by Mark A. King
Verity Armitage disappeared into the crowd as if she’d never been there. Jimmy gingerly moved the wheelchair so he could face the buzzing ticket office. Ryan and Josh were coming out of the exit. Jimmy tried to wheel himself closer to them, but his arms trembled and his grip was so weak that he felt as if he were treading water, sinking into black and relentless waves.
By the river the Eye kept turning. Slowly, gently, as if not turning at all. But in his head the world was spinning. He was piecing it together. She had to be lying. It’s just a bluff. He looked at them approaching, and no matter how much he tried to reject her words as devious poison, he knew she had nothing to gain by lying. It made sense. The most hurtful thing was that she knew the truth, and he’d been blind to it for so long.
Charlie
“It’s okay,” the voice of Nurse Ciarán whispered. “You collapsed on the stairs, but thankfully, you had something soft to land on.”
Charlie looked around. She was lying on the stairway landing, between floors. Her cheek dimpled on one side. She’d landed on Robbie, who glared at her. Charlie couldn’t be sure if it was with surprise or anger.
“Take it easy now,” Ciarán said. “Remember you might have injured yourself and we were only just getting you back on your feet again. Can you sit up?”
Charlie nodded and Robbie eased his legs from beneath her.
There were a number of fidgety medical staff on either side of the landing, keen to be active. Ciarán indicated that they could edge forward and get Charlie back on her feet again.
“How do you feel?” the nurse asked.
Charlie waited a moment to consider this, checking her limbs for new signs of pain. “Fine. I’d rather walk back up again, if I can manage it. I don’t want to put anyone at risk from carrying me back up in a stretcher.”
A number of the medical staff pulled faces that looked like The Scream.
“If she’s happy to do it, I say we let her try. It’s not like there are not enough of us to catch her, is it?” Ciarán suggested, to which they nodded.
Charlie made her way up, the pain still there, but the fear of falling was gone. There was no Robbie in front of her. Noah was a small boy who needed his mum; she couldn’t afford to wallow in the defeat. She needed to prove that the setback would make her even more determined to get home.
When she climbed the stairs, she felt energised when she should have been exhausted. Her thoughts were racing with the possibility of getting home, powered by the fact that she had achieved the journey, survived the fall, and then kept going—events that would have seemed unfathomable earlier that day.
She frowned at her partner. “Where’s Noah?”
“In the crèche downstairs. I wanted to see you alone.”
“You need to be honest with me, Robbie.”
“I’m always honest with you.”
She shook her head. “Let’s start again. You need to be honest with me. Truly honest with me. Our relationship hinges on this very fact. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“How’s Noah doing?”
“He’s fine,” Robbie said, but corrected himself when he saw Charlie start to look away. “He needs his mum.”
“That’s better,” Charlie enthused.
Robbie dropped himself on to the chair beside the bed. “Look Charlie, I’m doing my best. Being mum, being dad, working two jobs. But he needs you. He’s worried about you. He’s been getting into trouble at nursery.”
“What! Tell me—”
Charlie faced Robbie, and he held his hands up in a defensive motion, as a hostage might do when confronted by a weapon. “He’s fine. It’s just one of those things. He’s got a lot to deal with. We should cut him some slack. I’m surprised things aren’t worse.”
“Worse? How can they be worse? He needs to stay out of trouble. Look, I’m sorry. I know you have a lot to deal with, but it’s a slippery slope. We can’t allow him to start getting into trouble. He’s young and needs the right direction and guidance.”
“But you don’t even know what happened. You didn’t even ask whose fault it was. You’ve just jumped off the deep end and started making assumptions,” Robbie growled.
“It doesn’t matter,” Charlie replied, looking away from him. “Have you been teaching him to fight?”
“Just because I was once a boxer, doesn’t mean I resort to violence at the first opportunity.”
“Did you teach him to fight?” She asked, again, this time facing him head on. He looked away, unable to look at her, his arms crossed.
