Across a gnarled lawn, the house creaks on its foundations, grotesque as a tomb. I’m parked at the kerb outside it.
This is where I escaped to. The only place that feels safe. I’m pretty sure nobody else knows about the house I was found in as a kid. Nobody ever comes here. It became my secret place after Frances died, and although my visits have become more frequent in the past year, I’ve only ever seen kids playing here once.
The wind whips my hair and I scan the deserted street, hurrying towards the house. I skirt around to the back garden and, crouching low, I pry open the basement window, slithering inside.
It’s freezing down here. The stink of damp is comforting. Reassuring because it always smells like that. I hurry up the steps into the house. It’s been gutted. A carcass of a home. The wallpaper peels away in raw-looking strips and the light’s as fuzzy as my head.
I don’t stop, going upstairs, my pulse quickening in anticipation. At the end of the landing rests a black door, the paint flaking as if gouged by claws. My legs tremble as I hurry for it, then I shove the door open and stagger into the Dead Room.
The walls are plastered with newspaper clippings. They form a tattered patchwork of headlines. My mother’s yellowed face stares out from torn pages, distorted by ripples. There are other faces, too. Frances. Troll. Liam Carmichael.
These are the reports I cling to.
They tell the story of my curse. The people I’ve killed. Guilt twists a muscle I think might be my heart, but I don’t fight it. Frances said I couldn’t run from my past and she was right.
I sit cross-legged on the floor.
This is where I come to commune with the dead.
It’s the only place I can be me. A few years ago, I went through a phase of hanging out in a nearby cemetery. Everybody there’s already dead, but the Dead Room’s different. I’ve read that a weirdly high percentage of criminals confess their crimes within hours of being arrested. Some are just boastful ingrates, but mostly I think the weight of whatever they’ve done is too much to bear.
I need this place more than anything else. I come here to confess and shift that weight, even just for a minute.
When I’m done with the Dead Room, I leave the way I came in. I feel more clear-headed but I can’t hole up in there forever. I escaped Reverend Mara’s pit and his troops will be after me. They won’t stop until I tell them where to find the Crook Spear.
I’m in Enfield. My belly’s so empty it’s shrivelling inside me like one of those deep-sea rock plants. There’s a row of shops not far away, but it’s too quiet to go lifting. I’d be caught in seconds. The belly can wait until rush hour. Besides, if Mara finds me, hunger’s the last thing I’ll have to worry about.
Intel’s what I’m after. Only way I’ll even come close to getting the upper hand on that glorified lounge singer is to find out everything about him and what he’s looking for. They say knowledge is power but I know better. Knowledge doesn’t give you power, it gives you options, and right now my options are limited to run, die, hide. I don’t plan on doing any of those things.
Ignoring the dull pang in my fractured tooth, I get into the car and drive. The fuel’s running low, but it gets me close enough to where I’m headed. I park up a safe distance from the high school and check the dash. 11:39. Twenty minutes till lunch. I sit and watch the school, resisting the urge to pick at my nails, my knee bouncing like it’s counting every snail-slow second.
A car shoots by so fast it rocks me in my seat.
‘Get a fucking grip,’ I tell the rear-view mirror.
Finally, the school bell rings and shapes jump behind the windows. Teenagers spill out into the front of the building, shoving, laughing. I’m out of the car in an instant and through a side door before you can say ‘school sucks’.
Slipping between the students in the corridor, I keep my head down, hunching forward. In the countless times I’ve snuck in, nobody’s ever guessed I don’t go here. Never did, never will.
The library’s at the back of the school and only the nerds use it. I push the door and go in, ignoring the librarian behind her desk; she’s always too wrapped up in her phone to bother me. Scanning the dozen empty tables, I spot one that has a half-open rucksack. Inside, I see crisps, a can of Coke. My mouth fills with saliva and I can’t resist.
Checking the library for whoever owns the bag, I only see a couple of students giggling over a German dictionary in the corner.
I pass the table and dip my hand in.
