‘So they’re bringing drugs out of the Machen in their rucksacks, and stowing them on the bus. To be accessed as and when they need them throughout the day.’
‘That’s right,’ said Jack, grinning. ‘You know, you’d make a very good police officer. Has anybody ever told you that? Or maybe a very good drug dealer. You have a devious criminal mind.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Anything else you’ve gleaned with that devious criminal mind?’
‘Well you wouldn’t sell directly out of the bus, now, would you?’
‘No, you’re right, Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian and his gang actually do business in the open, in front of the supermarket, right there where you see them now.’
‘Right there in the open?’
‘Yup.’
‘And that’s where the drugs change hands?’
‘No, they don’t change hands there, that’s the clever bit.’ Jack smiled at her and Gwen silently cursed herself for not seeing it right away.
She said, ‘They take the money from customers. Then they send them somewhere else to pick up the drugs.’
‘Correct.’
‘Which are stashed.’
‘Correct. It’s kind of self-serve. After they pay, they’re told where to pick up their purchase. And they don’t have far to go to get it. Just to those kiddie rides over there. You know, the kind you put a coin in and the kids get a shaky kind of ride? In the old days it was rocking horses. I remember those.’
Jack’s voice was wistful for a moment, his eyes focused on other, inner scenes.
‘You’d be surprised what you can get up to on a rocking horse. Assuming it’s a sufficiently sturdy model. Anyway, nowadays it’s all kinds of fancy rides.’
An unsettling thought struck Gwen. ‘What happens if some little kiddie wants to go on one of those fancy rides? Where they’re stashing the drugs?’
‘Well, then they’ll get more than they bargained for from their fifty pence.’
Gwen stared across at him. ‘This isn’t a joke, Jack.’
He just shrugged and smiled. ‘If it’s any comfort, I haven’t seen any kids around, except for one baby being pushed in a pram, and it was way too young to want to use any of those exciting novelty rides.’
‘It?’ said Gwen sharply. ‘He or she, Jack. Babies aren’t its. And what happens when it grows up? When it’s big enough to want to go on those rides. Surrounded by these dealers.’
‘You said “it”!’ said Jack, grinning slyly and wagging a finger at her. She was tempted to grab his waving finger and squeeze it painfully. There were times when Gwen found Jack’s cocky attitude quite annoying.
Other times he almost scared her, and could send a ripple of chills chasing in sequence down her spine. On those occasions, it was not so much the way he behaved, but the things that he said.
And this was one of those occasions. What he now said was, ‘And anyway, some babies are an “it”. Not where you come from, maybe. But that’s just because you’re lucky.’
Gwen lifted the binoculars again and stared through the windshield. ‘So what else did you learn during your lonely pre-dawn vigil?’
‘That’s about it. But now that you’re here we can get started properly.’
‘Doing what?’
Jack was already reaching for the door and Gwen found herself doing the same.
‘Looking for an alien heat-weapon.’
They locked the SUV and crossed the road towards the Happy Price. As they did so, an old-fashioned Volkswagen Beetle slowed down and pulled into the supermarket car park. It was painted silver and had a sticker on the rear bumper that read ‘I’d Rather Be Fishing’.
‘How do we find the weapon?’ asked Gwen.
Jack held up his hand and showed Gwen his wrist-strap.
‘And that will detect the energy signature?’
‘It will if we get close enough,’ he told her.
As they entered the car park, the door of the Volkswagen sprung open and a burly middle-aged man climbed laboriously out. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket with green elbow patches, old worn blue jeans sagging on a thin tan belt that looked like it had had some extra holes punched to accommodate a swelling pot belly, and Doc Martens. On his head he wore a battered narrow-brim straw hat with a wide black band. Stuck in the band for decoration was a fishing lure, a bright hook with a rainbow tuft of tail. Apparently, as the man’s bumper sticker proclaimed, he’d rather be fishing. He certainly didn’t look pleased to be there.