“Maybe I did. So what? It’s not like I taught him to steal money or mug someone, is it? I’ve only shown him how to defend himself. How to hit back.”
Charlie sighed, a long, slow, frustrated huff. “You’re completely clueless, Robbie. He’s my boy, not yours! And he’s just a kid. You know my feelings on this. Violence isn’t the answer to anything.”
“That’s a bit rich, given you’re a bouncer. Or door staff, whatever they call it now.”
“I was a bouncer. I rarely used force. You know that.” Charlie smoothed a hand under her bedding and rubbed at her injuries. “You’ve always been part of that world, Robbie. Sure, you say left it for me, but I don’t think you ever really did. Your heart is still in it. Why else would you be hanging around with that low-life, Leo Jeffers?”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“Didn’t you see the news? He was one of the two who attacked the newsagents’. Attacked me.”
Robbie’s mouth opened. He tried to talk but nothing came out.
Charlie looked at him—his eyes were wide and searching for answers. “At least I know you’re not trying to protect him. But it was only a matter of time, Robbie. When you hang around with people like that something bad—something seriously frigging awful—was bound to happen sooner or later. Thank goodness you weren’t there as well.”
“I’d never—”
“That’s the problem, Robbie. You’re too busy pining for a life that you miss. I could easily see you getting dragged into this sort of thing,” Charlie said, her eyes hardened and focused. “I can’t control what you do, but I can control my life and I can protect Noah. I want you to leave. Leave this hospital, pack your stuff, and stay out of our lives. It’s over, Robbie.”
Robbie smashed his hands on the arms of the chair. The ward went silent and faces turned and looked in their direction. Robbie leaned in, his biceps and shoulder muscles bunched and strained. “Listen to me, Charlie, and listen good. I took a chance on you when all my mates said I was mad to help raise another guy’s kid.” The veins on his temples were pulsing in rapid bursts. “I spent less time with my mates. I looked after your kid. I worked my arse off for next to no pay, and you treat me like this. You know what? Go fuck yourself. I’ve had enough of you anyway. Let’s see how far you get trying to look after him when you can barely look after yourself. Let’s see how you cope having to fill out social security forms, because I’m sure as hell not giving you any money. And for what it’s worth, I had nothing to do with what Leo Jeffers, did or didn’t do. I’ve not seen him for weeks. You’re just pissed off because you let this happen. You talk about violence like it’s a bad thing, but at least I would have defended myself better.”
“You’re blaming me for this!” Charlie said, grabbing the call button and pressing hard on it several times. “You’re unbelievable, Robbie. I don’t want you going anywhere near Noah after today. I don’t trust you. Things might be different if I was there to rectify the damage you might be doing, but I’m not. I’d rather him stay with Deb than with you. Pack your stuff. I’d rather not get social services involved, and I’m sure that’s not what you want either, but I will if I have to. Leave Noah here. I’ll make sure he gets to Deb—she can look after him until I get home. Then go and live your big gangster dreams.”
Robbie tutted. “I have no intention of being in a gang. I’ve tried really hard to do the right thing, Ch
arlie, but nothing I do is right. Nothing I do is good enough, is it?” He leaned in so closely, Charlie could feel his warm breath on her lips. “You’d rather put him with that stupid cow than with me? This is exactly what I’m talking about. She’s more plastic and inanimate than a Barbie doll. I’ve done nothing wrong. What kind of example are you setting? What sort of mother does that make you?”
“I’d rather he was with me, but as you can see—I’m in a bloody hospital. And don’t you ever question my role as his mother, you arsehole.” Charlie went to slap him, even though her wounds screamed in pain as she swung for him.
He was too close. Too strong and alert. He caught her hand and shook his head. “Pathetic.” Robbie released her, moved back, stood up, and kicked the plastic chair over in anger. “You ungrateful bitch!” he shouted before barging out of the ward.
Ciarán and another nurse came running over.
