by Mark A. King
“But that’s not exactly ethical or even legal.”
“Listen to yourself, Iona. You know this is how we work.” Armitage eased back behind her desk. “You’re in more trouble than I thought, Iona. If you’re believing some conspiracy theory created by a criminal with vested interests instead of the team you work with—the team that protects and guards the city—then you’re deluded, and there is no hope for you. I don’t trust you any more. I guess, if I’m being honest, I never really did. You’ve made no effort to fit in and you’re disruptive, ill-disciplined, and frankly, inefficient. How long have I given you on Operation Scythe? How many hours have been wasted on fruitless lines of enquiry? How much talent do we have in the unit, and yet you’ve been unable to crack this. If I were someone outside looking in, then I’d conclude that if there were any issues in the unit, they could only come from one place.
“I would like to terminate your employment, but policies prevent me from doing so. The investigation will need to take its course. Therefore, I am authorising you to be monitored continuously, as I believe you to be a threat to the unit and the work we conduct. Vanessa Coleridge, the lovely colleague who so kindly escorted you in, will be in charge. Say hello on your way out. You might be seeing a lot of her in the future.”
Cal
Rod, the world’s strangest hypnotherapist, made no attempt to diagnose me. “It’s not my field,” he said.
“Do you think I’m mad?” It was all I wanted to know.
Rod’s face scrunched like paper in a recycling bin. “Nobody is mad, Cal. As a matter of fact, it’s not really something that is sensible to say. Everyone has problems. Some problems can be diagnosed by conditions or illnesses. Some can’t.”
I reeled off some of the things that I knew I had, or thought I might have. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Depression? Anxiety? That sort of thing?”
“Names like that, yes. But no two people are the same. Given enough negative pressure, anyone of us can have almost any type of mental or physical reaction. I know you came here hoping for answers, Cal, but I can’t give them to you. That’s for the medical and mental health professionals. Your referral note states that you are not comfortable talking to these people. If that is still the case, then all I can do is to try to help you understand the events you’ve been through and to help condition you to deal with the causes, the triggers. It is important to be kind to yourself and recognise the warning signs.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“I suggest we book more sessions. And that you keep with the medication. Stay off the alcohol. Stop trying to analyse everything. Just view it with curiosity, as if detached, from a distance. Keep with the mindfulness programme.”
“So that’s it, is it? I’m no better than when I came in.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “We’ve come far today. You’ve opened up to me. You’ve discovered some buried memories and now they’re out, it might relieve some of the pressure in your subconscious. I don’t know what your expectations are. What is it that you want to achieve, Cal?”
“I just want to feel better. To feel strong enough that I don’t have to pretend any more. I just want to feel normal. That’s not too much to ask is it? I want to be able to face the darkness again. To drive the Tube once more and perhaps learn to be comfortable with myself. To not worry about the jumpers. I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Rod smiled at me reassuringly. “It’s not a lot, Cal. It’s what we all deserve. It’s what you deserve. Everything can be fixed, it just takes time. You have to believe that.”
I lumbered away, worried I had opened memories that were better left sealed.
I thought I’d come a long way and that the suicide of Gerry, under my train, was something I’d learned to push to faraway places. Thinking of him again after everything that had happened was disturbing.
There was nothing special about me, I was sure of that. I just believed my troubles were due to multiple years of stress and trauma after seeing desperate people make tragic choices because they believed there was no other option. It was best not to dwell on it; everyone has demons they carry, and some find the load easier than others. As Rod reminded me, pushed enough, anyone can be consumed by darkness.
It was after office hours and the sun edged towards the jagged cityscape horizon. I needed to clear my head. A walk might help, I thought. I returned to Hyde Park. I avoided the Serpentine. I scanned for Abna, looking for weather patterns and shadowy figures. I was fully alert. The city felt alive around me. I felt alive, too.