The man took a briefcase out of the car, locked the car door, then put his head down like a rugby forward charging, and hurried towards the front doors of the Happy Price. As he neared the entrance, Gwen could hear the jeering voices of the lads. The man ignored them and trotted briskly into the supermarket, disappearing through its automatic doors.
‘You want to get close to that lot?’ Gwen eyed Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian and his gang, still laughing happily at the fishing man’s ignominious flight past them into the sanctuary of the Happy Price. It was obvious that they’d intimidated him and were proud of it. But none of them seemed to be in possession of any kind of bag or carrier. Nothing to hide a gun in. She thought about what Jack had said: they’d been depositing their rucksacks on the bus. ‘You think this weapon is small enough that one of them might be concealing it on his person?’
‘The problem is,’ said Jack, ‘we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for. It could be anything from the size of a great big beefy bazooka right down to a dainty little derringer.’
‘Something that small could do the sort of damage we saw?’ Gwen remembered the segmented body of Rhett Seyers, lying on its two autopsy tables.
‘You’d be amazed,’ said Jack. ‘There’s all kinds of wicked technology out there. But if they are packing anything we’ll find out soon enough.’
‘I want to go on the record as saying I don’t find that very reassuring.’
‘Noted. Now, just walk casually past them.’
‘Casually past them, on the way to where?’ said Gwen.
‘To that nice little photo booth there.’ Jack pointed and Gwen saw that, just beyond the three children’s rides, there was indeed a small booth with a curtained doorway that offered passport-sized photos for anyone with five pounds in coins to spare. ‘We’ll get our picture taken,’ said Jack.
‘Our picture?’
‘Sure, we’ll squeeze into the booth together and snuggle up as the flashbulbs pop, just like a couple of eager young lovers. It will be romantic.’
‘It’ll be romantic if no one has done a wee in there.’
Jack sighed. ‘Always looking on the bright side. Are you Welsh by any chance? Hey fellas!’ This last was directed at Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian and his crew, who looked away in a pointed and surly fashion as Jack gave them a cheerful wave. He took Gwen’s arm and they strolled past the lads like a couple out on a promenade to take the morning air – an incongruous notion in the rubbish-strewn car park of this ghetto supermarket.
The lads didn’t look at them and maintained a hostile silence as they walked past. But they furtively kept a close eye on Gwen and Jack as they approached the kiddie rides. The nearest of these was a little purple elf who was pushing a kind of bicycle with a child-sized seat. Next to the elf was a polka-dot steam train with a smiling face, featuring long eyelashes and rouged lips to make it clear that this was a female tank engine and not the more famous and heavily copyright-protected one. Past that, pushing a wheelbarrow containing another kiddie seat, was a grinning builder with a bristling moustache.
As they drew abreast of the elf, Gwen saw Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian’s hand twitch towards the back of his black T-shirt, and she made a mental note that he probably had a gun there, tucked into the waistband of his shorts.
But Nobody Knows relaxed and moved his hand away again as Gwen and Jack passed the rides and continued on, heading for the photo booth. He turned away, and the other members of his crew also ignored t
hem, taking their cue from their leader.
Jack and Gwen slowed their pace. Jack surreptitiously checked his wrist-strap. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Did you get close enough?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Not a sausage?’
Jack grinned at her. ‘Not a sausage, no. None of them had the heat-weapon on their person, or stashed anywhere nearby.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Guess we use the photo booth. We’ve come all this way looking like we’re going to get our picture taken; it might seem suspicious if we don’t follow through.’
Gwen nodded. ‘It might at that. Why else would anyone be in this godforsaken place?’
‘Right, so get your godforsaken picture taken.’
‘Me?’ said Gwen. ‘What about you?’
‘Think I’ll go for a stroll. Continue in this direction and mosey around the back of the Happy Price.’
‘Why? What’s there?’
‘Absolutely nothing, as far as I know. But if I keep walking. . .’
‘You’ll come back out by the bus,’ said Gwen. ‘Approaching it from behind the supermarket, where no one is likely to see you.’
