by Adam Carter
“Oh I got the jackpot once. And a lot of booby prizes, there were a lot a those going round.”
He smirked at the images being formed in his mind. “Your Dad ever find out about any of this?”
“You kidding? He knew about some of it, didn’t really know what the forfeits entailed of course, but he turned a blind eye. Lads will be lads, eh? Had no idea I was ever in on it though. Think a few heads would have rolled otherwise. Oh, and poker. I forgot to mention that’s where I learned poker.”
Baronaire recalled there were occasional poker nights held in the bunker, whenever Sanders had a night off. Jeremiah went to them, seemed to enjoy them. But it wasn’t Baronaire’s thing.
“You play strip poker?” he asked.
“Why is that always the first question anyone ever asks? I was the only girl there, Baronaire: I don’t think most of those guys would’ve been too eager to get everyone’s clothes off. Besides, there were showers for that kind of thing, I’m sure.”
Baronaire was glad she had warm memories. He didn’t recall much of his own childhood. As he had told her – why had he told her? – his parents were dead and he had been orphaned at a young age. He remembered snatches of his father, nothing of his mother. He was a kind man, his father, would have done anything for his son. They would walk in the park, play in the back garden, chase birds and jump into puddles. Baronaire remembered coming to the beach once, he would have been very young but the memory was strong. The lights had been mesmerising, the sounds and smells so unlike the big city. It had been these things he had missed when he had begun walking down the promenade, the good memories of candyfloss and claw machines returning to torment him.
He missed his father a great deal. One day he would have revenge.
“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Thompson asked, worry to her voice.
He was about to ask her what she was talking about when he realised he was crying. Rubbing at his eyes and angrily scolding himself, he saw they had arrived at the beach. “I’ll go on from here,” he said. “You want to stay on the pavement and walk parallel? If she tries to run it might be a good idea for you to be here to catch her.”
Thompson nodded, spoke no more of the situation. But he could see concern in her eyes: sympathy. It was something he did not need from her. He was a strong man, he didn’t need to talk about his emotions and certainly didn’t need other people to know about his problems.
The sand was wet underfoot and he knew he would have a tough job cleaning his boots when he got back to London. Perhaps it had rained, perhaps the tide came in at night; he didn’t know much about the seaside. Baronaire walked slowly, inhaling deeply, inflating lungs he constantly told himself did not inflate, and banished all memories of the past. Instead he absorbed the scent of Abigail Grayn. She was close, he could sense that much. He could almost hear her heartbeat, almost feel her steady breathing. He opened his eyes, noticing what seemed to be a ruined pier. The wood was rotten, black and covered with wet seaweed. Frayed ropes hung from the ancient wood, wet sand was stuck to everything. There were graffiti scrawled across the wood or else carved into it, and he could make out several different names, initials and years.
And he was still thirty metres from it.
He moved silently, aware that Thompson could still see him and that he should not disappear from her sight in case she panicked. Abigail’s scent was growing stronger now and Baronaire was certain she was sleeping under the wreck of the pier. As Thompson had said, however, it was cold down on the beach and there were certainly far better places to be sleeping. He guessed Abigail wanted to get as far from the rest of the world as possible. Out here the only sounds were the gentle lashing of the waves, the only scent the salty sea air, the only sights sand and sea and sky.
Yes, he could certainly see the attraction of coming down here alone.
His eyes sought Abigail in the shadows as he arrived at the pier. The night did not hinder his vision any: if anything it was enhanced. He could see someone huddled in one corner. A girl wearing dark blue jeans, trainers, a white T-shirt. It would have been too hot to have thought to bring a jumper when she had left London, but she had seen sense enough to bring a jacket, which she used as much as possible as a blanket. A black backpack lay a metre from her, no doubt containing provisions for her journey, maybe something to read, or a Walkman or something. He had no idea what teenage girls enjoyed, and told himself to stop trying to guess.
He gazed upon her face then, peaceful in slumber. She was young, her long blonde hair tied back in a knot. There was a chubbiness to her cheeks of which she was no doubt self-conscious at her age, and she looked so at peace Baronaire was sorry her life was so screwed up. She was a pretty girl, and he was ashamed to think that given a few years he would indeed enjoy preying upon her.
For her sake he was glad she was still a child.
“Abigail,” he said, crouching beside her. She did not stir, so he reached out a gentle hand and shook her arm very slightly. “Abigail?”
She awoke with a start, her eyes widening when she saw him, and she scrabbled backwards. Baronaire went to speak, but she threw a handful of sand into his eyes and he cursed instead. Blinking rapidly, he was suddenly aware of movement and then he felt something heavy impact with his head and realised Abigail had slugged him with her backpack. He cursed his own foolishness and rose shakily to his feet, rubbing his eyes and blinking furiously. He could see the girl running across the beach and noted Thompson had leaped onto the sand in pursuit. She cast him a frown and Baronaire waved her to continue.