At the back of the room, five computers sit collecting dust. They’re so ancient they should be knitting. The one in the corner is my favourite. It’s tucked behind a shelf so nobody bothers me and I don’t have to worry about anyone seeing crime scene snaps on my screen.
I slide into an uncomfortable plastic chair and boot up the relic, shoving crisps into my mouth and washing them down with Coke. I’ve never tasted anything so good, except maybe the liquorice they sell in the newsagent below my flat. That stuff could end wars.
The computer finally loads and I click open a browser. I type Reverend Mara and lean in, scanning the hits but, in ten pages, there are no matches. Plenty of reverends, plenty of Maras (including some actresses who look even more starved than me) but no Reverend Mara. I try adding London and crime but the search engine might as well shrug.
He has a different name and I don’t know it.
My knee judders and I keep typing.
Reverend Mara Crook Spear.
Still no hits for the name, but a few pages contain the words ‘Crook Spear’. Clutching the now-empty Coke can in my free hand, I scroll through, then frown. I scroll some more, chewing my lip.
As I read, my hand tightens around the can.
‘You’re fucking kidding me.’
It’s a myth. The Crook Spear’s a fucking myth. Every page I look at talks about some Arabian sorceress and a mystical weapon. It’s like the Ark of the frickin’ Covenant or something. An Eastern Excalibur.
I keep searching. This can’t be right. This can’t be it. I’ve stumbled across a load of occult nutters, that’s all – there’s enough of them online. But I keep looking and all I find are websites written by crackpots.
The can crumples in my fist.
One site has an excerpt from World’s Weirdest Wonders by Damaris Harred.
While magic lamps and flying carpets are the most famous mystical artefacts of Arabian myth, one little-known legend tells of the Crook Spear. Forged by a sorceress named Amira , it was used to murder a sultan and gifted the sorceress immortal powers. However, the spear was lost during a battle for the kingdom. Many scholars have debated the legend’s validity, some arguing it is based on a real military coup – yet more have dismissed the story as a thinly veiled assault on patriarchy…
I’m practically chewing the can.
Just what is this? I’ve been kidnapped, pummelled like a side of beef, used as target practice and damn-near strangled all because some criminal wants to get his hands on the eighth wonder of the world?
This is a joke. Yeah, crazy shit happens in the world; I’ve seen first hand what curses are capable of. But a mystical Arabian weapon? I almost spit.
I’ve read enough. Tossing the can across the desk, I’m up and out of the library, knowing exactly where to go next.
Students keep getting in my way as I storm through the school, so I shove them, not caring if it breaks every rule of shadowing. Fuck it. Being invisible has done me okay most of my life, but sometimes it’s a pain in the ass. I’m pretty sure somebody says ‘Hey, who is that?’ as I barrel past, but I don’t stop to answer.
Back at the car, I slam the door and take off, tyres shrieking. Questions strobe in my mind, big and neon. How cracked is Mara if he believes in some ancient myth? And why does he think I have the spear?
That last one leads me to the only possible conclusion. Julian. Has to be. I don’t know anybody else. He’s stitched me up like a voodoo doll. Just thinking about it causes my foot to grow h
eavy on the accelerator and I tear down the road, aware I’m driving like a wild woman but not giving a crap. Screw the Highway Code. Julian owes me answers.
Twenty minutes later I’m outside his office. The sign says: HART DETECTIVE AGENCY. I’ve never been inside. Our relationship operates at one hundred yards and over. I’ve strolled by a few times out of curiosity, but he’d kill me if I broke his number-one rule. Time to test that.
Hot with irritation, I throw the door open and tear across the small office. Julian’s behind a desk in the corner, feet up, phone to one ear. He barely has a second to register an emotion before I slam a hand down on the phone, cutting off the call.
‘What do you know?’ I demand.
He doesn’t seem to be able to decide if he’s angry or upset. He looks like a lawyer – big eared, rosy cheeked, navy suit – and his eyes are clear and blue. Honest eyes, the clients say, though I know he’s anything but.
‘Rumer,’ he says calmly. ‘You know the rules.’
