Nothing to Hide (New Series James Oswald Book 2)

by James Oswald

  The first thing I notice is the man, slumped forward on one of the bird-shit-spattered benches. My immediate thought is that he’s dead, so awkward is his posture and total his stillness. Where others would probably give him a wide berth, hope that ignoring the problem will make it go away, I approach. I’ve already pulled out my phone, ready to call this in, when he sits up with a lurching movement more spasm than coordinated. For a moment he looks at me with unseeing eyes, and then he slumps again, a thin line of drool escaping from the side of his mouth. Judging by the state of his trousers, this has been happening for a while.

  I’m about to call it in anyway when I notice another body, propped up against a concrete litter bin as if left there by someone because it wouldn’t fit through the little slot at the top where you put your rubbish. Leaving the first man, I approach this one more slowly. He looks just as immobile, but I know what this is now, and how it can develop. Spice is a big problem in Manchester, and some of the country’s smaller cities and industrial towns. I’d not heard of it being so much of a thing in London, but it was only a matter of time, I suppose. Synthetic cannabis, basically. Hugely addictive, far more potent than the real stuff, oblivion for anyone who can’t cope any more with the utter hopelessness of modern life. The drug of choice for austerity-hit Britain.

  As I look around the park, I see more bodies. It’s a small space that I can’t quite believe hasn’t been snapped up by some unscrupulous property developer already, but dotted around it like the discarded dolls of some giant infant, I count seven addicts in various states of uncomfortable repose. I’m surprised the authorities don’t know about this, and yet somehow they’ve been left here.

  And then a figure appears from the far side of the park, followed by another, two more. A crowd of them, they’re all dressed alike, although it’s not a uniform so much as something about the choice of clothes, the sameness of the colour scheme. There’s an earnestness about them that suggests charity, and the way they split into pairs, each heading for a comatose addict, confirms it for me. Soon all of the addicts are being tended to, gently roused or covered with shiny blankets like they hand out after marathons.

  ‘Who the hell are you people?’ The words are out of my mouth before I’ve considered them, but far from taking offence, the nearest to me looks up and smiles. She’s maybe twenty years old, awkward teeth, hair that looks like something from a seventies folk band. Acne scars dot her pale cheeks and forehead.

  ‘We’re administering to the needy, the ones who have fallen through the cracks. These poor unfortunates deserve better than to lie here unloved and forgotten.’

  OK, so not answering the question. ‘Do you do this often?’

  ‘As often as is necessary.’ The young woman stands, hands clasped together over her stomach. ‘Times are hard, and the temptation to lose oneself is ever present.’

  Behind her, the recumbent addict is being helped to unsteady feet. Around the park the rest of them are being led – or in one case carried – away.

  ‘Where are you taking them? You’re not paramedics. Not police.’

  She smiles as if our ages are reversed and she finds my naivety amusing. ‘We are the Church of the Coming Light. This is our mission.’

  Again not answering the question, although at least she’s now answered my earlier one. ‘So where are you taking them, then? Hospital?’

  ‘Our shelter is on the high street, not far from the Danes Estate. We’ll care for these poor souls there, try to get them back on their feet. And should any require further treatment we can take them to hospital.’

  Mention of the Danes Estate has me glancing up and into the distance, where the squat towers at its centre loom over this part of the city. It’s only a moment, but when I turn back to the young woman she is walking away. As swiftly as they arrived, the group depart, taking the addicts with them. By the time I’ve followed them to the edge of the park, they’ve loaded everyone into a minibus and are pulling away into the traffic.

  I take the back way to my flat, peeking round the corner like a kid playing hide-and-seek to see whether there are any paparazzi waiting for me. A couple of shadowy figures are huddled in a car just across the road from the block, so I guess that answers that question.

  ‘Bin there all day, Con. Gotta give them credit, that’s dedication.’

  Mrs Feltham’s a big lady, taller than me and with a bulk about her that you wouldn’t want to argue with. For someone her size, she can move with impressive stealth. I almost jump out of my skin when she speaks, whirling around like I’ve been caught by the headmistress doing something I know I shouldn’t.

