Bolt stares at me, his green eyes verging on feverish through the dragon mask. If I have to break a chair over his back and knock him out… Well, I could really do without the drama.
Breaking away, Bolt returns to Julian, who shoots him a nervous look.
‘How do you know all of this?’ Bolt demands.
‘I just want to protect Rumer–’
Bolt squeezes the screwdriver.
‘Rose recognised her,’ Julian adds quickly. ‘My assistant. She studied her mother’s case at university and when she came to work for me, she saw her mother in her straight away.’
I hate Rose more than ever. I’m nothing like my mother. But I remember her pale face staring at me from the hotel window and squirm. I don’t want to admit how similar we look.
‘Rumer’s weak,’ Julian continues. ‘She won’t be able to stand up to Celene.’
My fingers curl into fists. This isn’t getting us anywhere.
‘How is she even alive?’ I hiss, so low that even I don’t recognise my voice. ‘Celene Cross is meant to be dead.’
Julian’s gaze snaps to me.
‘I… I don’t know. I suppose too many people had an axe to grind with her. She could have decided to get the law off her back by faking her death.’
That sort of makes sense. By the time she died, Celene had enemies just about everywhere. Starting fresh was pretty much the only option left to her that didn’t involve a noose around her neck.
‘Look, I’m as surprised as you are that she’s still alive and kicking.’ The pleading tone to Julian’s voice is starting to grate. ‘Honestly, I had no–’
‘Your assistant Rose,’ I whisper. ‘She set Mara’s men on Rumer. You’re working with him.’
‘Rubbish!’ Julian struggles in his chair. ‘For Christ’s sake, this is all nonsense. Rose is my assistant. I’ve known her for years. She’s got a fucking PhD. She’d never work for somebody like Mara.’
I can’t tell if he’s covering for her or if he genuinely believes Rose wouldn’t double-cross him. Honestly, I’m sort of beyond caring. If Rose wants to two-time Julian, that’s on her. The important stuff is…
‘Why does Mara care about Rumer?’ I demand. ‘What’s so special about her?’
‘Look, I don’t know who you people are–’
Bolt digs the screwdriver into Julian’s armpit and my boss shrinks away, making an ‘ah, ah, ah’ sound that’s posh and sort of funny at the same time. Or it would be if my head wasn’t pounding with questions.
‘The spear. Mara wants the spear.’ The desperation in Julian’s voice suggests he really doesn’t know anything. ‘Mara’s insane. Thinks he’ll rule the criminal underworld if he has it.’
He doesn’t know anything.
‘Let’s go,’ I hiss at Bolt, who answers me with a glare. I glare back until he trudges to the toolkit and replaces the screwdriver, snapping the box shut. We both head for the door.
‘You’re not going to leave me here!’
I look back at Julian, strapped to the chair, dripping blood, dark smudges under his eyes. I don’t know if he’s been telling the truth, but suddenly I want him to know it’s me. I’m not my mother. I’m not weak. I don’t need Rose following me around London. And I definitely don’t need his pity or help.
I pull the mask off.
At first he looks confused, like his brain got mushed when Bolt hit him. Then his brow darkens and he bares his teeth.
‘Rumer… What the hell…’
I step back into the room. ‘It’s the only way you’d tell the truth.’
‘You stupid girl,’ he spits.
‘Hey,’ Bolt barks, raising the toolkit. ‘I’ve still got this.’
‘And who’s this?’ my boss snarls. ‘Got yourself a bodyguard? You could have picked somebody a little less unhinged.’
‘If you’d been honest with me, I wouldn’t have had to–’
‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,’ Julian says. ‘I wanted to protect you.’
A brittle laugh leaves my throat. ‘And how exactly were you going to do that?’
‘Rose–’
‘Followed me. She set Reverend Mara’s men on me.’
‘She’s been trying to keep them away from you.’ Julian seems to have forgotten he’s strapped to a chair, been used as a pin cushion. He looks annoyed, like I’m a disappointing niece or a pet who’s been bad.