“Is everything all right, Charlie?” Ciarán asked. “We were just dealing with an emergency.”
“I’m fine.” Charlie replied, trying to not get out of breath. “What I mean is, I will be fine. Please can you quickly get my son, Noah, from the crèche downstairs? I need him with me. I don’t want to see Robbie again. I don’t want him near me or my boy.”
Robbie had always been volatile, but Charlie had always blamed herself when this happened. He liked order and tidiness—at least where Noah was concerned, but his standards didn’t always apply to himself, especially when he’d been drinking. She had tried to emphasise to Noah to be careful. Sometimes perfection in a child wasn’t away possible. Not without living under immense stress. Their place had become less like a home and more like a sterile fortress. A place of rules. A battle-zone of opposing wills, of outbursts and silence. A place where aromas were synthetic—perfumed or bleached. Where sounds were hushed and muted. Where fun once existed in a dream. This had been coming for some time, but the timing of the spilt couldn’t be worse.
“We’ll get Noah now,” Ciarán reassured Charlie, motioning for the other nurse to go ahead. “I’ll stay here with you.”
Charlie thought about explaining everything to Ciarán. She felt like she needed to justify her reaction and her need to get home to look after Noah once more. Robbie wouldn’t feel happy about her talking about their problems—but, she hoped, Robbie wasn’t her concern anymore.
Iona
Iona’s phone rang less than two hours after her meeting with Jimmy.
It was Verity Armitage.
Iona’s mind was still swirling after the events with Jimmy and his errand-boys.
What could Armitage want? Maybe she’s retracted the suspension? Perhaps she realised that she’s made a mistake. Iona had been the only one that had come remotely close to any evidence for Operation Scythe. At least she had progressed the case when the incident took place at the newsagents’. How far had the other team members got?
Iona desperately wanted to follow up on the name that Jimmy Kinsella had given her: Westbourne. He’d said it would help unlock Operation Scythe, go some way towards preventing the low-life dealers in human suffering that she’d failed to get traction on.
Iona made her way back to the office she used to work in. The city seemed to sing as the day progressed, eight million disparate players in a ragtag orchestra, somehow producing a tune with only the walls of glass, brick, and steel as their instruments.
Iona paused and let the rushing pedestrians swarm around her. In the mirror of a shop window she looked at herself.
She was just a suspended police officer who was unable to use her skills. She’d been reduced to talking to fading crime-lords and seeking help from friends she’d put in danger once before.
In the smoked glass, the world around her was murky and ethereal. Buildings were multi-edged and people were outlines, just empty husks walking aimlessly towards promises and responsibilities and not seeing. Not truly seeing.
All around the city there was a shadow. The missing girl, Maria Mathan, had seen it. It had reached out and pulled her in against her will. A world of violence, terror, oppression and subjection hidden by the city. Why are we so willingly blind to it?
Approaching the nondescript building that housed her unit, Iona thought about the possible discussions and how she might react—she played out the events, an actor rehearsing alone.
Unable to use a card to access the security doors, Iona had to suffer the indignity of reporting to reception.
One of Iona’s peers came to collect her. Iona would have remembered her name if the woman hadn’t been so bland and nauseatingly compliant. Armitage’s skivvy wore a suit, impeccably cut, with sleek lines tapering from her knees to her collar-bone. She looked at Iona like a warrener driving a car down a country road, lone rabbit in her headlights.
Iona was taken to the secure lift, and as the doors closed, her peer seized the opportunity. “Nice to see you back, Detective Stone,” the skivvy mocked. She cast a disparaging look at Iona’s clothing. “Except it’s just plain old Iona these days isn’t it? Such a shame about your suspension.”
Iona thought about retaliation, her fists balled, legs tensed, eyes narrowed. Ease up. Your anger is what she wants. Don’t give in to her. Iona looked ahead silently.
