronaire’s friend after all. “And I’m not a pretty thing he’s found.”
“Oh dear,” Laurens said, waving her hand, “you do yourself an injustice. Now, I can see some chemistry between you, yes I can. No sense in denying it, young lady.”
“Not a lady either.”
“Do I hear wedding bells blooming?”
Thompson refrained from pointing out that wedding bells could not possibly ever bloom, unless it was an obscure type of flower. “It’s kind of illegal for me to ever get married,” Thompson said, “so I’d be very surprised if ...”
“Jen’s a little shy,” Baronaire cut in. “But I couldn’t marry her, Mel. She can’t cook, and her lack of cleanliness would put a chimneysweep to shame.”
Thompson glowered at him but knew full well when she was being told this wasn’t the time or place for her to be putting her foot down.
She tried very hard not to pout.
“Sorry,” Baronaire said, “but we’re here on business. You seen this girl?” He produced the photograph and handed it over.
Laurens took the picture and frowned, shaking her head while making a strange sucking noise with her lips. “Nooo ... Can’t say as I have. Name?”
“Abigail. But she probably won’t be using her name if she’s like any of the others.”
“Haven’t had any Abis or Gails through here in a while, Charles. And I tend to find kids keep their names, especially the girls. It’s about all they have left that’s still their own: they’re not about to surrender their names without a fight.”
“Could we talk to some of the other kids?”
“If you think it’d do any good,” Laurens said, “but she hasn’t been in here, and I doubt they’d know her. One of them would’ve convinced her to come in if they knew her.”
“How’d you figure that?” Thompson asked.
“Pretty thing like that?”
“Right,” Thompson said. “You have boys entering puberty, of course they’d want to keep her close. Probably the only jollies they can get without money.”
Laurens looked at her strangely, almost a little distastefully. “They’re essentially good kids out there, miss. They know what it’s like to live on the streets, and they wouldn’t wish that on anyone. They’re hardened, but they’re not inhuman. Pretty girls don’t last long on the street. They get messed up in things, or taken, and no one cares.”
“If she was on the street,” Baronaire told Thompson, “one of the kids would have brought her here for her protection, not to get anything out of her.”
Thomson laughed. “Sorry, but I remember teenage boys at school. There was certainly only ever one thing on their minds and it certainly wasn’t protection. ”
“These boys aren’t at school, miss,” Laurens said. “They learn on the streets.”
“And they’re tomorrow’s criminals. There’s no point in helping people like that, it’s what my father always said.”
“He a headmaster by any chance?”
“Brigadier.”
“Trust the army to take a keen interest in our youth,” Laurens said with a roll of her eyes.
Baronaire, however
, did not seem to care for their debate. Thompson felt a pang of regret that she had even started the argument; it was clear all Baronaire was interested in was the girl’s welfare. It was indeed unusual for him to care so much about anyone, but Thompson found it heartless of herself to have responded in such a way.
They went back to the other room and showed the photo around. Thompson found the youths tired, dejected and hardly interested in what they were being asked, and it all only went to prove what she had been saying all along. Thompson could hardly stand it much longer and told Baronaire she needed to get some air. He didn’t seem to care much whether she was with him or not, so she stepped back outside. The night was just beginning to turn cold and she pulled her black leather jacket close, fighting off the chill. She briefly wondered how kids living on the street coped at night, especially during the winter, but it wasn’t her concern and she couldn’t have done anything about it even if it was. She headed back to her bike and heard a commotion ahead.
There was a boy on the floor, he couldn’t have been older than thirteen. Around him were three youths around seventeen, eighteen maybe, kicking him and shouting obscenities. Thompson wasted no time, charging them, wishing Sanders would permanently arm them with firearms. Instead she pulled out a baton. “Police!”
The youths looked up, and one went to run. The others laughed, grabbing and stopping him. All three drew knives and tried to circle her. There was a hunger to their eyes she found disgusting, although was glad they hadn’t thought to use the blades on the poor kid they were giving a beating.
Thompson charged without pause, dropping as soon as she came within reach and smashing the kneecap of one youth, springing so her sudden momentum could lend her force as she cracked the baton into the chin of the second. She span on one foot, the baton striking the third horizontally across the face.
All three hit the pavement in the same moment.
Thompson kicked the first one which tried to rise, sending him tumbling into the gutter. They scrambled to their feet and hastened away into the falling night. Thompson could technically have arrested them, but she was not a conventional officer and it would have meant calling in a conventional unit. That would have taken time, and also would have involved questions. Sanders was eager not to have his officers call in crimes unless it was anonymously via telephone. In this instance Thompson couldn’t even be bothered with that. Each likely required a trip to the hospital and she was content to leave it at that.
She scooped the wounded kid from the ground to check him over. Aside from superficial cuts and scrapes he seemed fine. “Picked the wrong fight there, kid,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, spitting blood. “Was on my way back to the centre when I saw ‘em.”
“Just came from there, you’re not missing much. What they attack you for?”
“They didn’t. I attacked them.”
“God, why?”
“They were hotwiring that blue bike. Figured it didn’t belong to them.”
Thompson stared in shock. Indeed her bike was only several metres away. “You mean you attacked three guys bigger, older than you? Just because they were messin’ with my bike?”
“That your bike?” He grinned through the pain. “Cool wheels, toots.”
“They’re not all criminals,” Baronaire said, suddenly behind her. Thompson wondered how long he had been standing there. “Go on, Jake, get back inside.”
