by Adam Carter
“Not our department.”
“If we don’t care about Abigail, who will?”
Thompson didn’t have an answer for that. He could see that she didn’t personally care at all for the girl, which was a little harsh. But then WetFish made them harsh. It was a horrible job, what they did, but it was necessary. If not for WetFish the courts would be seen as a complete joke, criminals would be running wild and London would be infested with murderers and serial rapists. Not that it wasn’t already infested, but that just showed how much crime there was in that one city alone. WetFish was holding the city together and no one even knew about them. They had a purpose, and Baronaire was proud of the work he did. He just wished sometimes there was more he could do.
He wished more people cared about those who were left behind.
Thompson agreed to let Baronaire play this his way, but she would not abandon him. As Baronaire headed off to the arcade for his meeting, Thompson found a bench across the road, bordering the sea. From there she could keep a close eye on her partner’s movements, and help him should he need it.
As for Baronaire, he put Thompson from his mind as soon as he reached the arcade. There was nothing special about Fancy Lou’s, so far as he could see. There was a great garish sign depicting the face of a large stereotypical Texan businessman: fat, middle-aged and wearing a broad false grin and a Stetson. The arcade itself was slightly larger than some of its neighbours, which presumably was why Abigail had asked to meet there. As Baronaire strolled through the gaudy carpeted interior, his thoughts turned to when he was a child. He remembered the lights and smiled at the vague recollections. The one armed bandits of his youth had been mainly replaced by now with button machines, but there were still some of the old styled ones to be found, tucked away in corners. There were a lot more computer game-style machines than he remembered, where you fired an electronic gun at an antagonist, or sat in a booth and tried to destroy the Death Star. He stopped at a rectangular machine filled with visible two pence coins, rhythmically sliding in and out on deceptive bars, designed to make you think it would be easy to bring that money out to you.
He noticed there were a fair few claw machines, though, and wondered at which Abigail wanted to meet.
Suddenly he stopped, his eyes widening. Standing directly before him was a racecourse, with small plastic representations of horses running across a green landscape, each horse a different colour. Music erupted from it, joining the cacophony of the rest of the arcade, but Baronaire focused out all else. He remembered being a child, barely able to see the horses. He could reach the slot for his coins however and always put in two, betting on a horse with good odds and a horse with bad odds. His father had lifted him up so he could see the horses run. And they had run, how they had run. He bet on the white horse once and it came in. Jackpot. For a five year old that was one of the most amazing feelings of his life.
He shook his head, aware suddenly he had at some point placed his hand upon the glass as though to reach in for old memories, and turned his back upon the thing. He wasn’t here to relive the past, he kept having to remind himself. He had work to do.
Abigail was not in the arcade. He was certain of that. It either meant she wasn’t coming or she was watching him. He checked his watch. He still had a few minutes before they were to meet, and there was no telling whether Abigail was an especially punctual person anyway. He reasoned he may as well get to work and walked across to the booth to change a note into some coins. He was handed the coins back, in a small plastic cup with bright fruit emblazoned onto its side. He felt strange being there. He was not the only adult, but he was certainly the only person dressed in a coat. The Sun blazed outside, but he did not feel the heat. He could have been dressed as an Eskimo and he would not have noticed the temperature.
He selected a claw machine entirely at random, knowing he wouldn’t win anything anyway, and deposited a coin. The claw moved by use of two buttons: one up, one across, and it went down into the stuffed toys with a musical flourish. It clasped on air and returned empty-handed to the victory hole. The death march played, which Baronaire found a little extreme.
He tried again, this time almost managing to hook something, but it fell at the last moment.
His third try saw him actually manage to pick something up, although as the claw returned to the top of the glass case it jolted and he lost the cuddly gerbil. He suspected the machine was designed to jolt at that point and make people think they had a chance of winning something.
Ten minutes later, and two more trips to the change booth, he had almost forgotten about Abigail, concentrating as he was, determined not to let the machine defeat him. If it was night he could just turn into a mist and infiltrate the machine, take as many prizes as he wanted.
He caught hold of a mouse and it was lifted into the air. He had already tried for this one several times and each time it dropped it was getting closer to the hole. This time it dropped as the claw jolted at the top, and the mouse fell, striking the lip of the pit, and falling to the left instead of the right.
Baronaire almost whooped with satisfaction as the tune this time was not the death march but something he entirely didn’t listen to as he bent to retrieve his prize. He held the blue mouse before him and punched it playfully on the nose.
“Swap you for a warrant card.”
He turned to find Abigail standing behind him, leaning casually against the next machine. She was wearing the same trousers as yesterday, but had changed into a black T-shirt. Her backpack was still slung over her shoulders and she smiled at his reaction.
“Good morning, Charles.”
Baronaire handed over the mouse and pocketed his card. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show.”
“Why? I’ve been standing there five minutes.” She looked at the mouse before tucking it under her arm. “Mice are always running too, thanks for that.”
