Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2)

by K E Coles

  I jumped out of bed and pulled on my jeans. I had my shoes on by the time I heard the front door close.

  I ran downstairs, followed him. It was just beginning to get light – that time when it’s not dark but there’s still no colour, everything a cold, clinical grey. I had a feeling he was going to put himself in danger, do something stupid. What I’d be able to do about it, I didn’t know. I just had to check he was okay, that he was safe. I kept my distance but he seemed intent on where he was going and didn’t look back once.

  At the tube station, there were more people around. I pulled my hood up and got into the carriage next to his. I realised, too late, that meant I’d have to stand by the door so I could see when he got off and hope I had time to hop off after him. As we neared central London, the platforms grew busier and I knew I’d never spot him. I had to risk it, so got out of my carriage and into his, carried along with a throng of commuters. I kept my hood up, my head down.

  He sat, staring at his shoes. He looked exhausted, dark shadows around his eyes, his eyelids heavy. Dark stubble stood out against his pale skin, made him look scruffy, like a down-and-out. Even so, it was probably the matted hair, sticky with blood, which kept the seats either side of him empty, even in that packed carriage.

  We changed tube lines once. It was surprisingly easy to keep sight of him. He was taller than most people so his bloodied head was almost always visible. It also helped that people kept away from him so he walked in a little island of empty space.

  By the time we reached the street, it was light. Shops were still closed but road sweepers were out, delivery vans offloading goods – a bustling, busy city getting ready for the day.

  Art headed across Leicester Square and down a narrow street. To my left I could see the brightly coloured lanterns of Chinatown. He didn’t go that way, but turned right instead. Soho looked even drabber than usual in the early morning light. Doorways that no doubt looked glamorous lit up at night, looked tawdry and sad in daylight.

  I stopped hiding in doorways, acting like someone in a bad spy drama, because I could tell he wasn’t aware of his surroundings. Everything about his body language told me I could have danced naked in front of him and he wouldn’t have seen me.

  Nico stood on the corner, leaning against the wall.

  Crap! I stopped, stood exposed in the middle of the road.

  ‘All right?’ Art said.

  Nico nodded, walked towards him, said something.

  I dithered, torn between making a run for it or fronting it out, walking straight past them.

  Leo emerged from a shop doorway. Leo, gutter dweller, sewer rat.

  Black hatred filled my head. I could taste it. I felt in my pockets for anything I could use as a weapon. My keys. I’d poke those glassy eyes right out of his head - just as soon as that paralysing fear let me move.

  His eyes glittered as they spotted me. He blew smoke into the air, dropped his rollie on the pavement.

  ‘Whore’s followed you,’ he said, mouth twisted.

  Art smacked him across the head, and turned. Indigo eyes hit mine with such force, it felt like a physical blow.

  He walked back to me. ‘Stay close,’ he said. ‘Don’t try anything - anything.’

  I nodded.

  Someone moved in the shadows. Tall, broad, fair hair. Spicer. His eyes held mine, reflected the shock I felt.

  Leo pointed at Art’s hair. ‘Been attacked by a dog?’ He sneered at me. ‘Wasn’t you, was it?’

  Another smack, but this time Leo ducked, so Art only caught the top of his head.

  ‘Fuck’ sake,’ Leo said. ‘Just asking.’ He moved out of Art’s eye line, stared hatred at me, and drew a finger across his throat.

  I tried to laugh. My lip twitched.

  Nico looked me over. ‘What’s she doin’ here, man?’

  ‘She’s going home,’ Art said.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Leo said, with a fake smile, ‘I’ll take her home for you.’

  Art shook his head. ‘You think I want a dickhead like you anywhere near her?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Art leaned into Leo’s face, lowered his voice, murmured something in his ear.

  Spicer’s eyes flashed in my direction. I didn’t look at him but could feel his stare, boring into my head.

  Leo pulled tobacco out of his pocket and rolled a fag. He kicked at the pavement like a sulky child, and muttered something unintelligible.

  ‘Get Ruby here with the bus,’ Art said.

  Nico nodded, pulled his phone from his pocket.