‘What. Do. You. Know?’
He grips the receiver, his gaze raking over my messy hair and clothes. Is he surprised? Was he expecting me to be dead by now?
I sense movement and see Rose on the other side of the room. Julian’s assistant looks like a Japanese schoolgirl in her knee-skimming skirt and tight jumper. So sweet just looking at her gives you cavities. When she smiles at clients they become putty in her hands, but I know the smile masks a sneer.
‘Stay there,’ I growl, though I know she won’t do anything stupid. It’s not like she’d call the police.
I stare at Julian. ‘Who the fuck is Reverend Mara and why does he think I’ve got some fictional weapon?’
‘Mara? I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Don’t mess with me, posh boy.’
‘Rumer, calm down–’
‘That’s the last thing you want to be saying,’ I snarl.
Julian stiffens, then drags his feet off the desk. He eyes me a second longer and then drops the receiver back into its cradle.
‘Rose, fetch us some coffee.’
His assistant keeps her gaze on me all the way into the kitchen out back. From here I can still see her and she knows it.
‘Please, sit.’ Julian gestures to the chair by his desk.
Warily, I drop into it, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.
‘Bad night?’ He’s trying to lighten the mood but he’s only making me more irritable.
‘Mara. Who is he?’
‘I told you, I’ve never heard of him.’
He’s messing with me. Julian knows everybody in London, or at least claims to. Unless he knows the Rev by another name. His real name.
‘Accent? Messed-up eye? Likes kimonos?’
‘Rumer, what’s this all about?’
Rose sets a coffee in front of him. I notice the one she’s made for me is in a chipped mug. Why break out the good china for a tramp? She goes back to her desk and sips what looks like hot water and lemon. Skinny bitch.
‘You look like hell, kid,’ Julian says.
‘You would, too, if you’d had the couple of days I have.’
‘Do I want to know?’
Rose’s pen dances over a pad and I wonder if she’s writing down everything we say.
‘Stop whatever you’re doing,’ I tell her.
Julian waves dismissively. ‘Rumer, Rose can do what she likes. She’s at every meeting now. Had too many that ended, uh, unfavourably.’
He’s delusional if he thinks this is a meeting.
Rose keeps writing. Is she noting down our conversation? Why bother? Insurance? Is Julian’s memory going? He can’t be more than thirty-five. Is she recording the conversation, too?
I’ve not seen him in months and he does look older, though I can’t think why. I don’t know anything about him and he doesn’t know anything about me. When he wants me to carry out a job, he leaves a file in an old phone box on the canal. It contains a name, an address, cash. I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve shadowed in the past two years. I don’t ask questions. I wouldn’t want to know anyway. The people I shadow, they’ve got it coming to them, and I’ll take the money. The places I’ve had to go for it, I should be paid triple what Julian lays out.
Usually I shadow a target for seven days. Suss out their routine. Note where they go. Who they talk to. What they wear. When I’m done, I leave a file in the phone box with my report. My English teacher would be so proud.
‘I was following Blake,’ I say. That’s the job I was on when Nicotine Man jumped me. ‘Next thing I know, I’m in a warehouse and this Mara guy’s telling me I took something of his.’
Rose’s pen hovers in mid-air for a moment, then she continues writing.
‘You stole from him?’ Julian asks.
‘You really don’t know him?’
‘Whatever this is, it’s nothing to do with me. Sounds like you did something to piss him off.’
I bang the table with my fist.
‘This isn’t a joke! This guy was serious. He had an army with guns and a bunker full of dead people. I nearly… They’re after me, I know it, and I don’t have whatever it is they think I have! Somebody’s setting me up.’
Julian’s blue eyes sparkle and I hate him. He may be my sort-of boss, but he doesn’t owe me anything, and it’s clear he doesn’t think I should be coming to him with my problems.
‘The spear,’ I say. ‘Crook Spear. That’s what Mara thinks I have.’
Julian sighs and sips his coffee.