‘She burnt my friend’s place to the ground and she followed me to the hotel, right where Mara’s men attacked me,’ I say.
‘Rose wasn’t responsible for any of those things.’
I wonder how much his leg’s hurting. How much blood he’s lost. He must be in agony.
‘Then how did they know where I was?’ I demand, thrusting aside any sympathy.
‘You’re leaving a pretty obvious trail. I told you to lay low and you’ve done the exact opposite.’
I toss the mask to the floor and scrape a hand through my hair. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘Untie me,’ Julian says. ‘We need to–’
‘Nobody’s getting untied,’ I say.
‘Rumer–’
‘No.’
I don’t know where to begin. I mull over what Julian said before I took the mask off.
‘You aren’t your mother,’ Julian says, his voice suddenly satin soft. ‘Why should I lose a talented shadow because your mother was a psychopath?’
He really wants me to untie him. That won’t be happening any time soon and this really isn’t getting us anywhere. I can’t trust Julian any more than he can trust me. This was a bad idea.
‘Come on,’ I say to Bolt at the door.
‘Hey,’ Julian shouts. ‘Untie me! I can help you!’
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. ‘Help yourself. You’re pretty good at that.’
Then I leave the flat and go down to the van and wait for Bolt to catch up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘We really going to leave him up there?’ Bolt asks, pulling the mask off as he approaches the van.
I’m tempted, really I am. It’d serve Julian right. I don’t like being treated like a fool – and I really don’t like being treated like a damsel. I imagine him chewing at his restraints as the wrecking ball smashes into the flat. He’d probably piss himself before getting pasted. Now who’s weak?
‘He can sweat it out for a while,’ I say. ‘Then I’ll call the office, tip off Rose. She can come for him, assuming the rats don’t beat her to it.’
Bolt grins. ‘So who we paying a visit to next?’
‘How much of what Julian said do you think is true?’
‘That guy? Bullshit artist.’
I nod vaguely. The chat with my boss has only confused things, unsealed a new reservoir of questions. How did my mother know I work for Julian? Is Rose really trying to protect me, or is she playing Julian? And how much of what Julian said was even legit? He’s foxy. I can’t help wondering if he lied with the truth. If my mother really did leave me the Crook Spear, there’d be some proof of that. A note in my social services file, maybe. Celene could have left the spear to gather dust in a safety deposit. Social services might even have the key. I have no clue what’s in my file, and I don’t think I have the energy to break into the office.
A new idea thuds in my heart.
Frances had a friend at social services. She might have had a copy of my file. In fact, I’m sure she would. It could still be there, in Frances’ house. I baulk at the thought of going back there. She’s been dead for over two years, but her husband George could still be living there.
How much intel does my mother have on me? Has she already stopped in to see George? I feel sick.
‘You okay?’ Bolt asks.
‘Yeah, just… I know where we have to go.’
We’re back on the road in minutes. It’s a risk returning to that house, but I don’t care. George is in danger, assuming they haven’t already got to him. I try not t
o think about it. George was always so kind. I stayed away after Frances died and I’ve not seen him since. I wonder if he’ll recognise me, the Rumer I’ve become.
It takes thirty minutes to drive to High Barnet. It’s changed since I was last here. It’s still greener than a lot of London but there are new blocks of flats and hipster coffee shops everywhere. My stomach starts rolling when Bolt drives down Abbott Road. I force myself to breathe.
‘Want me to tag along?’
Bolt’s parked and I’m gazing through the windscreen, bewitched by the sight of Frances’ house. The only place that ever felt like home. It’s had a fresh smack of paint and the front garden’s thriving, but it’s the same as ever. My heart skitters over a few beats and I feel a deep ache in my bones.
‘Rumer?’
‘Come if you want,’ I say, getting out of the van. I limp up the steps to the front door and ring the bell. It jingles inside, disturbing a hundred memories.
The door opens and there’s George. Softer and more wrinkled than I remember, like an elderly apple, but it’s unmistakably George.
