by Mark A. King
Leo nodded.
“Take a step, Leo. That’s it. A few more now. Don’t they make you feel happy?”
Leo nodded.
Robbie stepped back into the foliage. “The lights, Leo. The lights will make all your problems go away. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that all you want?”
Leo nodded.
A final step.
A stumble.
A thump.
Robbie heard the screech of tyres. Far too late for that, my driver friend. Too late.
It was a shame Robbie could only watch from the cover of the shrubbery. He could only see the dark pools of liquid, but not the colours. He closed his eyes and imagined deep burgundy on tarmac. Despite the detachment, Robbie stayed for a while and watched the show. If the last show was a black-comedy, this one was an action film. He studied the scene. There was a beauty in the white glow of the smartphone lighting the ashen face of the driver calling for help, pleading for someone to fix the situation he’d caused. The police would be there soon enough, as would the ambulance. But neither would be able to help Leo or take the guilt away from the driver.
Robbie left. The show was over.
Next was the twelve-year-old girl. Should be easy enough.
Maria
The Crawler was limp and clung to me like diseased skin. I sunk in the cold blackness.
In my final movements I thrashed, trying to breathe, clawing for the surface. My lungs burnt and demanded something, anything, even water.
As I gulped, the burning released in my chest, at first. But as the cold liquid filled my insides, my eyes widened in fear. All I saw was more darkness.
I gasped for more air, but icy, deathly water rushed into the void.
I wished for the man to sink and rot on the riverbed.
Such thoughts were wrong and sinful.
I felt my muscles lose strength, and I knew in the struggle, my life was slipping away.
Am’ma was not there to greet me.
There were no white lights.
No pearly gates.
No St. Thomas, once a doubter, but still the blessed saint of my people.
No St. Peter.
But I saw a glimpse of infinity, where anything was possible, even these things.
There were worlds without end.
Then the darkness formed into a shape. A woman.
She cradled me.
She was cold. So cold. The sharp cut of the icy water was warm compared to her touch. The emptiness of death seemed like a warm fire in her embrace.
She whispered. No words came from her mouth; her voice echoed inside my head.
I am Merla Kali, she says.
I did not know her, but when she talked to me it was how I imagined the voice of angels calling in the Bible.
But she was filled with darkness, and she was colder than anything I had ever felt. She was nothing like the angels in paintings.
She wanted to show me who she was, who she is, who I am. I needed to see through her eyes, all the things she has seen.
I blinked.
I’m on a ship. We’re the first to travel to what will become London. On the dark choppy waters, I face the shoreline of a new world. We’ve come far. Some people died on the way, they’ll never see these new lands. Our ship glows with the firefly light of the flickering torches. I look to the new lands and see nothing but a few faint grey wisps coming from what might be straw-huts. These people will pose no threat to us. This will now be our home.
I blink.
I walk the banks of the great river and wash the blood off my hands. We have taken. We have built and replaced. This is how great cities start. It has always been this way. Progress is only fed by sacrifice—normally of the indigenous at the hands of invaders.
Stone buildings replace straw.
I blink.
From the lands of the east, I watch London thrive. The Romans come, like they always do.
In the night my people dream. They excel, they play and are unrestrained by the rules of daytime.
Roads are made. Soon there will be animals, beasts of burden. The Romans pray to their gods. They have killed those who first made these lands their home. They have stolen from the thieves. Invaded the invaders. They will come for our lands soon.
Rome is mighty and the people of these barbaric lands have paid with their lives, if they resisted, or the suppression of their cultures and beliefs if they didn’t.
Taxes. Violence. Bloodshed. Callous brutality. Rome knows no boundaries. No morals. Only glory.
The kingdom of the east has no king. The king, my husband, is dead.
I am the great queen of the Iceni tribe. In my grief, they steal my lands. The Roman soldiers flog me. They make me watch as they violate my daughters. I do not cry as I watch my daughters lie bloody and bruised as the soldiers drink and laugh and dance. My flame-coloured hair is tinged with the red of my daughters’ blood.
At night, I lead my forces to raze Colchester, the Romans’ great military fortress. It becomes just an orange glow on the horizon. But that is not my prize. London is next.
My copper hair flows in the wind of my chariot. I am a queen, and they will know what darkness is.
My blood-soaked face is a picture of calm in the annihilation.
Parts of London are levelled. The Romans taste the sourness of defeat.
They will see darkness.
I am Boudicca.
I blink
I am the mishmash wooden buildings and cobblestone streets.
I am the lords of the lands and the animal-dung shovelling gong farmers.
I am the pestilence and disease.
The great fire.
The steam engines and pistons.
I am the screaming sounds of gunfire and the whistle of bombs.
I am the terrorist attacks.
I am the glow of pleasure in the night.
I blink.
I am the shopkeeper in the newsagents’.
I am dead.
I am the armed robbers.
Dead.
I am Am’ma.
Dead.
I am Archie. Barely alive. I welcome the numbness as I inhale the smoke. I welcome pain others give me. There are times it feels good to be reminded that I am alive when so many I know have died.