In the weave and waves of people, I noticed a young woman with long dark-copper hair, jogging along the winding pathways of Hyde Park. Like a number of others, she wasn’t watching where she was going—too busy on her phone, changing tracks personal, updating social media—the self-absorbed activities people do instead of looking in front of them. I tried to move out of her way, but she almost seemed to be aiming for me. I moved. She moved. Our paths were on a collision course no matter how much I tried to avoid it.
She smashed into me, hard, knocking me to the ground.
“I’m sorry.” Even in her apology, she sounded confident and sure of herself. “Are you okay?”
Shy and socially awkward, I was generally wary of strangers—I found them to be intimidating. My mouth was dry. If I tried to talk, jumbled nonsense would spill out.
She bent down to help me up. I considered myself a gentleman, but it was hard not to notice what great shape she was in. She was athletic and lithe, her shoulder blades and neck were elegant, her muscle-tone was firm but not extreme.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I returned to my feet. “It’s nothing, honestly. I was probably not looking where I was going.”
She smiled, seeing through my lies. There was something about her smile, something warm, trusting, and disarming.
“I’m Cal.” I offered her my hand.
“Danielle,” she replied. “Wow. Your hands are cold. They shouldn’t be this cold, especially in the heat we’ve been having. I guess it’s true.”
“What’s true?”
“Cold hands. Warm heart.”
“Is that some form of chat-up line?” I smiled. “It sounds a little creepy from someone I don’t even know.”
“Oh...” She looked over her curved eyelashes. Her cheeks dimpled. “I didn’t mean anything like that. I just meant that you were kind. You know, warm-hearted. You blamed yourself for me knocking you over, when it was clearly my fault. I was busy, working on a case, trying to chase down leads. I should’ve been looking where I was going.”
“A case? You’ll have to forgive me, but you don’t look like a typical lawyer.”
“And what does a typical lawyer look like?” She smirked, clearly knowing she had me in a difficult position.
“She’d be running slower. The stick up the arse would be causing drag and wind resistance.”
She laughed.
My stomach was fluttering, like I was a small boy talking to the fittest girl in the year. “What do you do, then? Please don’t tell me you’re a lawyer.”
“I’m a barrister,” she replied.
“Shit ... really?” She looked at me, sternly, for maybe five or ten seconds. Then I apologised.
She laughed. “No, but it was good to see you squirm. I’m a reporter. Probably worse, in the eyes of most people.”
“I don’t know, the guy from Metropolis did okay for himself.”
“Yes, he did. But I’m not the type to juggle superhero activities on the side. I’m a very serious reporter. I have no time for saving people with anything other than my words.” She smirked. “Here, let me buy you a coffee and I’ll tell you all about my world-saving exploits and you can tell me all about yours.”
She didn’t seem to be bothered by sitting in a swanky coffee shop, her glistening running gear highlighted under the sharp LED’s.
“So ... tell me what you’re working on,” I cautiously said, not knowing if it wa
s restricted. “I’m intrigued.”
“Well, it’s no big secret. I’ve been trying to report on the missing twelve-year-old girl, Maria Mathan. Shocking case. The police really screwed up.” Her face was stiff and her eyes were steady, serious, and focused. “They need to be held accountable. Someone needs to ask the questions.”
“I’d heard about that. It’s kinda unbelievable. Within hours of arriving her mum was killed in an armed robbery.”
“But that’s not everything. The mum fought back, trying to protect Maria, and in the process one of the criminals was killed. Another woman was also hurt—thankfully, she’s recovering. The girl is highly vulnerable, her mobility is limited, and she went on the run. A detective encountered Maria and failed to stop her. It’s a mess. I’ve been working on a longer-term story about the police incompetence and strong rumours of corruption. The unit that this detective is assigned to is one of those that seems to be above the law and able to cover its tracks. I’m not saying the detective is in on it, but I suspect the unit is corrupt. I’m just trying to piece it all together, but I can’t get any answers. The director of the unit is fiercely guarded. She has contacts in government. She’s almost untouchable, more so now because of her recent loss. She’s off limits to me. But, as director of the unit, I hold her ultimately responsible. So, yes, it’s a big deal.”