His eyesight at last getting back to normal, and without the constant observation of Detective Thompson, Baronaire allowed his physical form to disperse and it was a white mist that drifted across the beach. He had no eyes in this form of course, but his senses were attuned to the world about him and he knew precisely where the two runners were. How his clothes and anything else he was carrying could also turn to mist he could not say, and often did he believe it was merely another form of hypnosis. Perhaps he did not turn into mist, but only made people believe he had. But then such people would have to include himself; and besides which, he had often floated to the tops of buildings in this ephemeral state, so it could not have been a ruse.
However, perhaps that was what made the ruse so great.
He re-formed at the door to an aquarium and waited. Seconds later Abigail charged up the steps and almost collided with him.
“How’d you ...?”
“I’m not here to hurt you, Abigail,” Baronaire said quickly. “I wanted to talk, to make sure you were all right.”
“You know my ... Who are you?”
“Charles Baronaire. I’m a police officer.” He drew his warrant card and tossed it to her. Abigail caught it and studied it carefully. “I know about your parents,” Baronaire continued in a gentle tone. “I wanted to see you were OK.”
“You said that.” She finished looking at the card and stared at him now. There was nothing girlishness about her expression. Her clothes were utilitarian, her backpack on both shoulders, her shoes were sensible for travel. Her eyes betrayed an agedness which told Baronaire she had been looking after herself for many years already and intended to do so indefinitely from now on. There was none of the happiness of youth, for this was a girl who fully understood life, and who knew the horrors it could bring.
No wonder everyone she met thought she was an adult. She had been an adult for years already.
“Who sent you?” she asked. “Why would the police care about me?”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Great, sure brings her back. Who sent you?”
“No one.”
“Sure. Well, as you can see, I’m fine. Doing OK actually, moving on with my life. Thanks for the visit. Bye.”
“You’re a minor. You can’t stay on the street.”
“Sure, that’s great, mister Baronaire. Find me a foster home, I’ll just run away again.”
“You s
hould have a chance to be a normal girl, Abi.”
“Don’t call me Abi,” she raged, her eyes tearing. “My mum called me Abi.”
Baronaire should have realised trying to be familiar wouldn’t get him anywhere. “You should be allowed to go to school,” he said. “You should have friends, should be ... I don’t know. Chatting about boys? Watching Neighbours? Throw me a line here.”
“Home and Away.”
“Pardon?”
“Neighbours sucks.”
Baronaire had never even heard of Home and Away. “Well you should have the opportunity to watch that. My point is you can’t run all your life, Abigail. You need somewhere to live.”
“Yeah, I know. I have a plan, don’t worry about that. But I’m not staying in London. I’m heading north, where the media won’t pounce on me every time I do anything.”
“You left because of the media?”
“I left because of a lot of things. With dad dying, there wasn’t a whole lot to stick around for.”
“Your father ...” Baronaire felt a twinge of regret. “Look, why don’t you come with me for a while. I’ll get you a room for the night, we can talk in the morning.”
“And why would I want to talk to you? You’re not even a social worker. You’d make a very bad social worker by the way.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“Then don’t. I’ve done fine by myself all this time, I’ll manage thanks.”
“I can help.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“The officer who was chasing you ... she’s a woman. She could talk to you if you didn’t want to talk to me.”
Abigail didn’t seem amused. He wondered whether she even knew how to smile any more. Not that Baronaire had meant it to sound amusing, but he was floundering. He had expelled so much energy in finding this girl, he had never really given much thought of how he would talk to her, and what he would do should her reaction prove hostile.
“And what could she do for me?” Abigail asked sceptically.
“I don’t know ...” Probably not the best of answers. “Teach you poker, how to pretend to be sober ...” He stopped. “All right, probably not the best of role models.”
“Look, I appreciate you coming all the way up here to look for me, but I’m fine. ‘Kay?”
“At least let me buy you breakfast.”
“I’m a young woman who knows how to bring tears when she has to. Trust me, I got breakfast covered.”
“Fine. Where are you going to sleep tonight then?”
“I was sleeping fine ‘til you woke me up.” She looked away, sighed, and said, “All right, look. You really want to talk, fine. You did come all this way, right? Fancy Lou’s arcade. Ten o’clock. You win me a teddy I’ll talk to you. Can’t say fairer than that.”
“Wait, I ...”
“Or you take me in, I clam up and that’s the end of it.” She shrugged and walked off. Baronaire let her go. He could have taken her easily, could have hypnotised her or anything. But he had come all this way to make sure she was all right, not to assault her.
He noticed Thompson leaning against a wall, arms folded, eyebrows raised.
“What?” he growled.
“Well that was ... badly handled.”
“I panicked. I didn’t expect that.”
“Clearly. So, we just gonna let her go or what?”
“Yes.”
“Nice to see you made a date with her, just remember she’s a minor.”
Baronaire scowled.
“Joke?” Thompson said. “Look, we really should go after her.”
“We do that, we lose her. She doesn’t have anything right now, or anyone. We need to show we trust her.”
“And do we trust her?”
“Doesn’t matter. We have to. We have to show her a reason not to give up on humanity.”
“Right. How lovely. What’s to stop her running?”
“Because she’s a good kid. Young woman, I should probably say. And I think she has a good heart.”