  ‘Mrs F. You gave me quite a shock there.’

  ‘You so wrapped up in your little world I could ride past on an elephant and you’d hear nothing, child. Come.’

  The old lady beckons me in the direction of her front door, and since it doesn’t look like I can slip up to mine right now, I follow. Besides, she makes the best coffee in London and I need something to take away the taste of the latte I had in that café. So I won’t get a wink of sleep tonight, but who cares? It’s not as if I’ve got a job to go to tomorrow.

  ‘When did Spice become a thing round here?’ I ask after the beans have been ground, the little pot set to bubble on the stovetop and a box of fiery home-made ginger snaps laid out for me to eat.

  ‘Spice?’ An angry scowl wrinkles Mrs Feltham’s face. She takes her time fetching out two little porcelain cups, then brings the pot to the kitchen table before saying any more on the matter.

  ‘It’s the worst thing. You see them, like zombies. Time was we had to deal with heroin round here, but most of that moved farther out. Still a few dealers, mind. But Spice.’ Mrs Feltham shakes her head, almost spitting out the word. She pours two cups of thick dark coffee far more addictive than any drug.

  ‘Thank you.’ I take the proffered cup, lift it to my nose and inhale the perfect aroma. ‘You any idea who’s pushing it?’

  ‘Never the same face for more than a few days. My boys, they don’t take kindly to folk peddling that kind of thing, see? A bit of weed never done a man no harm, but this poison, it rots your brain. It takes away your will.’

  In all the years I’ve known her, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mrs Feltham angry. Maybe the occasional short-lived curse at a useless politician or a quiet tut at whatever vacuous celebrity is hogging the news cycle, but now I can see that I’ve struck a nerve with my question.

  ‘It’s worse up north, I’ve heard. Parts of Manchester you can’t walk without tripping over folk just lying about like they’re dead.’

  ‘They are dead, girl. Just don’t know it. They the forgotten ones. No job, no hope of a job, no education worth nothing. All those opportunities they was promised by the man, come to nothing at all. It any surprise they want to make it all go away? Only it never goes away. It haunts you, nags at you, keeps you coming back for more. And these folk who sell them that? They are worse than any devil I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Least someone seems to be looking after them.’ I take a sip of coffee so bitter it makes my toes curl, but in a good way. ‘Saw a busload of charity do-gooders take the whole lot of them to a shelter. Church of the Shining Light? Think that’s what they said.’

  ‘Church. Tcha! They not much better than the dealers, only it’s a different kind of drug them selling.’

  ‘You know them, then?’

  ‘Know of them, Con. Know the type. Sure the work they do is mostly helpful, but it shouldn’t be necessary at all.’

  There’s nothing I can say to that, so I say nothing. We sit in companionable silence for a while, sipping coffee and chewing on those excellent biscuits. My stomach growls at the food like a neglected dog, and I realise I’ve not eaten properly in too long.

  ‘You don’t look after yourself. Going to waste away if you don’t eat proper. Then who’s going to want you, eh? A man
likes a woman to have a bit of meat on her bones.’

  I know she’s teasing me, same as she always does, but it hits a nerve nonetheless.

  ‘A man likes a woman who’s not being hounded by the press, too. Not that I ever cared much about what a man likes.’

  ‘They’ll get bored of chasing you soon enough. Give it time.’

  I wonder whether she’s talking about the press, or men. Hopefully both. I drink the last of my coffee and reluctantly decline the offer of a refill, even more so another biscuit.

  ‘I’d better be getting on. I should be able to slip past them now, if they’re still there. It’s getting dark.’

  Mrs F doesn’t argue, bless her. I can see her thinking about pressing the entire tub of biscuits on me, but I know there’ll be hell to pay when her boys come round for their supper later and find them all gone. She levers her large frame out of her chair as I stand more easily, and together we walk the short distance to the front door.

  ‘You be careful out there, Con girl. I seen that look in your eyes before. You go turning over this muck heap you going to get bitten.’

