by Helen Harper
I want to scream in frustration and anguish. Instead, I open my eyes slowly and take a deep breath. This is not the time to panic. The train trundles into the station and I make my way back to my grandfather’s house. Now, more than ever, I need O’Shea to be conscious long enough to answer my questions. I can feel myself teetering on the edge of sanity and I need something to pull me back.
When I arrive at the small cul-de-sac, my grandfather’s door is open and he is standing at the threshold, watching my approach. I don’t have time to deal with any of his usual theatrics and I’m too numb to care about pissing him off, so I reach up to kiss him on the cheek before he prompts me. He surprises me, however, and puts up a hand to stall my action. The fact that I recognise sadness in his normally steely eyes is disturbing.
‘It’s all over the news,’ he says gruffly.
I feel a wash of fatigue. ‘What are they saying?’
‘That seven people at Dire Straits are dead. One is critical and in intensive care.’ He gives me a hard look. ‘They are looking for you to help them with their enquiries.’
I almost – but not quite – snort with laughter at the euphemism. ‘They can’t seriously believe I’m responsible.’
The cat pads out and snakes round my ankles. I half-leap out of my skin. It’s never bloody done that before. Things must be even worse than I thought.
‘I made a few discreet enquiries of my own. They don’t.’ I exhale loudly, but my grandfather continues. ‘They do, however, think you are involved in some way. That maybe you’re working with a new bloodguzzler Family or something.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘I said as much. No granddaughter of mine would be in league with those things.’
My mouth twists. ‘No, it’s stupid to think that there’s a new Family. The other Families would never allow it. Besides, what would any of the vampires have to gain from all of this?’
His gaze is frank. ‘Dire Straits must have done something to annoy them.’
‘But we don’t work for vampires,’ I point out. ‘They have their own in-house investigators.’
He speaks quietly. ‘Maybe your firm was working against them.’
I mull this over. It seems implausible. We did look into vampires from time to time for some client or other but, as far as I know anyway, nothing Dire Straits has ever done would come close to deserving retaliation on this scale. In fact, I’d been under the impression the vampires allowed us a modicum of professional courtesy and would help us out from time to time if it served their interests. But then again, my own employer framing me for the murder of some two-bit, magic-dealing, half-breed daemon is equally implausible. Speaking of…
‘What about O’Shea?’
‘Who?’
My grandfather’s confusion is faked. I roll my eyes at him. There’s something about his attitude that’s reassuring and makes me feel normal again. ‘The daemon?’
‘Oh. Him.’
I put my hands on my hips and give him a death stare. The trouble is that I’m just not as good at it as he is and he knows it. ‘Is he awake?’ I demand.
He shakes his head and gestures inside. Disappointed, I follow him into the small kitchen. O’Shea is still sprawled out on the kitchen table, his chest moving up and down regularly. I watch him for a few moments.
‘He’s involved in this,’ I say eventually, as much to myself as to my grandfather.
‘Yes. So what’s your next move, Bo?’
Despite everything, I feel a flicker of pride. He may be an ornery bastard with an entrenched core of racism, but he believes I can sort this out on my own and without his help. If he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t be asking me what I planned to do next. A thought strikes me: unless he has no idea what to do now, of course.
‘I have a safe house,’ I answer. ‘I’ll take him there.’
‘Are you sure it’s safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re just going to wait until he wakes up?’
I bite my lip. ‘I don’t have any other choice.’
He regards me silently. I wonder what’s going through that head of his. He had better not be gloating about the demise of my firm.
‘I suppose you’ll need some form of transportation,’ he says finally.
I look at him hopefully. I had been counting on the old man realising I’d had to dump my car and that he needed to help me out with a vehicle if he wanted to get shot of O’Shea before nightfall.
He throws me a set of keys. ‘It belongs to one of my neighbours. If you get a scratch on it, they won’t be happy.’
‘I’ll look after it,’ I promise. ‘Thank you.’ I really mean it.
He inclines his head. ‘You take care now,’ he says. Then he walks out of the kitchen. ‘I like the dress,’ he calls back. ‘You should wear one more often.’
I sigh in exasperation and glance down at O’Shea’s prone body. ‘He doesn’t like it enough to help me get you out of here,’ I say to him.
Unsurprisingly, the daemon doesn’t answer. I shrug to myself, then bend and push his body up and over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift. At least he’ll be easier to carry now I don’t have to worry about him bleeding out. My knees buckle for a moment but I manage to steady myself and stagger outside. There’s a shiny car waiting in the driveway. I could swear it wasn’t there when I arrived less than five minutes ago. Shaking my head at my grandfather’s ability to get people to do exactly what he wants, I press down on the key and the car beeps loudly, signalling it’s open. I heave O’Shea’s weight onto the back seat, making sure his legs are inside before I slam the door shut. Then I get in and drive away.
***
When I was fourteen years old and particularly precocious, I came home from aceing an arduous mathematics test and spent a considerable amount of time crowing about my accomplishment to my father. It didn’t take him long to grow bored with my egotism and he told me in no uncertain terms that it hadn’t been as difficult or as complex as I supposed.