  Art marched me away, holding my elbow in a painful grip. He dragged me along so fast I had to take tiny steps to stay upright. As soon as we were out of sight of the others, he released me.

  ‘Are you trying to kill us both, or what?’ he said.

  I rubbed my elbow. ‘That hurt.’

  ‘Go home.’ He caught my arm again, leaned close. ‘Don’t go anywhere except Mrs A’s. Don’t leave that house, no matter what.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’ I said.

  ‘Of course I will.’ He turned away.

  ‘Art.’ I caught his arm. ‘Don’t try anything. Don’t take them all on.’

  ‘What?’ He frowned.

  ‘I thought . . . I mean, what they did . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘So - what? Everything’s just the same?’ My voice rose, incredulous.

  ‘I belong to Papa,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘She loved you,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your mother.’

  He stood back, as if I’d hit him. ‘I thought you said she was dead.’

  ‘I spoke to her first. I’d gone . . .’

  ‘I have to go.’ He half-turned away.

  ‘She cooked you fish fingers,’ I said, ‘every day.’

  He didn’t move, stood utterly still.

  ‘She thought you were still three years old.’

  He raised his face to the sky. ‘Go home, Pearl,’ he said, and he walked away.

  I couldn’t let him go. ‘You’re Andreas,’ I shouted after him, ‘not Art. You’re Maria’s son, Ben’s friend, my . . .’

  He ran back so fast, I caught my breath, He shoved his face into mine and, for the first time, he frightened me. I felt his power, his fury. He pulled me close, put his mouth against my ear. ‘That’s who I would’ve been,’ he said, ‘but I’m not, and I won’t ever be.’ He pulled back, stared into my eyes. ‘It’s too late. It’s always been too late. Now run.’ He shoved me backwards. ‘Run home.’

  I stared at his back as he left. Papa was too strong for me. He’d won. Even Spicer was in with them. For all I knew, everyone around me, every single person I passed was one of them, watching me.

  Weariness overtook me. The struggle wasn’t worth it. I sat in the open coffee shop next to the tube station and waited for them to find me. I was tired, so tired, of running, of hiding, of trying to pretend everything would work out. If Leo wanted me dead, there I was, in full view. At least I’d have his eyes first.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT SPICER

  Spicer huddled into his coat, more to hide his trembling hands that to keep warm. His nerves had been shattered enough, without Pearl turning up. Shit! If she talked, he was dead.

  He moved to avoid Leo’s cigarette smoke, changed his mind, and moved back again. It masked the stomach-churning stench of rotting food.

  ‘Papa won’t be happy,’ Nico said. ‘Blue-eyed boy’s been naughty.’

  ‘It’s that bitch,’ Leo said. ‘She’s gonna fuck him up big time.’ He dropped his rollie, left it smouldering on the pavement.

  Spicer hadn’t slept since the sabbat, not for any length of time. He counted up the bodies – the guy in his face, Naden, Umar, and now Richie. He told himself the first one was a set-up, Naden an accident, Umar, self-preservation. Richie was scum, a lowlife anyway. And it wasn’t like he’d wielded the knife. He hadn’t e
ven known it was going to happen.

  He’d caught him though, delivered him for execution. He still saw those pleading eyes every single time he tried to sleep. Four deaths. Wasn’t he meant to be the good guy? He couldn’t call Jim, afraid his voice would give him away. He was in too deep for that, too deep to ever go back.

  Maybe Pearl was too. She’d looked at Art like he was God’s gift, even stood slightly in front of him, as if protecting him. Perhaps he’d read that wrong, but she certainly wasn’t there against her will. She obviously wasn’t afraid of him either, and God knows she ought to have been. Then again, maybe she hadn’t heard what he said.

  Ruby drove up in an old, battered minibus. Psychedelic swirls of colour covered every inch of the exterior, like something out of a crap sixties movie. Ruby pulled in, turned off the engine, and sat staring straight ahead.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Leo said.

  Spicer looked past the bus, to where Art had disappeared.

  ‘Recruiting runaway kids,’ Nico said. ‘Younger the better – Spice?’

  ‘What?’ Spicer dragged his eyes back to Nico. ‘Oh, right. Young.’