“You’re saying the entire police force is rotte— “
“Not at all. I have the highest respect for the police. They do an incredible job, without the resources or pay they deserve. But in every walk of life there are people who are inept—workers or managers who are unethical. Sometimes it permeates through a unit, often it’s just one person, but if that person has authority, then decisions are made which could influence public safety. And I’m not going to let that happen.”
“Where do you think the problem is? If you don’t mind telling a stranger.”
“That’s the thing, Cal. You’re not a stranger.”
I had that gut-punch feeling. I’d known she was too good to be true. “You didn’t run into me today by accident, did you?”
“’fraid not. No. The case involves you, in a way. The person who committed suicide in front of your train—Gerry Armitage—he was married to the director of the police unit I’m investigating. Her name is Verity Armitage, the head of the Cyber Crime Prevention Unit. I think she’s in deep and Gerry knew. It might even have been the reason he took his life. If it’s not her, then it’s someone she is protecting, someone in a position of power in her unit. Either way, she’s the leader and that’s where the story is. I’m sorry I mislead you. If I just blurted it out with a camera in your face or thrust a recorder at you while shouting for answers, then you’d never agree to help me.”
I was disappointed, my chest felt as if it had a bag of gym weights pressing down on it. I took comfort that she’d gone to the trouble of researching the case and my history with the incident, and she had tried to engineer a connection with me. She could also help me to find answers I desperately wanted to know. “How can I help you?”
“Did Gerry do anything before jumping in front of your train? Anything at all? It might help.”
“And what if there was nothing?”
“Then I guess it would be good for you to pay Verity Armitage a visit, tell her what you saw and see how she reacts. You must want to know more yourself, Cal. It can’t be an easy thing to live with. Don’t you need to know answers?”
The problem was, she was right. I did need to know. “So you wouldn’t have gone for a drink with me if you had just bumped into me by accident?”
She looked away briefly, then the corners of her mouth smiled. “No. I didn’t say that.”
“But how do I know you aren’t just using me for the story?”
“Not all reporters are like that, Cal. I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
She was honest about our meeting and blunt about what she wanted from me. She didn’t have to be, she could easily have played me. Telling me would make me more aware and suspicious of her, and she didn’t have to expose that vulnerability. Sometimes attraction, and even the deepest of emotions, love, can be hard to explain. “I’d like to see you again,” I said.
“I’d like that too. No strings, I promise. If you want to talk about it, great. If not, let’s just enjoy a drink anyway.”
For the first time in months, my feet felt like they were not carrying the weight of the world. I couldn’t wait to see her again.
It was hard to focus on the almost cosmic alignment of this event. At any other period of my life I’d be thinking the chances of such a coincidence working out would be the work of forces beyond scientific knowledge, but now, I just didn’t know.
Jimmy
Jimmy processed the conversation he’d had with Verity Armitage as he watched Ryan and Josh with a level of sadness he never knew possible.
Around him, the tourist families were smiling, hugging, even arguing, yet they were there for each other. Who did he have now? Could he even trust Josh?
In the years he’d known them, he thought Ryan and Josh had displayed loyalty beyond family. This time before his death was supposed to be redemptive—a time to be at peace—but uncertainty was an unwanted shadow creeping around him, hungry to consume him.
Jimmy watched the London Eye, the sun glinting off the capsules as the great wheel turned in the sky. His heart turned, too. He wanted to crawl back to his hospital bed and fall into his final sleep. His body had fought long and hard, and what else was there to do but rest?
“You ready for the ride, Mr. Kinsella?” Ryan asked.
“Sure. Looking forward to it, Ryan,” Jimmy said, trying hard to sound vaguely interested still. Why hadn’t he seen it coming? Ryan Thistle had been playing him for years. “I can’t wait, son.”