‘Rumer, you’re just going to have to accept it when I say I have no idea about any of this. This Mara fellow, the spear. Either he’s new in town or he’s small fry. Either way, it’s over. Take a few days, then get back to work.’
‘You have contacts. Put the word out. Get the 411 on Mara.’
Julian’s gaze is steady. ‘Rumer, what did we agree when you started working for me?’
I pick my nails. I painted them dark purple a few days ago, but they’re chipped to hell. I think of Mara’s manicured talons. The kimono. He should be hosting luncheons, not throwing people into pits.
Julian continues to stare at me. I should’ve known this was how it would play out. I’ve survived this far on my own, why did I even bother coming here?
Because I’ve never been in this deep and I’d rather make a fool of myself with Julian than end up back in that pit. The work I do for him, it’s never landed me in trouble. Mostly it’s kept me out of it. The past two years have been the quietest of my life. I shadow. I don’t fight. I don’t bargain. I don’t care.
This is different. The bog’s sucking me down and I can’t stop it.
‘Rose?’ Julian says.
Her gaze is heavy on me. Long lashes unblinking.
‘The Hart Detective Agency is not and never will be liable for any damages or costs incurred, nor will it be held accountable for any–’
‘I know the deal,’ I growl.
Rose falls silent. Goes back to her notes.
Julian sighs again. He takes out his wallet and slides a load of notes across his desk to me. He puts the wallet away and sets something beside the cash. A cheap mobile phone.
‘Clean up,’ he says. ‘Lay low for a few days. It’ll blow over. Call me when you’re ready.’
Yeah, thanks for nothing. They both stare at me and I’m out of options. I stand, consider the money then grab it, screwing it up in my fist.
‘The phone, too,’ Julian says and I take it, shoving it into my pocket.
‘Don’t let the door hit me on the way out, right?’ I say.
Julian just looks at me, so I go to the door and walk out without closing it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The cafe’s warm with the smell of fried breakfast. I followed my nose to the first place with food and this place is just grimy enough to be safe. A few guys in dusty boots and bright jackets sit at rickety tables, but otherwise it’s quiet. The radio plays out back. Some headache-y pop crap.
I order a coffee and a bagel and grab the stack of free papers from the counter, going to sit against the wall so I can keep an eye on the door.
Flipping through the papers, I hunt for anything that might be Mara-related. There’s no mention of warehouses or Skinny or ninja gangs. No missing person reports that could be his work. Nothing on the Crook Spear, either, because wouldn’t that have been nice? For a moment I’m hopeful the spear’s touring with some museum exhibit and Mara got confused, but there’s nothing. The spear’s a myth and Mara’s a maniac.
The spider in my mind draws its legs up under its belly. I chew the bagel on one side of my mouth, the broken tooth radiating pain that almost seizes up my jaw.
I finish my coffee and start getting antsy, wondering if I was followed. I should keep moving. Change my clothes. Maybe even shave my head. Anything that throws the Reverend off. I feel him watching me now with that milky eye. He sees me sitting in the cafe and he pities how easy I’m making it for him to track me down.
And the more I think about it, there really is only one person who would have the intel I need, and it’s not Julian.
There are people I’ve met over the years who’ve freaked me the hell out. You live in my world, you don’t exactly socialise with suburban housewives. When I lived on the streets, I met the kind of crazies who made me look like Mandy Moore. There was Gia, who claimed she was raised by a circus elephant and spoke to the dead in her sleep. She overdosed a few years ago. There was Hack, who wore a string of cats’ teeth around his neck and was always adding more. I don’t know what happened to him.
And then there was Bolt. He was the worst. Sly Bolt, who knew London’s shadier corners so well it was like they were part of his anatomy. Angry Bolt, whose temper was like spitting coals. Wily Bolt, who won every argument.
I can’t put it off any more. I should have gone to him in the first place. Sometimes you’re your own worst enemy.
My gaze drops to the phone resting on the table; the one Julian gave me. It’s so basic it doesn’t even have the internet and I’m trying to figure out what to do with it. Julian’s never given me a phone before. I poke it like it bites, then tear the back cover off.
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