“No problem.”
“You know, you could have just bought it in a shop for a fraction of the price you just paid for it.”
“And where’s the fun in that?”
“You sure you’re an adult?”
Baronaire smiled. He could not help himself. It was this place. He had few memories of being a child, of being normal. To have any of them brought to the fore was an opportunity he would embrace fully. “There’s a café at the back of this place, you want to get a coffee?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Just no pressure though, OK?”
“No pressure.”
They sat and talked of nothing. Baronaire bought her some breakfast to go with the coffee, sensing she hadn’t eaten that morning, and they passed the time in futile conversation. Baronaire did not press, did not ask unsolicited questions, and Abigail even offered information freely after a while. They talked about how she had managed to get all this way in so short a time, and Baronaire had to admit he was impressed.
“I think you might want to tone down your charms though,” he said. “I heard how you got those bikers to agree to take you, and that could have turned badly for you.”
“Don’t really need to be lectured.”
“Believe me, I’m the last person to take advice from. But I am a cop, and I see every day what happens to people who think they can take care of themselves. There were three of those bikers. If they’d turned nasty, it wouldn’t have ended well for you.”
Abigail did not rebuke him, seemed to understand he meant well. She finished her food and took up her coffee, elbows on the table as she stared over the cup at him. “I still don’t get what you’re doing here,” she said. “Or what you expect me to say.”
“I ... Your father was found not guilty. I guess when we investigate these things, we always overlook the victims who are left behind.”
Abigail shrugged. “Dad’s dead now. It doesn’t really matter any more.”
Baronaire thought back to when her father had died. He had influenced his mind enough to make the man write a suicide note in his own wor
ds, before hanging himself. All the while Baronaire had paid no thought to Abigail. He knew she existed, but didn’t pay her any mind. It was only after he realised she was orphaned and had no one left to turn to that he realised he would have to see her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps your father could have changed.”
“No,” Abigail said. There was no anger in her voice, no love or anything. Just resignation of the facts. She set her cup down and looked deeply into Baronaire’s eyes. “No, there are some people who just can’t change, Mr Baronaire. Dad ... I don’t know. I used to blame the drink, when I was a kid. I used to think maybe if he stopped drinking he’d be more like other people’s dads. One time I poured all his vodka down the sink, figured he’d have one clean night at least.” She shook her head. “He just took it out on Mum, put her in the hospital that night. Then went out to the off-licence. I blamed myself for that, swore I’d never do it again. Took me years to realise it didn’t matter what I did. Dad’d do what Dad wanted to do. Even sober he wasn’t a nice man, Mr Baronaire. No, some people are just monsters.”
“You don’t think the death of your mother might have changed him?”
“Mum loved him. I don’t know why, but she did. After she died I figured here we go. I’m his new number one punching bag.”
“He used to hit you?”
“Dad’ll hit anyone smaller than him. Would’ve hit anyone, I should say. The amount of bruises I had to hide at school, the P.E. days I had a note for ... I spent a lot of my childhood ashamed, Mr Baronaire. About eighteen months ago I suddenly grew up, realised none of it was my fault. Figured it was about time someone did something about him. So I stood up to him. Next time he tried to hit me I shouted at him. Startled him actually. Then I hit him with a dictionary.”
“How’d that go down?”
“Not well. He tore my shirt off and beat me with a stick ‘til the carpet was soaked with blood and tears. Plus his stick snapped. But I got to him, Mr Baronaire. I could see it in his eyes. The uncertainty. The realisation maybe that I was on the verge of getting away from him. Well, he didn’t touch me at all after that, figured he was afraid of what I might do to him. Then one day something bad happened. No idea what it was, I think his team got relegated or something. He wasn’t even drunk at the time, I remember that much. But he comes home and starts throwing stuff. Mum tried to stop him, so he hit her. I remember her lying on the floor, and I realised I had to do something. So I called the police. Right in front of him. And he just froze.
“Course, when the police came, he talked his way out of it. Dad always had a good head for that sort of thing. Even if they breathalysed him he would’ve come up negative. So nothing really was done about it. I kinda got the impression they’d put us on some register, fat lot of good that did. Dad became angrier and angrier over that, but he never touched either of us again. Didn’t shout, didn’t do much of anything. Just sat brooding most of the time.
“Then one day it all boiled over and ... that’s when he killed Mum.”
Baronaire had listened in silence, amazed at how calm the girl was. It was as though she was speaking of someone else’s life. She had detached herself, he knew, which was the one thing he had never been able to do.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “If you hadn’t’ve stood up to him, things still would have happened the way they did. Eventually. It’s just he would have beaten you a whole lot more in the meantime.”
“I know. Did I say it was my fault?” A flash of anger passed across her eyes, but it was gone in an instant. “I’m just glad it’s over. Glad someone finally did what needed doing.”
Baronaire hesitated. “How do you mean?”
Abigail shook her head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Your father killed himself. There was a note and everything.”