The kid nodded and hobbled off.
“And Jake? Good job.”
Jake gave him a thumbs up and hurried away.
Thompson checked over her bike to make sure there wasn’t any lasting damage. She could feel Baronaire staring at her in stony silence. “All right,” she said, “I admit I was wrong. Maybe some of them are good kids after all.”
“Hmm. Well I got what we came for. Turns out one of the girls there spoke with Abigail yesterday. Asked her to come back to the shelter with her, but Abigail said no. She was heading north.”
“Maybe she has family up there.”
“Abigail doesn’t have any family. She has a couple of uncles, but they’re banged up. There’s some vague reference to a cousin in Australia, but there’s no way she’s headed there.”
“So where’s she going?”
“Best guess? As far from London as possible. Maybe she’s starting over.”
“Then maybe we should just leave her to it.”
“Maybe. But I’m still gonna find her and check.”
Thompson shrugged. “Then hop on, Baronaire. Let’s head north.”
CHAPTER THREE
They pulled into a motorway café for something to eat. Of course they weren’t all that certain they were headed in the right direction, but had stopped to ask various people along the way and had come up with nothing. From what they knew, however, runaways tended to hitchhike on this motorway if they were headed north. The girl Baronaire had spoken to back at the shelter could only be vague, but so long as they kept moving Baronaire was hoping they would get lucky.
Thompson ordered pasta, and Baronaire was surprised they even served that in the café. Baronaire himself ordered nothing at all, for he did not eat. He did not understand why, was even afraid of the answer sometimes, but he was not like other men. He did not need to eat, slept only when he really had to, and then it was a peculiar arrangement. He also had a variety of odd abilities which were brought about by the darkness, and he was employing many of his heightened senses in tracking the missing girl. Currently he had used his powers of mental persuasion to convince both Thompson and the café owner that he was indeed eating something. It was not the best of situations, for it meant they would have to pay for a meal he had not eaten and a drink he had not drunk, but he had ordered the cheapest thing on the menu and cited that he wasn’t all that hungry, and far too anxious to be getting on.
Thompson ate in silence and Baronaire wondered whether she ever ate anything that was bad for her. Some of the women back at the office were on diets, although he could never understand why, since none of them were especially fat. He supposed it was a woman thing, and not being a woman he hadn’t a clue what it was all down to.
He sometimes wished he knew people outside of the office, but it was safer that he kept to himself when he wasn’t at work. He wasn’t normal and the fewer people he spoke to the better it was for him. If he had no friends he could at least pretend to be normal.
Thompson however did not diet, not in the same way as those other women. She just ate healthily. She knew all the different kinds of nutrients and vitamins her body required and in what quantities. It was intriguing that someone could be so organised, so efficient, as to control what they ate, but he supposed it beat how he gained his nutrients.
Soil.
He wouldn’t even talk about his soil.
“Your father was a brigadier then,” Baronaire said, breaking the silence.
“Is.”
“I can see where your ... military bearing comes from.”
“Being an army brat has some advantages.”
“He must be proud.”
“Dad says society’s a pit and the snakes have to be removed so the kids can play freely in the sand. He’s told me on more than one occasion that the police should have the power to kill people, to imprison or torture or do whatever it takes. Told me once he wished there was some special division, a wetworks where officers were assigned to take out all the drug barons who never make it to court, or whose cases the court throws out on their ears.”
“He must be very proud then.”
“Dad doesn’t know what I do, Baronaire, don’t be daft.”
Baronaire’s face fell. He had all but forgotten they weren’t supposed to talk about their work with anyone inside the office, let alone outside.
“I’d love if I could’ve told him something,” Thompson continued. “But even if I’d sworn him to silence, Sanders would find out. And he’d kill us both.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
&n
bsp; “No?”
“Sanders loves his people. We’re his family.”
Thompson snorted, went back to her pasta. “Dad never liked what I do. The police are a joke, he used to say, and I’m the punch-line it seems.” She shook her head at the memories. It was clear this was an old argument, and Baronaire had no place in interfering. Especially since she said her father was still a brigadier, yet kept referring to him in the past tense as though he was dead. Still, he could not understand why Thompson would even suggest Sanders would be prepared to kill his own people, for any reason.
He just wasn’t that kind of a man.
“What about you?” Thompson asked. “Tell me about your father.”
“My father’s dead.”
“Sorry.”
Baronaire shrugged. “He was murdered when I was a child.”
“Did they catch the guy who killed him?”
“No. But one day I’ll make him pay.”
Thompson paused, and Baronaire smiled to reassure her. “Any other family?” she asked.
“No. No, I have no one. Anyone I get close to tends to ... die.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
Baronaire looked away. He should not have said that. But it was true, and he was a monster for even admitting it. It was unhealthy for Baronaire to ever be attracted to anyone. “I don’t know if I can have children,” Baronaire said. “Not even sure it would be right for me to have any even if I could. I guess that’s why I care about Abigail. She’s lost both her parents now, but if she’s reached, if she doesn’t go off the deep-end, she could turn her life around. Make something of herself. Ten years’ time, she could be raising her own family. Make a better job of it than her folks did.”
“And you relate to her because you were orphaned I take it?”
“I lost both my parents at a young age. But I had someone to take care of me. I was lucky. If not for ... Well, I found stability. That’s something Abigail needs, or she’s going to waste her life. And that would be a shame after everything she’s likely been through.”