‘That’s not true,’ I sniffed back at him. ‘It’s one of the hardest tests there is. And one of the hardest subjects.’ I had no way of knowing whether this was true but, to my teenage mind, I had to be right.
‘The hardest test isn’t something you sit in school, Bo,’ he told me gently.
I completely misunderstood what he was driving at. ‘Grandfather says university is for wimps. That even the exams you sit at Oxford are easy and that they’re breeding a nation of incompetents.’ I told you I was precocious. The memory of my snotty tone still makes me wince.
My father sighed heavily and patted me on my shoulder. ‘There are other tests.’
‘Like what?’
I remember the look he gave me: measured and calm, but still assessing how far he could go. Of course I know now that the hardest tests aren’t even tests. They’re how you cope when your life falls apart. When you bite your tongue and let your best friend cry on your shoulder because the loser she’s been dating has dumped her. When the same loser comes on to you too strongly at a party the weekend after. When you’re trying to decide between paying the rent or eating. When one of your parents dies. I think my father knew that I would snort with adolescent derision if he pointed this out to me, so he took a different tack.
‘The Knowledge,’ he said instead. ‘That’s the hardest test.’
‘What’s the Knowledge?’
‘It’s what all taxi drivers have to do before they’re allowed to drive a black cab.’
I probably curled my lip. ‘You mean a driving test.’
‘No. I mean memorising 35,000 London streets so you always know the fastest way to get from point A to point B. It takes a minimum of two years to learn. Most people take five.’
He folded his arms and looked at me pointedly. I think I tossed my hair and wandered off in search of someone who would be more willing to listen to me boast about my accomplishments. But he had stirred my interest and the next day I stayed late after schoo
l to look up the Knowledge in the library. Imagine my surprise when I realised he was right.
Deciding then and there that I would become the youngest person to ever pass the Knowledge, regardless of the fact that I had no desire to become a taxi driver and was three years away from being allowed to drive, I took up the challenge. I studied every evening and spent weekends cycling around the city to challenge myself. Had my father known what a monster his comments would unleash, he probably would have been happy to sit there for hours to listen to my blow-by-blow account of algebra and fractions. I bored my friends to tears by forcing them to test me. I wouldn’t say I ever got to the point where I knew thirty-five thousand streets, or where I’d even have come close to passing, but I did learn a hell of a lot.
My study of the Knowledge was cut short abruptly about six months later when I discovered that Dean, the most annoying boy at my school, had hair that curled invitingly around the sexy nape of his neck and a voice that made my toes curl up inside my trainers. Boys, I decided, were infinitely more interesting than the streets of London and I ended my quest almost as suddenly as I’d begun it. A lot of what I’d learned in that time never left me, though. At least now I know exactly where Markmore Close is without having to worry about maps or GPS. I’ll never know boys – or rather men, now that I’m older – as easily as that.
***
Even driving carefully to avoid any undue attention, it takes less than forty minutes to get to the safe house. The sky, which was already darkening by the time I reached my grandfather’s, is now definitely advertising that it’s night. It feels like it’s been the longest day of my life and it’s far from over yet.
I’m fortunate enough to pull up and park directly outside the block of flats. I’m even more fortunate that there’s a tiny lift inside, so I hook O’Shea’s dead weight of an arm round my neck and hoist him up by the waist. A fireman’s lift would be easier but any curious residents might think he’s spent the afternoon in the pub and had one too many if I haul him up this way instead. It’s a struggle and seems to take forever, but finally I find the key exactly where I was told it would be and get him inside.
It’s a small place; property is at a premium in this part of the city so I’m not surprised. At least it’s clean and well kept. I flop O’Shea’s body down on the small bed which was probably advertised as a double – but only if you are sharing with a midget. It’ll do, I suppose. I can crash on the sofa when I need to sleep.
I turn to leave when I suddenly think of something. The last thing I need is the daemon waking up and doing a runner. He’s the best lead – the only lead – I’ve got right now and I’m not letting him slip through my fingers. I turn back, grab hold of the cuffs which are still dangling from his wrist and clip them onto the frame of the bed. It’s not particularly sturdy but I figure he’ll still be weak from blood loss when he wakes up and the cuffs will hold him. Then I head back down and move the car a few blocks away. Better safe than sorry.
By the time I get back to the flat, I am buzzing with nervous energy. It’s probably just as well because I won’t be able to sleep. I’m pretty sure that whenever I close my eyes from now on, I’ll see flashbacks of dark smoky figures and splatters of blood.
I sit down on the sofa and stare at the wall. Then my head drops and I’m out for the count.
Chapter Six: Martinis and Mistakes
I wake up with a start. A shaft of moonlight falls on my face and, for a moment, I’m completely disorientated, trying to work out where the hell I am. Then it all comes flooding back and I’m overwhelmed by all that has happened over the last twenty-four hours. The walls feel as if they’re closing in on me and I can’t breathe. I gulp in air and my heart thumps painfully against my ribcage. I lurch to my feet and half run to the small bathroom to splash cold water on my face, then I lean against the sink and stare at myself in the mirror until my heart rate slows down.
‘Pull yourself together,’ I mutter.