‘Yes?’ he asks. I meet his familiar brown eyes and he stops short. His hand trembles towards me. ‘Rumer?’
I can’t help it, I take his hand. It’s warm and leathery and George has tears in his eyes. I don’t know how to feel, but then George has his arms around me and I can smell the house, the scent of old wood and whatever that pink flower is that blooms in the back garden every year, and George feels so frail, but his hug is firm.
‘I knew you’d come when you could,’ he whispers.
He puts us in the lounge and brings us tea. It’s strange having Bolt here. My past and my present butt up against one another, attempting to slot together but not quite managing it. The lounge looks just as I remember it, though there are more framed photos, a couple of Frances. I can’t look at them for very long without seeing her laughing in the armchair, then playing the piano, then on the kitchen floor.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ George says, pouring us tea.
I sit on the sofa. Bolt does his guard dog thing by the front window.
‘It’s good to see you,’ I say.
‘You’re all grown up.’ George hands me a cup. ‘And I’m even older than I was when you were younger.’
‘You look just the same.’
George laughs. ‘Your memory must be suffering, if you think that.’
Something about him softens me. It’s as if the past two years never happened and Frances is cooking in the kitchen while George and I play dominoes. I could have been away travelling or at university and I’ve come home at last.
I feel nineteen and a kid all at once.
‘You’re still here.’
‘No reason to leave, not at my age. I think Frances would like that I’m taking care of the place.’
I nod.
We talk for a while. George tells me about his new passion for painting and asks what I’ve been up to. I say I’ve been working for a detective agency and he seems impressed. I leave out pretty much everything else. I want to warn him that some bad people might figure out this is the last place I lived before I dropped off the map, but I don’t know how to say it. He wouldn’t believe me anyway.
‘Can I take a look around? For old time’s sake?’ I ask.
George nods. ‘Please.’
Shooting Bolt a ‘play nice’ look, I leave the room. I wander upstairs, peering into rooms and the memories slip beneath my invisible armour, no matter how painful they are. I peek into what used to be Frances’ bedroom. It’s just George’s now. The dressing table is where it was before, though. Only the bedsheets and the colour of the walls have changed.
I feel more like myself than I have in years.
Peering up the stairs to the attic, I take a breath and begin to climb. My old bedroom hasn’t changed much either. The bed’s still under the sloping roof. Stevie Nicks stares out from a wrinkled poster. I’m shaking and I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry or run the hell out of here like there are bats in my hair.
I walk into the room. The floorboards creak in the same places they always did.
The sun beams through the coloured window, stamping a pink octagon on the floorboards. I contemplate the shape, then move closer. The floorboard pokes up slightly. I grip it with my nails and pull it up.
In the dark recess rests a shoebox. I take it out. It’s covered in dust, which I wipe off as I sit on my old bed, then I lift the lid.
Browning newspaper clippings nestle inside. I pick through them and my mother’s face glares up from almost every brittle piece. Frances must have clipped them herself. Maybe she thought I’d want to see them one day. She might have sat me down and gone through this box with me. For a moment, I imagine her beside me, how calm she always was. She’d let me read each article in my own time and she wouldn’t say anything, but having her there would be enough.
I keep looking. Some of the articles I’ve seen before, the ones about Celene going on the run. The missing teenage boys who turned up in pieces. There’s one I’ve not seen before, though. Under the headline – 13 DEAD IN BANK HEIST MASSACRE – is a blurry CCTV photo of my mother and a man emerging from a building. They carry bags that must be loaded with cash. Her dark hair’s blowing in the wind and they’re both wearing shades.
I feel suddenly sick. The guy beside her is muscular with a buzz cut and I’ve seen that face sneering at me. It’s Nicotine Man. The article’s from the year before I was born and this is Nicotine Man as a young buck. What’s he doing with my mother?
I search the text next to the photo. His name’s Ellis Jacobs, twenty-five, originally from South London. That’d make him almost fifty now. He has a history of bloody crime and links to local gangsters, including Takehiko Kobayashi, Reverend Mara’s father. Ellis’ uncle headed up a drug ring and died during a police raid in the mid ’80s.