‘My thinking exactly.’
‘But they have someone on the bus keeping a lookout.’
Jack nodded. ‘Our friend Sleepy. I’ll try not to wake him up.’
‘It could be dangerous, Jack. Let me come with you.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine. I don’t actually need to get on the bus. Just close to it. Close enough for this to work.’ He touched his wrist-strap. ‘See you back at the car in five.’ Then he was gone.
Gwen reluctantly drew the dusty dark blue curtain aside and stepped into the photo booth and sat gingerly on the pale blue rotating stool. She adjusted the height of her stool and peered at her reflection in the scarred rectangle of glass facing her, and followed the instructions printed below it. Fortunately her prediction about the booth having been used as a public lavatory had proved wrong.
In fact, astonishingly, despite the graffiti that marred every available surface, the machine functioned perfectly well and, after a punctual series of flashes, dispensed a perfectly adequate and actually quite flattering set of passport photos. They clattered into the slot in front of her, still wet from the developing bath, and she picked them up carefully by one corner.
Pity she didn’t need a passport, she thought. The curtain suddenly swept back with a harsh ratcheting noise, throwing daylight on her face. Gwen reached for her sidearm, but before her fingers could touch the gun, she was relaxing again. It was Jack, standing silhouetted there.
‘Let’s see,’ he said, reaching for the photos. She passed them to him. He studied them, frowning, ‘Couldn’t you have managed a smile?’
‘I thought we were going to meet back at the car.’
Jack shrugged and handed the photos back to her. ‘That was when I thought I might have had something interesting to report.’
‘No luck with the bus, then?’
‘Nope.’
‘So what do we do now?’
Jack stepped aside as she emerged from the booth. ‘Well, first I suggest some good old-fashioned police work. Think you can remember how to do that?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Gwen tartly.
‘Right then, let’s go ask some questions.’ He took Gwen’s arm and led her towards the Happy Price.
Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian and his crew studiously ignored them as they walked past. The supermarket was a low rectangular building of tan brick with a large sign on it featuring the words ‘Happy Price’ and a crude cartoon of an excitable, possibly rabid, pound sterling sign leaping up and down, grinning and revealing rather alarmingly sharp teeth which seemed to Gwen to be bared in apparent readiness to rip the throat out of any unsuspecting shopper.
As they approached the automatic doors, the man they’d seen earlier, with the corduroy jacket and the hat with the fishing lure, emerged from inside. He looked even less happy than he had before and visibly braced himself to run the gauntlet of loitering young men.
Gwen spared a sympathetic backwards glance for him as she followed Jack through the sliding doors and into the Happy Price.
Inside the supermarket they learned two things, and the first came as quite a shock to Gwen. While they walked along the aisles she studied the prices of the merchandise and was astounded at how dear everything was. ‘You’d think in a neighbourhood like this it would be bargain prices, not cut-throat ones.’
Jack shrugged. ‘I guess it’s the only place around here for people to shop.’ He grinned at her. ‘Being poor is an expensive business.’
‘Yeah. Funny how you forget after a while. . .’
The second thing they learned was a rather more useful piece of information and came from the manager of the Happy Price. He was a plump, freckled Englishman named Bailey who, as it turned out, might have been a greedy bugger but also knew a great deal about what was going on outside his doors. He followed the local situation closely and told them that poor bisected Rhett Seyers had been a member ‘in good standing’ of the gang hanging around outside the supermarket. The current rumour circulating had Rhett Seyers stepping dangerously out of line with his gang. He had reportedly been selling drugs on the side, and thus was marked for death. ‘The word on the street’ was that he had been executed by his own gang.
Gwen and Jack thanked the man and headed for the exit.
‘So much for my theory,’ said Jack.
‘Which theory was that?’
‘Rival gangs. Gang warfare.’
‘What about the alien vigilante?’ said Gwen.
‘That’s another theory that bites the dust if our manager friend back there is right.’
