Vicious Rumer

by Joshua Winning

  Good.

  Bolt pulls him to his feet and shoves Julian towards the office door.

  As I go to open it, Julian makes a muffled sound and turns, charging at Bolt. His shoulder drives into Bolt’s stomach and they collapse to the floor. Julian cracks his forehead against Bolt’s mask, which splits but holds together.

  I hurry over, grab Julian’s bound hands and haul him up. He turns on me, forehead shining with sweat, and for a moment, I forget I have the mask and I’m scared he recognises me. Then I snap out of it and punch him. He staggers backwards into Bolt, who’s on his feet again.

  Bolt deals a blow to the back of Julian’s neck and Julian’s eyes roll. He sags to the floor.

  ‘The door!’ Bolt shouts, hefting Julian’s unconscious body up.

  I open the office door and dash into the street, yanking the van’s side door. Bolt hastens out with my boss slumped over his shoulder and bundles Julian inside. I get into the back with him, slamming the door.

  Bolt hops into the driver’s seat and we tear off down the street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TWO YEARS BEFORE THE HAMMER

  A few months after leaving my last foster home, I’ve forgotten about Frances and George. They’ve been tucked into the part of my mind that’s guarded by the spider. Thinking about them makes me weak. Frances’ kind eyes, George’s belly-deep laugh. I need to be strong if I’m going to survive. They were temporary. Disposable. The only permanent thing in my life is the curse. I’d better start thinking about what’s right for Rumer, and what’s right for Rumer is staying the hell away from people.

  Sleeping rough isn’t fun. I spend a couple of nights a week in the ghost house Frances showed me, but I never sleep for more than a few hours, always waking up with the taste of dirt in my mouth, as if somebody’s been shovelling soil on top of me.

  One cold evening, I’m on my way to the house when I see a car outside and a woman poking around at the front door. I can’t be certain, but I’ve a feeling she’s from social services; she looks the sort. George must’ve told them I ran off. He wouldn’t’ve had a choice, and they must’ve read the bit in my file that says I was found here as a kid.

  The last thing I want is to get dragged back into the system, shipped off to another home.

  Doesn’t matter. A month later, I turn eighteen and I’m no longer their problem. I don’t go back to the house for a month, though, just in case. I don’t know exactly how social services works, but if they’ve reported me missing, the police might check out the neighbourhood, and if they catch me, I’ll be waist deep in shit. Social services is one thing, but the police are another. I’d rather lose a toe than have anything to do with them.

  Meanwhile, I’m a lifter, targeting busy stores, taking what I need. People don’t pay attention to shadows.

  I discover the power in stillness. It’s funny what people do when they fail to notice you. I’ve seen guys selling drugs to kids, old ladies picking their noses at bus stops. One time a guy knocked on a door and an elderly man in suspenders and nipple tassels answered.

  Sometimes there are small kindnesses, but I can count those on one hand. Mostly it’s a rat race. Elbows and shoving and fighting. Frowns and eyes rolling in sockets and glares that smoulder. Scraps of pavement or squares of Tube space that are yours, but only if you don’t surrender them to a smartphone-wielding invader.

  One autumn day, I’m picking dried dirt off my jeans in a bus shelter. The leaves are crisping into warm colours and it’s so cold I can’t remember what it’s like to be warm. If I can feel the cold as it needles my bones, though, I must be alive.

  I’ve been watching a guy in a cafe window. He’s pretending to read his paper and sipping his coffee. I know he’s pretending because he only looks at the paper for a few seconds before staring across the street at a sandwich shop. He looks to be in his thirties, preppy, like he was born with a silver spoon up his arse and nobody ever thought to remove it. The more he fails to read the paper, the more I’m intrigued.

  As evening draws in, the light fades and, just as I’m thinking about finding somewhere to sleep for the night, a guy emerges from the sandwich shop, shrugging into a black coat.

  I stop chewing my nails as the preppy guy jumps up and leaves, chucking money onto the table as he goes. He pops his umbrella and goes the same way as the sandwich shop man. I should find a place to sleep, but curiosity snicks a fire inside me. Before I know it, I’m following the preppy coffee shop guy down the street, hanging back just far enough that he won’t notice me.