They readied themselves on the platform above the Thames, the opaque water sloshing below them. His two employees, once considered family, wheeled Jimmy into the pod. Inside, the pod was empty apart from the dapper waiter and chilled Champagne.
Ryan wheeled Jimmy to the point furthest from the doors, looking towards the Houses of Parliament and the Elizabeth Clock Tower that many tourists still referred to as Big Ben. Josh and Ryan separated, creating as much space in the pod as possible. The waiter stayed near the oval slatted-oak bench in the middle. In the silence, Jimmy tried to think of solutions, but there were none to be found. Approaching either of his two boys was impossible. Approaching Iona again would require their help.
Sitting there, suspended above the river, moving slowly above the city, he started to drift and tried to stop worrying about things he couldn’t change. He’d done what he’d set out to do. Everything else was for another time, perhaps another life. He watched the people below. The human dots passed each other, each dot oblivious and determined to follow its own path, just shapes passing by—illness, sacrifice, trauma, and betrayal hidden inside.
The capsule turned and the ride would soon be over. They were approaching the automatic camera shot. Jimmy asked for the boys to put their arms around him for the final picture he’d ever have.
When they exited the pod, Jimmy asked Josh to buy them a number of photo souvenirs. He purchased a photo frame that he could place on his hospital bedside cabinet. Sure, the hospital professionals would be concerned that he’d gone missing, supposedly for a sightseeing trip, but he wanted to show the world that he wasn’t scared and that despite everything, he was ready.
They hailed a taxi and ordered it straight to the hospital. Josh said that he’d pick up his car later, that Jimmy needed to look after himself, rest up, regain some strength—he’d need it as soon as the hospital staff started to ask questions.
Returning to the hospital, Jimmy dodged the inevitable commotion and questions. The staff had worried. They feared blame, even in the no-blame culture of the hospital. The authorities had been alerted, which Jimmy found humorous. His bed was still there; he was thankful for that.
Wheeli
ng his chair over to the bedside cabinet, Jimmy placed the London Eye photograph of him and his boys there. Ryan and Josh helped him back into bed, trying their best not to disturb the other patients.
“Are you okay, Mr. Kinsella?” Ryan asked. If Jimmy didn’t know otherwise, it would have sounded sincere and heartfelt.
“I’m fine, son.” He motioned to Ryan to come shake his hand, perhaps a final farewell, for who knew what sleep might bring. Ryan shook his hand. Jimmy pulled him in tight. Jimmy saw Ryan’s face wince, surprised at the strength he still had. Jimmy whispered in his ear, “I know. I know all about you.” He waited for a response but none came.
Jimmy eased his head back and looked into Ryan’s eyes. Ryan tried to pull away, but Jimmy gripped with his bony hands, locking them on the tensed hands of the son he never had. Ryan’s eyes were wide, the irises blotted by black spheres. “I forgive you, Ryan. I don’t have the energy to be full of poison. You’ve made your choices.” Jimmy released his grip.
Ryan stood back, fidgeted with his jacket, and loosened his tie. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet,” Jimmy said. He motioned to Josh and pulled him forward. “I’ve underestimated you, Josh. I’ll miss you. Regardless of whether it is tonight ... or another night soon ... let us say goodbye now. I’ve done what I wanted to do. You need to make plans now. Enjoy your life. Don’t get dragged back into this life.”
“Thanks for everything, boss. You’ve always been good to me. Good to us. Goodbye, Jimmy,” Josh whispered back, his voice broken and wavering.
“Josh. One final piece of advice. Be careful who you trust.” Jimmy shot Ryan a look. Then Jimmy released his hand and turned to face the new picture, his eyes filling with tears.
Exhausted, Jimmy watched the shadows disappear. Then he closed his eyelids and welcomed sleep.
He woke some time later, surprised to be awake at all. A silhouetted man had come for him. At first it saddened him. Then he realised the end was overdue.