  ‘Don’t mention faith or religion, for fuck’s sake.’ Nico moved into Spicer’s eye line. ‘You listnin’, Spice?’

  ‘Yeah – yeah.’

  Nico frowned. ‘Soon as you have a bite, call Ruby here. She’ll pick ‘em up, take them down to Brighton.’

  ‘What about the inspection?’ Leo said. ‘Thought we weren’t . . .’

  ‘Sorted,’ Nico said. ‘Report says school’s outstanding. An exemplary educational establishment, their exact words.’ He slapped Spicer’s back. ‘You and me, man. Our hard work.’

  Spicer tried a stiff smile.

  ‘Jeez, man,’ Nico said. ‘You look like a corpse.’

  Art’s matted head appeared at the end of the road.

  Spicer’s legs weakened. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’ve got the shits. I got to go.’

  He ran down the road, away from Art, doubled over, holding his belly as if it hurt. Laughter followed him, faded. He turned a corner, straightened up, and ran.

  He headed for the tube station, caught a glimpse of khaki ahead.

  ‘Hey,’ he gripped her shoulder, but the girl looked nothing like her. ‘Sorry,’ Spicer said. ‘Thought you were someone else.’

  Then he saw her, sitting at a pavement table. She was staring into space, a gigantic coffee cup in front of her. Something about her tugged at Spicer’s chest, even through his fear. She looked so small, so fragile, swamped in that shapeless, oversized coat.

  ‘Pearl.’

  She didn’t even look up. ‘Go away.’

  He sat opposite her. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘No.’ She stood, walked into the tube station.

  He followed her. ‘Did you say anything – about me?’

  ‘What?’

  There were queues at the ticket machines. She joined the shortest, turned her face away.

  ‘To Art,’ Spicer said. ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘That you know me,’ he said, to the back of her head. He checked over his shoulder – no one he recognised. He leaned close, lowered his voice. ‘That I’m working for Jim.’

  ‘No.’ She turned to face him, her lip curled. ‘Why would I?’

  Spicer relaxed, breathed. ‘Thanks.’ He laughed. ‘Scared the shit out of me.’

  The man at the front of the queue didn’t seem to know what he was doing. The person behind him, pointed at the written instructions, spoke in slow English.

  ‘Crap!’ Pearl said. She glanced at the other machines, but the queues were just as long. She tapped her cardholder impatiently on her thigh. ‘So, I was right,’ she said. ‘You are one of them.’

  ‘I’m not one of them. I’m undercover.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Only one person now between Pearl and the machine.

  ‘You and Art,’ Spicer said. ‘Are you . . ?’

  She held a hand up in front of his face. ‘Enough. Leave me alone.’

  People stared, muttered, but her attitude had him so riled up he didn’t care. He couldn’t even keep his voice down. ‘Don’t you know what a wanker he is?’

  A middle-aged couple in front gave him a dirty look.

  ‘Go – away,’ Pearl said, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Fine.’ Spicer backed off, hands up. ‘I’ll just call Jim then.’

  She spun around. ‘You will not.’

  ‘I’ll have to, if you won’t listen.’

  She closed her eyes. When they opened, they were full of scorn. ‘Fine.’

  Spicer breathed. ‘I’ll get you a coffee.’ He tried a smile.

  Stony face. ‘Don’t bother.’ She strode towards one of the exits, moved to one side, out of the way of the human traffic. She leaned her back against the wall, and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Talk,’ she said, mouth tight.

  ‘I can’t believe you let him touch you.’

  She half-laughed. ‘That’s none of your business.’ She shook her head, turned away.

  He caught her arm, pulled her back. ‘He’s using you.’

  ‘Bye, Spicer.’ She tried to shake him off, but he clung on tighter.

  ‘You think he loves you?’

  She stared at his hand on her arm. ‘Get off me,’ she said.

  ‘Well, do you?’ He moved closer, trapped her against the wall. He could feel her body under the coat, her chest heaving with short, angry breaths. ‘Because he doesn’t talk like he loves you.’

  She stared. He had all her attention.