  The preppy guy looks like he’s struggling to keep up. The street’s not busy, so I don’t have any trouble following him, but when a woman with a buggy emerges from a shop just in front of me, I lose him.

  Dodging out of the way, I squint into windows and I’m just about to give up when I notice a side alley. I hear hushed voices and I creep into the alley, which leads into a courtyard I didn’t know existed.

  Two shapes clash in the dark of the courtyard. One of the men has the other up against the wall and is hissing ugly syllables.

  So Preppy Man isn’t as good at following people as he’d like to think.

  Not my problem.

  A flash of silver stops me as I turn back into the alley. Sandwich guy holds a switchblade to the other man’s throat.

  Still not my problem, but as I think about where I’m going to sleep tonight, I find I’ve slithered through the courtyard’s shadows and kicked the back of sandwich guy’s knee.

  He goes down and I wrench the hand holding the knife until he’s yowling. The switchblade’s mine now and it trembles between us, but then sandwich guy’s up and turning on me, scowling, eyes bright.

  ‘You want to fuck with me,’ I say, ‘you’ll find out how it feels when an eyeball pops.’

  I wave the weapon a little, lick my lips. You go up against somebody like this, the only way out is the crazy road. Pearl and her posse taught me that. People generally leave lunatics alone.

  ‘POP!’ I jab the knife at him. ‘POP! POP!’

  His expression reveals a sliver of fear and I’m enjoying this. That part of me my mother controls, the oozing black sludge of her in my veins. Her hand grips the switchblade, her callous grin contorting my face, and I’m daring him to try me. For a moment I think he’ll rush me, but then I see the fight leave his eyes and I know I’ve won.

  ‘Fucking psycho,’ he mutters, backing off down the alley, and my mother’s voice spits ‘coward’, except it’s me who speaks.

  Preppy Guy stares at me, looking relieved and terrified. I like seeing him squirm, the way his gaze switches between me and the switchblade but, as the fever boils off, a sickness wriggles from my chest into my stomach.

  It’s not my mother’s hand holding the blade, it’s mine.

  I snap it shut and slide it into my boot.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ He sounds as posh as he looks.

  I shrug, making for the alley.

  ‘Did you follow me?’

  ‘Wasn’t hard.’

  ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘Nobody does.’

  He starts fumbling with something but I’m already in the alley. The nearest shelter is a mile away, but the thought of going there turns the meagre contents of my stomach to cement. Their pity looks sting like swarming insects. The too-wide smiles are sinister, inhuman, and the stifling compassion in their eyes betrays their true intentions. Because you’re not a person to them; you’re their key to back-patting self-congratulation. I go when I’m so hungry I can’t think straight, otherwise I avoid it the way I avoid any other human interaction. The handouts can get bent.

  ‘Here,’ he says.

  I stop and look at his outstretched hand, the crumpled notes. I’m tempted. I saved his life, why shouldn’t I get something out of it? The cash feels like an insult, though. This guy’s bought his way out of a lot of problems.

  Didn’t work tonight.

  He slowly withdraws the money. />
  ‘Are you from around here?’

  I’m already regretting not taking the money. I could buy a proper meal. Go into the classiest restaurant I can find and laugh at the way the waiters look at me.

  ‘Are you… do you have anywhere to stay?’

  ‘Eat shit.’

  ‘I didn’t mean… Look…’ He shoves the money into his wallet and takes something else out. A card. He hands it to me and I swear I’m not going to take it, but there’s something weird about all of this and I sort of want to know who the guy is, why he’s peering at me like I’m behind glass in a museum, some import from a distant land.

  JULIAN HART – HART DETECTIVE AGENCY.

  I snort.

  ‘Detective? You?’

  That gets him where he lives. He straightens and I can practically see him fluffing his feathers. It’s sort of endearing.

  To his credit, he doesn’t rise to the insult. ‘How long were you following me?’

  I shrug again. ‘You were in the cafe an hour. Maybe more.’