“My father didn’t kill himself.”
“But he ...”
“The note was forged. Was written in his own hand and sounded like something he would’ve said, yeah, but it wasn’t him. And I know there were no prints other than his own and there was no indication there was anyone else in the room. I know the video evidence shows no one else entering or leaving the room too, before you tell me about that. He was the only person in there when he died, so officially he killed himself. But he didn’t. I know my Dad. He never felt sorry for anything his whole life.”
“Perhaps he changed. At the end.”
“Monsters can’t change, Mr Baronaire. It’s just not in their nature.”
Baronaire looked away. The words stung more than she could ever know. “Please, call me Charles.”
She half-smiled. “Still not calling me Abi.”
“Is that why you ran?” he asked. “Because you knew he’d been murdered and were afraid whoever did it would be coming after you?”
Her face fell, some colour draining from it. “I ...” She unconsciously held the stuffed mouse close to her and Baronaire in that instant could see something of the scared little girl she truly was. “Without knowing who killed him and why ... I can’t be safe, Charles. I can’t. Those bikers? You say I took a risk with them, trying it on with them? Well sure I did, but they were my only chance for a ride and if I didn’t take it I’d’ve been stuck in that café. And maybe whoever killed my father would’ve caught up with me. I have to run, Charles. I have to keep running, I can’t ever stop. I have to run in case they catch up to me. And I don’t even know who they are.”
“Abigail ...” He wasn’t sure how to say it, whether he even should, but the girl needed closure and rules be damned. “You don’t have to run. Believe me if the person who killed your father was to catch up to you ... you would be safe. You would be safe.”
Abigail looked at him strangely for several moments, her eyes narrowing as her brain worked through things. “That’s why you came all this way then,” she said dryly. “That’s why you cared so much. Because when you investigate these things, you always overlook the victims who are left behind.”
“I felt guilty. For your sake.”
“Don’t feel guilty for mine, Charles.” She leaned back in her chair, exhaling deeply. “Well that’s a weight off. Wow.”
“You have a ... very mature reaction to things, Abigail.”
“Gotta.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“You’re not insisting on taking me back?”
He shrugged. “Legally you should be fostered until you’re officially an adult. It’s probably a good idea, would get you a good start in life. Get some money behind you, a little stability never hurt either.”
“But you’re not gonna do that?”
“I think you might manage well enough on your own. But it’s going to be tough getting a job. I want you to think about it. I want you to be certain of what you’re doing before you make a decision.”
“You really are treating me like an adult aren’t you?”
He sighed. “You’re not an adult, Abigail. But you’re mature enough to survive in this country. I’m just not pressuring you either way.”
She smiled. “You know what, I like you, Charles. Sure, I’ll think about it. But there’s something I want to do first.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you have any change? I’d really love to go on the house of horrors next door.”
Baronaire contemplated that, wondered what actual horrors the place could show either of them, whether they would just laugh at the things even if they were real and happening before their very eyes. He could see she was thinking precisely the same things and it sent a strangely warm feeling churning within him. It was as though he had at last found someone who understood what it meant to live with a monster.
“Sure,” he said. “But there’s something I have to do first.”
“What’s that?”
He smiled as he rose from the table. “Watch and learn, Abigail.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was nice to actually get to sit down for
a change, but Thompson’s idea of fun was not watching an amusement arcade from across the street. She had seen Baronaire make contact with Abigail and the two had vanished from sight. Thompson had considered taking a wander through the arcade to see whether she could catch them, but this was Baronaire’s operation and she didn’t want to interfere. Besides, they had found the girl and if she didn’t want anything to do with them Thompson didn’t see they had much more to do. Baronaire wanted to make sure the girl was fine and she was fine. They should be going home.
The longer she waited on that bench, the more uncomfortable she was becoming. The Sun beat down mercilessly, despite the sea air, and after a while she realised she was probably going to wake up sunburned the following morning. She had removed her leather jacket already, and wished for the umpteenth time that she could have a shower somewhere. She was also beginning to get a little hungry again.
Then she saw Baronaire and the girl emerge from the arcade and figured this was it, they were going home now. She watched in complete shock however when the two of them disappeared into the house of horrors.
Thompson collapsed back onto her bench and closed her eyes. Mission be screwed, she was going to sleep.
“It’s really not a good idea to go to sleep in the Sun,” Baronaire said, gently shaking her. “It can do terrible things to your skin.”
Thompson blinked, yawned, and checked the sky. By the movement of the Sun she figured she’d been asleep for a couple of hours; she did not check her watch to make sure. Baronaire was standing before her alone, looking very overheated in his coat; yet there was a strangeness about him Thompson could not place. Happiness was not the lot for Baronaire’s life, but there was certainly contention on his face. Whatever he had come here to accomplish he clearly felt he had achieved.
“Can we go home yet?” Thompson asked, stifling another yawn.
“Yes. I got you something.”