‘But we don’t know that he’s right,’ said Gwen. ‘He’s just passing on gossip and rumour.’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of gossip and rumour,’ said Jack. ‘But it still leaves us with the problem of locating a very nasty piece of alien weaponry. What next?’
‘Have a wander around the estate?’
Jack looked at Gwen with approval. ‘We’ll do a little tour, stroll past the front door of every flat if necessary. And if the weapon is hidden inside any of them, this will tell us.’ He grinned and patted his wrist-strap.
They walked through the automatic doors and back out into the daylight. Gwen was surprised to see that Nobody Knows and his gang were gone. Then she spotted them, on the other side of the car park, pursuing a young mother. They were jeering at her and shouting ‘Pram Face! Pram Face!’ The girl had her head down and was busy pushing the pram in question, trying to escape her tormentors.
Gwen stared at the spectacle and said. ‘Jack, do you mind if I. . .’
His eyes were also on the gang and the girl, and when he turned to Gwen he must have read the expression on her face because he said, ‘Sure, go ahead. Catch up with me when you’re done.’ He set off towards the Machen Estate, then looked back over his shoulder. ‘Don’t be too hard on them!’ He grinned.
With this vote of confidence ringing in her ears, Gwen headed over towards the young mother. As she trotted across the car park, she repressed the urge to increase her pace to an all-out dash. That would be the wrong way to enter the situation. A low-key approach was called for. And indeed at first no one even noticed that she had joined the baying throng. But then Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian happened to glance her way and fell silent.
The rest of his gang rapidly followed suit and suddenly everyone was staring at her. Everyone except the young mother, who stood clutching her pram, head down, staring at the ground. Gwen realised that she was just a girl, no more than a teenager – like the gang who circled her.
‘Can I help you?’ said Nobody Knows, in an absurd burlesque of politeness.
‘Yes,’ said Gwen. ‘Leave her alone.’
Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian grinned slowly. He looked at the young mother, then back at Gwen. ‘Oh, I don’t thin
k so.’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.’ Gwen stepped forward, moving towards the girl. One of the gang members moved to stop her, a thin pockmarked boy with cornrows dyed an incongruous blond. As he reached out for her, Gwen grabbed his arm and reversed it into a tight, efficient arm-lock. The boy grunted with pain and, as if this were a signal, Nobody Knows put a hand behind his back, reaching under his T-shirt. Gwen instantly let go of the boy and drew her sidearm.
She pointed it at Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian. ‘Drop it,’ she said. ‘Take it out very slowly and very carefully and just drop it on the ground.’ For a moment it looked as if he was going to ignore her and do something else, but the unwavering dark muzzle of her gun must have made an impression on him. His hand emerged with great slowness and care from under his T-shirt and revealed a heavy chromed revolver that had been concealed in his waistband. Gwen watched him open his hand and drop it. She noticed he extended one of his black trainers so the gun hit the toe of the shoe and cushioned its landing. He obviously didn’t want the chrome getting scratched.
‘Now step back. All of you.’ The young men moved away from her quickly, only Nobody Knows lingering for a moment, reluctant to leave his gun.
‘Now piss off.’ They stared at her in surprise, suddenly looking like a bunch of kids again, and then they turned away and started slinking off. Slinking quickly turned to running. As they dispersed, Gwen picked up the revolver, checking to make sure the hammer wasn’t cocked, and put it away in a pocket of her jacket. She then holstered her own side arm and turned to the young mother, intending to say something. To offer some words of comfort.
But her eyes were drawn irresistibly to the baby in the pram. It was a radiant, beautiful baby. Chubby and chortling, bright-eyed and happy, blissfully unaware of the drama that had been taking place around it. He – it was presumably a boy, judging by his adorable powder-blue garb – was busy counting his fingers and drooling. Gwen, stared into the pram, hypnotised by this cute little chap in his spotless romper suit. Absurdly, she found broody feelings welling up in herself. She had to physically tear her eyes away from the baby and concentrate on the mother, by contrast a strangely drained and listless figure.
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