Through the glass walls, Iona could see Verity Armitage scampering, cleaning, shuffling papers. She looked like a hyperactive, espresso-drinking ferret.
“Good luck in there,” her escort said, swishing away and leaving Iona feeling that she would need all the luck she could get. Iona knuckle-rapped the oak door.
Armitage beckoned her in and Iona stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Iona stood, arms folded, in front of her director.
“Please, take a seat,” Armitage said, shoving some papers into the recycle. Iona struggled to remember the last time she saw her director seem so confident and energised.
“I’d rather stand, if that’s okay,” Iona replied. She wanted to remain alert. Sitting might put her at ease. There was also the fact that standing gave her a height advantage.
“Suit yourself.” Armitage raised an eyebrow and continued. “It’s not my style to constrain my employees, but such a work style requires trust. You are familiar with the concept of trust, I take it?”
She is talking about trust. Not a good sign. “Of course. Our team can’t exist without trust. That applies to our trust in you as much as the trust you have shown us,” Iona said, watching for a reaction.
Armitage continued, as if she hadn’t heard Iona’s last statement. “Do you have something to tell me? We have a policy of openness and honesty. A culture of respect and support. Think very carefully, Iona. Maybe I can help you, but I can’t help you if you’re hiding things, can I?”
Iona tried to hold her director’s icy stare, only looking away when it became apparent it wasn’t wise to stare down the person who held her career in her hands. Does she know something?
Iona fiddled with her top. She wasn’t sure what—or how much—to say. “I have information. This information could be central to cracking Operation Scythe.”
Armitage leaned forward. “Tell me more.”
“I have a name.”
“Is that so?” Armitage grabbed a pen and rapidly thumbed the button. The repetitive click-clonk scratched at the inside of Iona’s ear. “What is this big break-through? How did you come by this information?”
“I’m reluctant to say more,” Iona replied, looking away from her director.
“Oh, come now, Iona. You’ve never really been one to hold back, have you? Ruthlessly determined, yes. Talented, yes. Docile and timid, no.” Armitage stood up and walked towards Iona, their faces only inches apart. Iona could almost feel the spittle from her mouth. “I feel it is only right to remind you that you are currently suspended, pending an investigation. Incidents of continued unprofessionalism and insubordination will be unhelpful to your cause.”
Iona thought of ways to wrestle some of the control back from Armitage. It was weak, but what better
than to throw the policies back at her? “Some would say that you are displaying intimidating behaviours. You are invading my personal space. Your body language is making me feel uncomfortable.”
Armitage stepped back and gave Iona a wink. “Very smart, Iona. Now, let me apologise if I caused you to be uncomfortable in any way. But I am your commanding officer, and you are refusing to give me information that could put the lives of innocent people at risk, could even put my team at risk. I am firmly, but politely, instructing you to give me the information I need to protect the public.”
Iona went to leave. This is pointless. At best I’m still suspended. At worst I’m sacked. Through every piece of information, every hack and every lead, I’ve been frustrated. Jimmy Kinsella thought that Operation Scythe went deep into the system. Armitage was part of that system—she wouldn’t understand. Verity Armitage was only interested in her career. She didn’t want to rock the political boat when the funding for her team was continually under scrutiny.
Armitage blocked her path. “Let me guess, then, Iona. You’ve got some information that hints at a big conspiracy, inside people, corruption on a grand scale—that sort of thing? You got this from a dodgy old man who used to be someone, a crime-lord who previously ruled parts of this city with terror? Am I right?”
“How—“
“Don’t be so naïve, Iona. Don’t you think I, of all people, would have access to as much monitoring data and CCTV footage as I need? That I have eyes and ears everywhere? It’s my job. You were suspended and on an official warning. You should have been smart and kept your profile low.”
Iona thought about telling Armitage that none of it was her fault, that she’d hardly gone out of her way to seek trouble, but she knew Armitage was in no mood to listen. “You’ve been watching me?”
“We watch everyone. You know that.”