  ‘And you… watched me?’

  ‘You weren’t reading the paper. Wanted to know why.’

  His eyes glitter and my insides roll uneasily. It’s been so long since somebody looked at me, really looked at me, it makes my skin heat up, as if I’m under one of those special lamps. Stay here any longer and I’m going to fry.

  ‘I have a job for you,’ he says.

  It’s the last thing I expect him to say, and just like that, I’m not thinking about finding a place to stay any more. A job. He’s offering me a job.

  ‘Talk,’ I say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE DAY OF THE HAMMER

  The slumped form in the back of the van bounces with every bump in the road. I keep my eyes on him, my breath huffing against the inside of the dragon mask. I hope Julian’s out long enough for us to reach the flats. If he wakes up beforehand, I’ll have to put him under again and I’d rather not give him brain damage before the interrogation.

  I listen to the rain ticking against the roof and finally the van starts to slow. Bolt brings it to a stop. He gets out and opens the side door, wordlessly hauling Julian’s unconscious body back over his shoulder. He has his uses.

  As I emerge from the van, I scan our surroundings. We’re parked in front of a high-rise in North London. It’s a solid rectangle against a slate sky. The demolition team is turning up next week and the flats are empty. There’s nothing but an abandoned industrial estate down the road. Nobody’s going to get in our way.

  Grabbing a toolkit from the van, I go after Bolt. He stomps up the high-rise stairs. We climb higher and higher, stopping at the seventh floor. Then Bolt kicks in a door and we’re inside a flat.

  Whoever used to live here left in a hurry. There’s crap everywhere. Newspapers on the floor, toys strewn about the living room, a moth-eaten sofa facing a wall that probably used to hold a TV. There’s drug crap everywhere: needles and bits of tin foil.

  I check every room but there’s nobody else here. In the kitchen, I turn the tap but no water comes out. The pipes rattle like my nerves.

  Back in the lounge, I set the toolkit on the table. Bolt’s strapped Julian into a dining room chair, fastened his arms and legs with duct tape. Julian’s chin rests against his chest. Still out cold.

  Funny, not long ago, that was me.

  ‘Think he’s faking?’ Bolt asks.

  I shrug. We agreed Bolt would do the talking. I don’t want to risk Julian recognising my voice. Not yet.

  Bolt tears the tape from Julian’s mouth. ‘Hey, buddy. Nap time’s over.’

  Julian doesn’t move. Bolt slaps his cheek and Julian bucks in the chair. He peers blearily around the room, mumbling something. Then he notices us and he grips the chair, struggling against the restraints.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demands. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Your new place.’ Bolt stands. He’s big and broad and I’m glad Julian’s looking at him like he’s afraid he’s going to start pulling teeth. I remain further back, by the sofa, giving Julian less of a chance to look at me – I know I wouldn’t look at me if Bolt was hulking over me like that.

  ‘Tell us you like it,’ Bolt says.

  Julian’s pale. I can see his brain working, trying to figure out who we are, what he can offer us, how to get out of here alive.

  ‘If you want money–’

  ‘You think we’d go to all this trouble for money?’ Bolt growls.

  ‘Just name your price. Anything.’

  Bolt punches him. I hope he won’t knock him out again; he’d be useless then. Julian dabs his lip with his tongue. He must have bitten it. Blood dribbles down his chin.

  ‘If it’s not money, what the hell do you want?’ His eyes become slits. He’s probably thinking about how he’ll have to explain the cut lip to his clients when he gets free.

  ‘You had a visitor recently,’ Bolt says.

  I told him to say that. We’re assuming Julian knows Reverend Mara, but we have no proof yet. We should be able to bluff our way into him telling us everything.

  ‘You have any idea how many people I meet every day?’

  ‘You know who we’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ Julian says, and there’s something dangerous about his expression, like he thinks he’s the one in control, even if he is bound to the chair.

  Bolt strides over to the dining room table. He pops open the toolkit and removes a screwdriver. I notice Julian looking at me and I stare back. He won’t recognise me like this, I’m sure of it. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve met.

  Bolt returns with the screwdriver.