“And because of that she’s gonna keep the appointment?”
“She has to. She still has to give me back my warrant card.”
“You really are a strange man. Come on, let’s get away from this beach; I’m freezing out here.” As they walked away, Thompson asked, “Everywhere being closed, where we gonna sleep?”
“Sleep? You kids today have no stamina.”
Thompson did not mention that entirely failed to answer her question.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thompson had fallen asleep in a bus shelter and Baronaire kept watch over her. The journey from London had been more tiring than Thompson had believed, and she slept soundly. Baronaire spent what remained of the night on the roof of the building opposite, enjoying the crisp sea air and concentrating. He had powers, even though he did not know why or from where, and he honed them as often as he could. He sat cross-legged, eyes closed, and calm. He listened to every sound, absorbed every stray scent, digested any floating emotion. He could not read thoughts, even though he could influence them, but people were easy to read without having to look into their brains. There were lost souls everywhere, and it was upon these that Baronaire focused.
He could sense folk wandering into the bus shelter on occasion, but they did not bother Thompson. They were just passing through, or else themselves looking for somewhere to stay.
As the Sun rose so did Baronaire’s powers fade and the emotions roiling in the air about him became slowly invisible to him. He opened his eyes at last to feel the warmth of the morning on his skin and the voices were silenced entirely. Returning to the bus shelter, he sat with Thompson while she slept, knowing they had a long while yet before he was to meet with Abigail. He watched three people turn up for work, probably bus drivers, and they laughed and joked in their office, although Baronaire was too far away to hear them. After a while one of the men entered the bus shelter with two steaming Styrofoam cups.
“Thought you and your friend could do with some coffee,” he said, handing the cups over.
“Thank you,” Baronaire said, and meant it. He did not drink coffee, but was more than a little surprised that this man should care enough about his fellow human beings to bring him some. “That was thoughtful.”
“We get a lot of strays around here,” he replied. “You waiting for the bus?”
“No. When my friend wakes up we’ll be moving on.”
The man glanced at Thompson’s sleeping form. Baronaire had placed his trench coat across her when she had first settled down, and there was very little visible of her because of it. “I don’t have any food,” the man said, “but we can offer you a lift. No one ever uses the first bus so you can go anywhere you like.”
“You’re a very kind man, but the coffee is more than enough.”
The man departed then and Thompson awoke only a few minutes later. She rose tiredly, seemed surprised to find the coat across her, and stretched her limbs awkwardly. “What time is it?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Half eight,” Baronaire said.
“Is that coffee?”
Baronaire handed her the cup and she warmed her hands about it greedily. “You really know how to look after a girl, Baronaire,” she said sleepily.
“Apparently the bus drivers here are used to looking after the homeless.”
“Don’t suppose they’re willing to let me take a shower?”
Baronaire did not like to mention the stink. It wasn’t that Thompson smelled especially bad after sleeping in her leather, but that Baronaire’s senses were heightened to a degree even through the day. If Thompson didn’t shower and change clothes before they headed back, which was highly likely, it was going to prove a decidedly uncomfortable experience for him. Not because he especially disliked the natural smell of human women, but because he did.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s take a walk and I’ll buy you breakfast.”
Nothing seemed to open until nine, so the wa
lk was mandatory. They were the first customers in the café they eventually found themselves in and Baronaire as ever ordered something cheap, since he wasn’t going to eat it anyway. Thompson, ever watching her figure, ordered a full English and said, “What? I’m on holiday.”
Baronaire thought about Abigail through the meal. He did not know where she had spent the night, whether she had found someplace warm, someplace safe. Perhaps she had been murdered since she’d left him, but he felt he would have caught the scent if there had been a murder within the town during the night. That she may have fled the town altogether was a firm possibility, but he had to trust her. If he was going to help her, he had to start treating her like an adult, and that meant allowing her to make her own decisions.
But she wasn’t an adult. No matter how much she pretended to be, no matter how much he saw her as one, she was still a child. By the letter of the law he served and enforced.
“What are we still doing here anyway?” Thompson asked as she started on the bacon. “Kid doesn’t want us here, why don’t we just go? I thought the whole point was to make sure she was all right. We did that, now back to work.”
“We haven’t helped her yet.”
“Didn’t look like she much wanted our help, Baronaire.”
“As you reminded me last night, she’s a minor. She can’t just live on the streets.”
“Why? A lot of kids do, you know.”
“We can help her. She’s a smart kid, headstrong. She’ll go far in this world, so long as she’s given the opportunity.”
Thompson gave a mild shrug. “I don’t get any of this, but it’s your case so I don’t have to. Just don’t feel guilty about having killed her father. The guy was a loser and a murderer and the kid’s better off without him. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she should just take off and start a new life for herself. She seemed to be doing OK.”
“We should be able to do more.”
“Like she said, we’re not social workers.”
Baronaire shook his head. “The work we do, Jen ... taking out the bad guys. Is that it? We either make sure they get put away if the case falls apart, or else we kill them? That’s not a job, it’s a boy’s teenage fantasy. We can’t just deal with the criminals and leave the victims to suffer.”