I am the supressed, vulnerable and weak. I am Faith. I came in a shipping container, clawing for food and drink. I was running from horrors. My family sacrificed everything. Now those old horrors seem welcome.
I blink.
I am back. I am alive.
I am pushed to the surface of the Thames. I gasp. I scramble and my lungs swallow air like it is my first breath once more.
I am pulled to the riverbank. I rest upon the silt of Queenhithe.
I am Maria.
I am alive.
I am Maria.
I am Merla.
Cal
I watched the kid, Archie, disappear into the night and couldn’t help but wonder what would become of him. What sort of future did he have? What could I do about it? I felt helpless. I couldn’t even save one street child.
Not that I knew many police officers, but Iona Stone didn’t seem like a typical one. Her friend Raf, even less so—I didn’t believe in religion, or fate, but the fact that the three of us had been drawn together was more than coincidence. As for things that were beyond the physical world, who was I to question anything anymore?
Iona led the way. We ran south from Mansion House, towards the ancient Queenhithe dock nestled on the tidal waters of the north bank of the Thames.
I’d always been hypnotised by the reflection of the city on the water, but it wasn’t the glowing lights that drew me this time. We stood on a platform overlooking the Thames. Below us, on a small, dark beach, the waters lapped at a dead body.
My stomach lurched. Archie’s words whispered in my mind. They’ll both be dead by now.
The freak from the station lay on his back. He stared up into the night like he was slee
ping, but his lack of movement and his chalky skin colour told me he was dead.
There was no girl.
My skin pimpled on my arms, in the same way it did when Merla was near. But there was no sign of her, either.
I thought about the shared purpose Iona, Raf, and I had. Danielle linked us, but there had been some unease in Iona’s voice when she’d discussed Danielle—which was natural given the reporter’s theories on Iona’s police unit and Verity Armitage, her boss.
I took out my phone and scrolled to Danielle’s number, my thumb hovering over her name. Part of me wondered if she was really interested in me, or if it was all part of her role—would she really go to those lengths for a story? Part of me didn’t care; just seeing her name made me happy and hopeful. I had thought was impossible.
As we looked down towards the lapping Thames and the body below, I heard urgent and determined footsteps approach. I spun to see a woman with a retro, razor’s edge fringe styled in a bob that wouldn’t look out of place in an Eighties pop video. She wore thick-rimmed glasses, the sort a stereotype-librarian might wear with a with a chain, and a stern look.
“Bollocks!” Iona muttered to Raf. “This is all I need. Bloody Vanessa Coleridge. I thought we got rid of her.”
“No funny business this time, Stone,” the woman called Coleridge said. Her voice was precise and practiced, no emotion or variation, like a sat-nav barking directions. “I brought some help with me.” A man walked towards us. As he approached I realised just how tall he was, maybe six-five, six-six. He wore a suit, and with his slicked-back hair, he looked like he could have been the love-interest in Coleridge’s pop video.
It was not the time to ask questions. Stay scthum, silent. Let it pan out. The answers will come.
“I believe you already know Ryan Thistle. He used to work for Jimmy Kinsella. I hear you were close to the old dog. Ryan is now working as a special ... consultant. He reports to Director Armitage, just like me. But, sadly, not like you anymore. Who better to investigate rogue police, or to know how the criminals work and think, than one of them? Of course, it’s all strictly above board. Mr Thistle is not involved in that stuff any more, are you, Ryan?”
“No, Detective Coleridge. Those days are long behind me. I just want to do the right thing. Help this beautiful city. How are you, Detective Stone?”
Iona’s mouth opened. “Nice to see you again,” she said sarcastically. “Ryan Thistle, the big man. Hotshot. Right hand man to Jimmy Kinsella. How is Jimmy?”
“He died.”
While the news was not unexpected, the dispassion in Ryan Thistle’s voice and his coy, lopsided grin, hit her like a hammer.
“Now you’re sharing the spoils with Josh?”
“He’s ... missing. It’s just me. I’m on the right side of the law now.”
“You always had your own ideas, didn’t you, Ryan? I didn’t want to say anything to Jimmy, but you were fairly high on the list of suspects when we were investigating the human trafficking element of Operation Scythe.”
“You’re wrong, Stone.” Thistle preened his slicked-back hair. “You know Jimmy would never allow that sort of thing. He might have been a gang-lord, but he had strict rules.”
“Rules I’m certain you ignored. Just when we started investigating you, Raf was hospitalised and I was told to ease off the case. Which I did, like a good girl. But something was nagging at me. So I started investigating again. Started my surveillance and I got a breakthrough. I’d been following Leo Jeffers; he was planning to pick up people from a human trafficker, but he got involved with the newsagents’ robbery. You knew Leo didn’t you, Ryan? You’ve used him for work. Behind Jimmy’s back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You know I worked for Jimmy Kinsella. Jimmy made the rules. I followed. You were there with us recently.”
“Is that so?” Coleridge smiled. “How very interesting. Not quite as clean-cut as you like to make out, are you, Stone?”
“Better than someone who is dealing in the sorts of crap Thistle is. Not to mention someone who’s working with him knowing all this.” Iona shot her an icy look.