  ‘You know how much physical pain a human being can take? You’d be surprised.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’ Julian eyes the screwdriver as if it were a scorpion.

  ‘Your visitor. Start talking.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Bolt buries the screwdriver in Julian’s thigh. I wince at his scream.

  ‘You’re crazy!’ Julian thrashes in the chair like it’s on fire. ‘You’re a fu–’

  Bolt removes the screwdriver, then taps Julian’s kneecap lightly with it.

  ‘I can keep going if you’d like,’ he warns.

  Julian’s trembling, his eyes blazing with anger and pain, but he stops yelling. He’s sweating through his shirt. That’ll be some dry cleaning bill.

  ‘She’ll kill me,’ he groans, staring at his skewered thigh.

  I frown behind the mask. Who’s he talking about? Bolt’s shoulders tense under the bodysuit, and I can tell he’s surprised, too, but he recovers quickly.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ he says. ‘Tell me what she looked like.’

  Julian’s eyes are glazed as he stares up at Bolt’s mask.

  ‘White hair, like an old woman’s, but she’s not that old.’

  I’m numb. My mother visited Julian? It’s the last thing I expected him to say.

  ‘What did she want?’ Bolt asks.

  Julian looks broken. The man who hired me, the suave detective whose blue eyes seduce every client he meets, has crumbled. In his place is a shuddering wreck.

  ‘What did she want?’ Bolt asks again.

  ‘She wanted to know… A girl. There’s a girl who works for me. A nobody. She wanted to know where she lives.’

  I can’t breathe.

  ‘Did you tell her?’ Bolt asks.

  ‘I don’t know where she lives.’ Julian’s staring at me again and my stomach turns inside out. Is he playing us? Has he known all along it’s me behind the screaming dragon mask?

  ‘Rumer,’ he murmurs, and I tense, but then Julian’s looking at Bolt again. ‘Rumer’s in trouble. You have to help her.’

  ‘Rumer’s the girl who works for you?’ Bolt asks, and I’m impressed he’s still able to play the game despite what’s coming out of Julian’s mouth.

  My boss nods. ‘They think she has the Crook Spear.’


  Am I the only person who hadn’t heard of this thing?

  ‘Why? Why do they think that?’

  ‘Because of her mother, Celene.’ Julian says her name like it’s a bad word. ‘She’s the one who came to my office. A long time ago, she boasted about possessing the spear, and people think she left it to her daughter.’

  ‘Why would they think that?’

  Julian’s looking at me again. ‘Celene had a daughter who she abandoned. One theory is that when she knew she had to hide the spear, she hid it with the kid.’

  ‘So did she?’ Bolt asks, and for a moment I’m not sure if he’s asking me or Julian.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Julian says.

  Bolt taps his kneecap lightly again with the screwdriver.

  ‘I DON’T KNOW!’ Julian screams and Bolt removes the screwdriver.

  My head’s spinning. My mother visited Julian, but he didn’t give me up, unless he’s lying. And he knows she’s my mother. How does he know that? He shouldn’t know anything about me. Could my mother have really left me the Crook Spear as a baby? I’ve never seen it and Frances never mentioned it. That’s if the spear even exists. I don’t know what to believe any more.

  ‘Rumer,’ Julian murmurs. ‘Whatever you do to me, you have to help Rumer.’

  Bolt’s trembling as he presses the screwdriver to Julian’s shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing?’ My boss’s voice is shrill, exhausted.

  ‘You’re screwing with us,’ Bolt growls and I eye the screwdriver, thinking the opposite is true. Bolt’s enjoying this too much. I wonder where he’ll draw the line. Which body part he’ll skewer next. What if he likes hurting Julian too much? And what if Julian really is telling the truth?

  I go to Bolt’s side, grab his free arm and draw him back to the sofa. He only resists a little, his eyes never leaving the bloodied guy in the chair.

  ‘Cool it,’ I hiss, low enough that Julian won’t hear.

  ‘He’s–’

  ‘Just keep him talking. How does he know all of this? If he’s fucking with us, I’ll know.’