Padding into the bedroom, I check on O’Shea. He’s in exactly the same position as when I left him, one arm raised slightly where it’s cuffed, but his face looks more relaxed and his breathing is easier. There’s even a tiny snore. It occurs me that he’s very attractive, with chiselled cheekbones and flawless dark skin.
I bend down and check the wound on his neck. The stitches have done their job and it seems to be healing quickly. I guess that O’Shea has inherited the daemons’ ability to regenerate, along with his crazy orange eyes and model’s good looks. I sit down on the edge of the bed and consider what to do next. I’m tempted to shake him awake and demand answers but I might have a better shot at getting them once he’s recovered. I need to be patient.
I check my watch and see that I haven’t slept for as long as I thought. It’s only just gone midnight and this is the city that never sleeps. I don’t feel tired any more and I need something to distract me until my patient – or prisoner, depending on which way you look at it – wakes up.
By now my dress is crumpled but I decide I can get away with it. I find the Funny Farm plastic bag and pull out my wallet, taking out some notes and stuffing them into the tight bodice. I should probably keep more back because I have no idea when I’m going to be able to get hold of more cash. But I think I deserve a drink.
It takes me less than five minutes to find a place. If there’s one thing you can be sure of, it’s that in Britain you’re rarely far away from some place where you can drown your sorrows. There’s a bouncer on the door, a burly type but still human, who gives me a discreet once over, taking in my now less than perfect appearance. I give him a small smile and he lets me in.
As soon as I’m inside, part of me wishes I’d not bothered. The club must have great sound-proofing because what was little more than a dull beat from the street is now a heart-thumping, ear-churning level of decibels. I’m tempted to leave and find somewhere quieter but I decide to stick with it. Perhaps the level of sound will stop me continually worrying. I need oblivion, if only for an hour or two, not more time to think.
I give the dance floor a wide berth and head for the bar, perching on an uncomfortable plastic stool. Despite – or maybe because of – the loud music, there aren’t many other customers and I catch the bartender’s attention quickly. I order three martinis and down them in quick succession, shuddering at the strength of the alcohol. When they don’t immediately work, I order another three. At these prices, I’ll need to drink quickly if I want to achieve the effect I’m after.
The bartender is still making my drinks when I become aware of someone by my side. I tense, ready to do whatever I can to keep myself safe, but it’s just a guy. Not a vampire or a copper or anyone else wanting to do me harm. He’s not even a triber, just a guy who’s after a bit of fun to finish off his night. He’s good-looking in a geeky sort of way, with horn-rimmed glasses and a well-tailored suit. His appearance suggests he’s more prepared for a board meeting than a nightclub, despite the five o’clock shadow around his jaw. His hair is an attractive tortoiseshell colour, enhanced by the club’s bouncing multi-coloured lights, and his eyes twinkle at me with promise.
‘Hello,’ he says.
The bartender lines up my next three drinks. I remove the cocktail stick from the first one and pull off the olive delicately with my teeth, chewing it and savouring its fresh salty taste. I give him a half-smile.
He gestures at the three glasses. ‘You must be thirsty.’
In response, I pick one up and throw the contents down my throat. I’m tempted to lick my lips suggestively afterwards, but I manage to stop myself. This man is a sure thing and, even though I don’t normally pick up strangers, I can’t think of any better way to obliterate the newsreel that keeps running through my head.
I stay mute, although I reach over and slide the second martini along the bar to him. He raises his eyebrows slightly, takes it by the stem and sips.
‘Having a bad day?’ His voice is gentle, not probing.
For one awful mome
nt, tears threaten. He reaches over and softly brushes my hand. At least it’s not my leg. I manage – just – to recover my equilibrium. I take the third glass and sip it carefully, raising my eyes to his. He looks at me and I look at him while, disturbingly, the beat of music changes to a much slower song. We remain like that, watching each other and sipping the martinis until both glasses are drained. Then I push myself off the stool and tuck a hand inside my bodice to grab the money, throwing the notes down onto the bar. If he’s surprised at my lack of height, he doesn’t comment on it; he simply takes my hand and we walk out.
I’ve been in the club for only thirty minutes but the rush of cold air once we are outside shocks me. I’m vaguely aware of the bouncer nodding to himself, impressed at how quickly I managed to find Mr Tortoiseshell. A faint curl of nausea rises up in my stomach but I push it down and take him by the hand, tugging him away from the bouncer’s prying eyes. We round the corner onto a quieter street and he stops, turning to face me. His hands cup my face as he gazes at me. It feels oddly as if he’s staring into my soul. He tilts up my chin and gently kisses my lips. But the last thing I want is gentle.
I twist round and push him against the wall, enjoying the sensation of his hard body next to mine. His eyes spark in desire. I yank the lapel of his suit, pull his face down to mine and kiss him fiercely. He gets with the programme and returns the kiss with equal force. Mr Tortoiseshell obviously enjoys being in control, despite his initial softness, because he pushes me around so this time it’s my back against the wall. One hand reaches up to my hair and the other down to my bare thigh. I can feel his erection pressing into me. His fingers slide higher up my leg and all of a sudden I come to my senses.