The article says my mother’s pretty much the most wanted woman in Europe. Her previous crimes fill an entire paragraph – arson, murder, theft, kidnapping. You name it, she did it. She’s linked to Takehiko Kobayashi, too. It seems like she’s working for him. Worked for him. And when he died, she went with Reverend Mara instead. Such loyalty.
A floorboard creaks and I jerk to my feet, paper scattering around me.
‘Sorry.’ George is in the doorway looking sheepish. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
I quickly gather the scraps of paper. As I stuff them back inside, George comes into the room.
‘She cared about you more than anything in the world.’
I slot the lid onto the shoebox and find George contemplating the porthole with the rose glass.
‘I knew her the years before she took you in, and it was like she was hibernating,’ he says. ‘Then you came along and woke her up.’
There’s nothing I can say. I’m not sure I can talk about Frances. The few times I’ve let myself think about her, I hug the memories to my chest jealously. They’re too precious to share. They also come sticky with guilt. Because I killed her. I killed the one person who ever cared about me.
‘She’d want only the best for you.’ The pink light shades George’s cheek as he looks at me. ‘She wouldn’t want you caught up in this. Whatever it is you’re caught up in. This person you’re becoming.’
He sinks into the window seat. The space between us seems to have shrunk. I clutch the shoebox.
‘Frances knew you were troubled. How could you not be, with a mother like that? But she only saw the best, even if some days it was buried so deeply it was as if it didn’t exist at all. She saw it, and I see it now. Do you?’
‘I know who I am,’ I say. ‘And that’s fine. I don’t need anybody.’
‘That young man downstairs seems quite taken with you.’
My head snaps up and George chuckles, though I don’t think he’s mocking me.
‘We must surround ourselves with the people who see the good in us,’ he says softly. ‘We all have dark thoughts, but the
y can’t control us, not if we have others to help us bleed them of any power.’
Why is he telling me this? I look down at my grubby hands, seeing my equally grubby T-shirt and jeans like it’s the first time. Still filthy from the pit. He’d have to be an idiot not to realise I’m in trouble, and he’s offering advice, just as Frances would have. He’s doing it for her.
He’s right, too. Frances saw the good and the bad in me, and she wanted all of it.
‘You can stay, if you like,’ George says.
There’s a loud crash downstairs. In an instant, I’m on my feet, dropping the shoebox and charging for the door.
‘Stay here,’ I tell George, who’s already moving to follow me. ‘Please.’
He nods uncertainly and I hurry down the attic stairs, reaching the landing. Shouts and the sound of things smashing come up the stairs and I peer over the banister, attempting to see what’s going on, edging down the stairs.
‘Rumer! Run!’
Bolt’s voice joins the cacophony. It sounds like he’s still in the living room. A gunshot cracks and I’m certain it came from there. Pressing my back to the wall, I carry on down the stairs. When I reach the hall, I hurry to the front door and check it’s locked. I peer through the glass at the street, but I don’t see any of Mara’s men. No strange vehicles, either.
A shout comes from the living room and I hurry to it.
Bolt’s locked in a fight with another man. The lounge window’s shattered – somebody must have smashed their way into the house. Bolt grunts and twists, burying his fist in the guy’s ribcage. The guy screams and yanks Bolt’s arms, flipping him onto the coffee table. It shatters under his weight.
The other guy turns and I see his face for the first time.
Nicotine Man. Ellis Jacobs. My mother’s accomplice.
He’s about to say something to me when Bolt pulls his legs out from under him. Ellis hits the floor hard and Bolt scrabbles onto him.
‘Rumer, get out of here!’ he yells, burying his fists in Ellis’ face. I swear I hear his nose break again and Ellis howls.
But I’ve spotted a gun on the floor. I cross the room and grab it, raising it just as Ellis heaves Bolt off him. Bolt tumbles back and crashes into me. We’re both almost impaled on the shards of glass sticking up from the base of the window frame.
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