  And then she opens the door and ushers me out into the gathering dark.

  8

  Night has fully fallen when I slip out of my flat some hours and the reheated leftovers of Mrs Feltham’s goat curry later. The drizzly rain means any reporters have either gone home or are huddled in their cars trying to keep warm and dry. There’s nobody camped outside my front door, and nobody on the stairwell either. Dressed in a long black coat I borrowed from my aunt, collar turned up like an amateur-hour spy, I hug the shadows until I’m well away from my block.

  Going to my local pub is possibly a risk. Five minutes’ walk from the flat, it’s exactly the sort of place I’d stake out if I were a reporter hoping to catch the local unwilling celebrity with her hair down. I need to get out of the flat though, if only to escape the pong still emanating from the fridge, so I’ll have to take my chances.

  I scan the midweek crowd from the doorway, looking out for anyone who might have noticed me. It’s not busy, but not empty either. No band tonight, which is a relief, and as the seconds tick by, the faces ignoring me completely, I begin to relax. There’s nobody here looking to give me a hard time.

  ‘Connie! I had no idea you were back in town!’

  Too late I remember who else might recognise me here other than the gentlemen of the press. Charlotte DeVilliers appears completely unaffected by the fact that her father is in prison awaiting trial for attempted murder, child abuse and countless other crimes. That I’m in no small part responsible for his fall from grace hasn’t even occurred to her, but then she never was the brightest of us, even at school. And of course she’s engaged to my brother now, so we’re practically family.

  ‘Charlotte.’ I nod my head once as she weaves her way through the tables towards me from the direction of the toilets. If I’d been hoping to keep the greeting minimal, I’m disappointed as she fairly throws herself at me, enveloping me in a rib-crushing hug. The best part of a head shorter than me, I get a mouthful of her blonde hair and a whiff of that same expensive perfume that was liberally sprayed over the wedding invitation.

  ‘When did you get back?’ she asks when she’s finally let me go, or at least almost let me go. She grabs my hand and drags me to the bar, where a drink is waiting. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘It’s a beer kind of day.’ I point at one of the taps lined along the bar. ‘Pint, I think.’

  Charlotte wrinkles her nose in mock disgust, but orders anyway. She rounds on me while the barman is doing his bit.

  ‘You got the invitation, yah? To the wedding? Sorry it’s such short notice, but we just wanted to get hitched as soon as possible. Thought about just jumping in the car and driving up to Gretna, but mother’s so fragile at the moment I think the shock would kill her.’

  It’s easy enough to have a conversation with Charlotte. All you need to do is keep your mouth closed and listen. Actually, that’s not true. You don’t really have to listen at all. I do, though. It’s something I picked up at school. Politeness and all that.

  ‘There you go, Connie. Can’t see how you can drink that stuff, but anyway. Let’s get a seat in the corner there.’

  ‘Ben not with you?’ I scan the room, wondering where my brother might be hiding.

  ‘No, he’s in Tokyo, the lucky sod. Something to do with business. Least that’s what he said. Not sure he didn’t just do a runner so he didn’t have to deal with the wedding plans. Must remember to give him a call in a mo. Never can get the time difference right.’

  I take my beer before she can turn it upside down while checking her watch, guide her to a small booth away from the bar. ‘About the wedding. I couldn’t help noticing it’s happening at Saint Thom’s, and the reception at the hall.’ I wait until we’ve sat down before making the observation, timing it just as Charlotte’s about to launch into her own monologue. Her blinking astonishment lasts for a good fifteen seconds.

  ‘Well, yah. I mean, where else would I get married? And the hall’s just right there next to the church so it’s perfect. And Earnest’s being so brave, what with Izzy being his daughter. I mean, talk about embarrassing family mealtimes.’

  I let it wash over me again, stripping out the salient details as best I can from a stream-of-consciousness word soup. It’s only when she’s blathered on for a good few minutes and a quarter of my pint’s gone that I interrupt.

  ‘And what about Mother? How does she feel about all this?’