  ‘Know what he said to Leo just now?’ He should have stopped then, when he saw the fear, but he couldn’t. ‘Said he doesn’t want Leo’s manky spunk polluting his target.’

  Her eyes filled, and still he couldn’t stop.

  ‘What d’you think that means, eh? You – you’re his target.’

  ‘You bastard.’ The slap came from nowhere, sharp, stinging. She wriggled out from under him, and ran out into the street.

  Spicer ran after her, blinking away the water that blurred his vision. Christ! That was some slap. The left side of his face tingled, felt numb.

  ‘Shit!’ He looked every way, but couldn’t see her.

  A red bus blocked his view, and there she was, in a window seat, staring straight ahead. She lifted a hand to her face, ran a finger under her eye.

  She was crying.

  And suddenly he felt he was the guilty one - the messenger.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE PEARL

  Target - how I hated that word. Spicer was lying, of course. I knew he was, although I didn’t know why. I’d been moved by his mother’s illness, by his loneliness. Turned out I’d misjudged him. Spicer, the wholesome, healthy, all round decent guy – another traitor.

  I went back to Mrs Arnold’s and packed an overnight bag. Time to think, that’s what I needed, away from Art, from Spicer, away from everyone. The bag was packed in minutes, but I had nowhere to go.

  Mrs Arnold came in from the shops, shouted up the stairs. ‘No work today, Pearl?’

  I went onto the landing, poked my head over the banister. ‘I’m not feeling well.’ The stock excuse.

  ‘I said you weren’t right, dear, didn’t I?’

  I nodded. Where to go – where to go.

  Mrs Arnold made me soup. We ate in the kitchen. Well, she ate. I played with mine. Fish soup reminded me of fish fingers. And fish fingers . . .

  ‘Art rang,’ she said, ‘to check you were all right.’

  ‘Mmm . . .’

  ‘I said you weren’t well.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I pushed my bowl away. ‘I can’t eat any more.’

  ‘That’s all right, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Tootsie will enjoy it.’

  Upstairs, I threw up, quietly, into the toilet. Why did she have to choose fish, of all things? The smell was so overpowering, I had to breathe through my mouth in case the stench made me sick again.

&nb
sp; ‘You should see a doctor,’ Mrs Arnold said, when I came downstairs.

  I wondered if she meant a psychiatrist. It wasn’t me that needed one, it was Art. I could’ve told her that, except I had a feeling if I opened my mouth, I’d throw up again. I needed to get out of there, because I couldn’t breathe – didn’t dare breathe.

  A walk, then - fresh air, exhaust fumes – lovely. She called my name as I went out of the front door but I pretended not to hear.

  The air was chilly and damp, but my coat, at least, had dried, and looked okay. If there were any streaks on it, they were too pale for me to see.

  No one was in the little park with the railings around it, so I went in and sat on a bench. Perfect place to think, to get my life sorted.

  Some children came in later. I didn’t look at them, because their noise irritated me. So I stared at my Doc Martens. I still hadn’t got those laces. Something to do later, perhaps, after work.

  When the man shook my shoulder, I jumped.

  ‘Haven’t you got a home to go to, love?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve been sat here for hours. Time to move on.’

  I looked at my watch. Five to four. The sky was dark with heavy clouds, and I was cold, so cold. I stood, steadied myself.

  ‘Been drinking, have we?’ the man said.

  ‘No. Just a bit stiff, that’s all.’

  My legs felt heavy, solid, unyielding. I jerkily moved one foot in front of the other. My knees were locked, so it was more of a weird strut than a walk. My head was muzzy and confused – chilled, probably – in suspended animation. As I walked, my limbs loosened up, but I was still cold, so I jogged, then ran. As I ran, so my head cleared.

  From being too cold, I went to being too hot, sweating. I stopped to catch my breath, pulled my phone out, called Art.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Pearl. Where are you?’ he said, before I’d said anything.

  ‘What? I don’t . . .’ I’d paid no attention to where I was going, and didn’t recognise anything. Shops, scruffy buildings, dirty pavements. It could have been anywhere. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘For f . . .’ His breath came short and fast, as if he’d been running too. ‘I’ve been calling you all day. Why didn’t you answer?’