I wanted to be somewhere else. What did any of this have to do with me? But in the short time I’d spent with them, I liked Iona and Raf. They were only interested in finding the missing girl. They weren’t playing games like Thistle and Coleridge.
“I suppose you backed off the case because you knew what was good for you, Detective Stone.”
I looked at Raf. His fingertips ran along the lines of his facial scars.
Thistle looked at him and laughed. “People who play with fire always get burnt.”
Raf was calm. His eyes were narrow and focused intently on Thistle. In contrast Iona was pacing. Then she suddenly sprung forward to confront Thistle. I jumped into the space between them. I’d taken an instant dislike to both Thistle and Coleridge. Thistle was trying to antagonise Iona and Raf, but nothing good would come from confrontation.
“You’ve always been a sad little conspiracy theorist, Stone,” Coleridge snarled. She turned to Thistle. “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Thistle, that your friend, and mine, Iona Stone, is currently suspended from the police.”
Ryan Thistle put his hands in his pockets, shook his head dramatically, and tutted.
Raf looked away.
“I see you’ve hooked up with your ex.” Coleridge said. She had a faint smile that looked like it might crack her taut skin. “How sweet. You are human after all, Stone. Feeling lonely? Needed some help? Rafel, isn’t it?”
Raf turned to her and nodded.
“I hear you’re a decent hacker, Rafel. You like to think of yourself as a cyber vigilante, a Robin Hood of the Internet.” Her unnatural smile widened to the point that it edged the rim of her glasses. “But you got on the wrong side of some people who decided to teach you a lesson. People smarter and more powerful than you.” She smiled. “That much hospital food can’t be good for a person can it, Raf? You were in there a long, long time. Several major operations. Pain so bad that the meds barely touched it, I hear. I see the scars on your face have started to heal. Wouldn’t want to go through that sort of thing again, would you?” Coleridge sucked air through her teeth. “Nasty business. I hope they catch those responsible.”
Thistle sniggered.
I looked closely at Raf, waiting for a reaction, but none came. He must have been used to playing this game with the authorities.
Not getting the response she was looking for, Coleridge turned to me. “And who might you be? I didn’t know you had more than one friend, Stone.”
“He’s not with me,” Iona said. “He was just walking by. Raf and I were lost. We asked for directions. I don’t even know his name.”
Iona was convincing, but neither Coleridge or Thistle looked like they were buying it.
Coleridge stared at me, expecting me to answer. I stepped backwards. I wanted to put space between us and the wall to distract them. I was painfully aware of the dead body lying more than a dozen feet below us.
Bollocks. My move had the opposite effect. Ryan Thistle angled his lanky frame over the wall. “I think you might want to see this, Detective Coleridge.”
She was a good foot smaller than he was, and with the two of them peering over the wall with their backs turned to me, they could have been father and daughter.
I wanted to leave. Bloody hell, what a day. What a day.
Iona, then Raf, both shook their heads at me as I started to pigeon-step back from the scene.
My phone rang.
Thistle and Coleridge turned.
The display said it was Danielle Greene. I’d done nothing wrong. They could try and bring me in for questioning, and it might get uncomfortable, but they’d have to release me the minute they realised the dead creep had nothing to do with me.
But then I remembered the fight. What if they found bruising on him when they examined him?
What if the marks on his body matched the shape of my fists?
I rubbed my knuckles. They were rough and flaked. I wanted to put my hands in my pockets, but I held the phone and the world seemed to be on pause—waiting for me to answer it.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Hi yourself,” Danielle said. It was so good just to hear her voice again.
“It’s not a good time. Can we talk later?”
“What’s up?”
I pressed the phone closer to my face and talked with that ridiculous voice that is growling and mumbling, designed to hide what is being said, yet only draws attention to it. “I’m with the police.”
“Are you in a station?”
“No.”
“Are they there now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who they are or what they want?”
“Yes, to the first. No, to the second. Detective Coleridge and someone else who is helping her.”
“Are you with anyone else?”
“I met two other people. What does it matter?”
“I need to know, Cal.”
“Detective Stone and a guy called Raf.”
“Are you shitting me?
“No.”
She paused for a moment. Coleridge was giving me dagger looks. “Pass the phone to Coleridge,” Danielle said.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
I held the phone out to the detective. “It’s for you,” I offered meekly.
Coleridge snatched the phone out of my hand.
The exchange was frosty. Short, sharp sentences, filled with closed questions and answers.
Coleridge handed the phone back to me. “You can go, sir. I’m sorry for taking your time.”
I didn’t wait for a permission to leave. I turned and marched away, knowing that Danielle might have been able to swing things for me, but judging by how Coleridge and Thistle treated Iona and Raf, I suspected that the Pope or General Secretary of the UN wouldn’t have been able to get them any leeway.
All I could do was follow up the lead I’d gotten got from Merla. Gerry Armitage’s suicide was connected to everything that was happening. He’d had a micro memory card with him. A detail so small that it was impossible to notice it in the panic that overwhelmed me when he jumped.