  ‘What, Margo’s mum?’ Charlotte’s confusion would do an actor proud, but the slow realisation dawns eventually. ‘Oh, Lady Angela. Your mum.’

  I don’t need to be a detective to see that there’s something off about the situation. Charlotte’s holding something back, and I’m fairly sure I know what it is.

  ‘She doesn’t approve, does she.’ As if she’s ever approved of anything in her life that didn’t have a cross attached to it.

  ‘It’s not that. Actually, she’s been OK with most of the arrangements. But she wanted to get some strange pastor friend of hers to bless us. I wasn’t all that fussed. It’s just words, yah? But Ben wasn’t having any of it. I think that’s one of the reasons he went off on his own.’

  ‘Pastor?’ I’m not sure whether Charlotte’s just being Charlotte when she uses the word. Then I remember it’s my mother we’re talking about. ‘She’s not found herself some charismatic preacher again, has she? Some new church to throw her money at?’

  ‘Yah, apparently he’s with some missionary outfit or something. African fellow. Sounds a bit do-goody to me. Not like proper church at all. Doesn’t matter though. Ben said no, so it’ll be the vicar of Saint Thom’s. We’ve had the banns and stuff read out already. You will be there, right, Connie?’

  ‘Course I will, Char. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ I smile as sweetly as I can manage, then hide my discomfort behind my pint glass. Up until the moment she asked me that question it hadn’t occurred to me that I might not go to my brother’s wedding. So why am I thinking it now?

  Charlotte’s words weigh on me as I walk back home, not least the news that my mother is associating with some unknown pastor. It’s not the first time she’s adopted a fringe sect of Christianity, mind you. It bothers me that she wastes money on charlatans, falls for their promises and lies. But it’s her money to spend how she likes. I almost feel sorry for my father, but then I remember everything else about him and swiftly change my mind.

  ‘Give us a smile, Connie.’

  The shout comes as a surprise, and too late I realise I’ve let my mind wander, my guard down. I shove my hands into my pockets, feeling the weight of the key ring in my right hand. It’s not the best weapon, but it will do at a pinch. Whirling around, hand up ready to punch, I’m greeted by a dazzling flash that temporarily blinds me, at the same time as reassuring m
e the threat is at least not violent.

  ‘The fuck?’ I blink away the spots to see a couple of men with cameras standing close by. A third is hurrying across the road towards us. Bloody paparazzi, I thought they’d had enough of me earlier. But then maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  ‘Come on, Connie. Be a sport.’ One of the photographers lifts his camera to his face, and this time I have enough warning to close my eyes before the flash goes off. No doubt the resulting photograph will be as flattering as it’s unwanted.

  ‘Fuck off and leave me alone, right?’ I take a couple of steps towards the photographers, pleased when they back away from me. ‘Haven’t you got some celebrity bimbo to go hunting? Maybe a wayward royal or some overpaid footballer?’

  ‘Be a sport, won’t you? Not every day a lone copper takes on the richest man in the world and brings him down.’

  I’m about to say ‘I didn’t’, but actually when they put it like that, I did. It’s never a good idea to engage with the press though, certainly not when they come at you in the dark like hyena.

  ‘Hey, Constance – what’s it like, eh? All alone with the whole world out to get you?’ The third photographer has caught up now, slightly breathless from the exertion of trotting a dozen or so steps across the road. He swings his camera up from where it’s hanging by his side, clicking off a slew of pictures that can’t possibly be in focus but will show my gaping mouth if they are.

  ‘I was never all alone.’ Again, not exactly true, but I’m damned if I’ll give this lot any satisfaction.

  ‘Where you been hiding, then?’

  ‘Come on, Connie. Give us a smile for the front page.’

  Maybe it’s the slight alcohol buzz I still have from the couple of beers in the pub with Charlotte, maybe it’s a bad combination of tiredness and adrenaline jitters, but for whatever reason I can’t explain, I stop at the bottom of the steps leading up to my flat and turn to face them. I don’t even get the chance to speak before the flashes engulf me in painful light again. Idiot, Con, giving them just what they want.