by Mark A. King
Henry logged into the machine and stepped back, allowing me to take the driver’s seat. I unwrapped the pink paper from the micro SD card. All the note said was: Find my phone, followed a number—which looked like a PIN. I looked at the slot on the side of the PC and huffed out a sigh of frustration. “This thing is too small, it’ll just fall into the machine. It’s a micro SD card, and this slot looks like it’s made for standard-sized SD cards.”
Danielle retrieved a set of keys. “Don’t worry, I carry an adapter with me. I’m forever having to take notes on my phone and transfer them,” she explained.
I fitted the micro-card into the adaptor. When I inserted the adapter into the PC, a pop-up message said the card was locked. There was no way of accessing the information. Although I had a PIN, there wasn’t any way of entering it.
Danielle looked at the screen. “What now?” she asked.
“Now we try to open the locked folders on this card. If only we knew some friendly hackers,” I said, grinning.
Henry approached. “Anything I can help with?” he asked.
"No. I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Is there something wrong with the machine?”
“No, Henry. The machine is fine. I just need to access the information on the card, but it’s locked and I’ll need help to unlock it.”
Henry smiled. “Sorry, son, I can’t help you with that. You’re lucky I knew how to turn it on.”
Danielle frowned. “I’m worried about Iona and Raf, Cal. How can they help us if they’re in trouble themselves? You said Ryan Thistle was around. Who’s to say that he didn’t have something to do with Coleridge’s death? He’s not to be trusted, Cal. He’s a violent thug only kept in check by Jimmy Kinsella all these years.” Danielle tugged her phone out and started to dial Iona’s number before I even had a chance to speak.
I could only hear Danielle’s voice as she talked to Iona. I tried to piece the half-conversation together. “What? Hold on a minute. Are you serious?” Danielle’s mouth was open and eyebrows raised. “You’ve found Maria—that’s fantastic! What happened with Coleridge?” Danielle’s grin was disarming, but then it solemnly faded. “She jumped? No, don’t go anywhere near Armitage or the unit. Come to my apartment. I’m with Cal. Meet us there in half an hour.” Danielle reeled off the address to Iona before finishing the call.
I turned to Henry and thanked him.
On the way out of the storeroom, I noticed a bowler hat.
“Anyone claim this?” I asked Henry.
“It’s been there as long as I can remember,” he replied. “I hear they’re making a comeback with the younger generation. But I don’t think the owner is coming back for it now. You got your eye on it, Cal?”
“A friend used to wear one. I just wondered what it might look like on me. Mind if I try?”
“Tell you what, if it fits you, you can take it.”
I tried it on.
Perfect fit.
Iona
In the landscaped light of the gardens, Iona saw Maria Mathan.
Iona’s phone rang, starling Maria.
Who the hell could be calling now?
The display said Danielle Greene. Iona answered, whispering, not letting Maria escape from her view. She finished the call.
Iona had half an hour to make it to Danielle’s address. It sounded urgent, but not as urgent as Maria was to her.
Iona stood just a few feet away from Maria and the boy, Archie. Iona wanted to scream, to laugh, and to hug Maria tightly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so happy and unburdened by the guilt and responsibility she seemed to carry with her everywhere.
The last time they had met was the worst day that Iona could remember since Raf had been hospitalised. Iona looked at Maria’s eyes, dark and soothing pools of calmness despite everything she had gone through.
“I’m Detective Iona Stone,” she said.
“I remember you,” Maria replied. She stepped further into the light, her dyed hair shimmering in a spotlight. “It was the morning I arrived, the time Am’ma was taken from me. You stopped me, but you did not help.”
“I’m sorry.” Iona bowed her head and her chest went rigid and closed like a birdcage. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about. I replay the events over and over. There is no excuse. I should have helped you. I allowed you to be in danger when I should have protected you. This is Raf. He has helped me to look for you. You’ve been in danger, but you’re safe now.”
Iona expected Maria to interrogate her, to ask her to prove her identity, and to show suspicions even once Iona proved her credentials. Instead, it was as if the girl was looking inside her, reading her, scanning for the truth. Despite its soft and serene appearance, Maria’s gaze became unnerving, and Iona looked away.
Maria turned her head towards Archie. He was slumped on a bench, injured, bleeding. “It is true, I am safe, now. But we need to get Archie help.”
Iona approached Archie. “Do you mind if I have a look?” Archie didn’t resist or refuse. Iona gently examined his face and skull before lifting his top and checking his front and back. “As far as I can tell, there’s nothing serious, but we really should get him checked out. There’s a homeless shelter not far from here. I’ll call for an ambulance to arrive there, but there’s no telling how long it’ll take them. The shelter will have first aid and somewhere comfortable to wait. We have met the person running it; I know she’ll help.”
Maria bent down to look at Archie before tilting her head so he could whisper in her ear. “He said he’ll go, but only on the conditions that you leave him there and that you take me to see my father.”
Iona smiled. It was right and proper that Maria should see her father. He had been distraught with fear. Having been through the loss of her own mum, Iona also knew the loss and grief that Maria would be feeling. Iona was pleased that Maria still had her father.
“I need to go somewhere, Maria,” Iona said. “I don’t want to leave you, but as long as there are people who wish to do you harm, you will be in danger. I need to stop this from happening to you. There are others, too.”
Maria glanced at Archie and nodded.
“Raf will take you and Archie to the shelter. It is a designated safe place for children. He will make sure that Archie has whatever support and care he needs, and then Raf will take you to see your father. It’s likely that social services will need to be involved. I trust Raf with my life. Are you willing to trust us, Maria?”
Maria nodded.
Iona had little time to make it to Danielle’s address, and she needed to hurry. Much as she wanted to stay with Maria, she knew she had to continue with the investigation. At least Raf would take care of Maria for her.
“Are you going to find the Emptywing?” Maria asked.
Iona tilted her head. “The Empty what?”
“Emptywing. The boss. The person who controls the evil. She hides unseen, in the darkness, but she’s pulling the strings. She’s known as Westbourne.”
Iona’s eyes widened. “How do you know about Westbourne?”
“The name was mentioned during the robbery at the newsagents’. Perhaps they thought nobody could hear them. But I remembered it. Westbourne is the person we need to stop. I want to help. People working for Emptywing—Westbourne—killed my mum. You probably think that because I’m a child and have disability that I’m weak. But I’m not.”
Iona shook her head. “Nobody is saying you are anything but strong, Maria. Yes, you’re right, she needs to be stopped. I’m sure it’s someone I work with.” Iona thought about the confession from Coleridge, but could it really have been her? On her own? “I can’t do this it alone, it’s too dangerous for you. Some friends are going to help me. The shelter is the safest place for you. Just don’t tell anyone you are there.”
Maria’s shoulders sagged. She slowly pulled out a phone. “You might want this,” she said. “I took it from the knifemen in the newsagents’. It belongs to someone else, and I k
now this phone is valuable to Westbourne. I tried to use it, but it was locked. Perhaps you can unlock it?”
Maybe I can, if I have enough time and access to the right tools, Iona thought as she gently took the phone from Maria. “Why are you so trusting of me, Maria?”
“I have been through so much. I was scared, terrified, and unable to trust anyone. But I have been to the dark edge and beyond. I can see you for what you are, Iona.” The confidence of Maria’s voice and the strength of her conviction flowed through Iona like a waterfall. “You are right; this needs to stop. Not just for me, but for Archie, for the other witness to the robbery and so many vulnerable people who will suffer if Westbourne continues. I will be safe. I know this, for sure.”
Iona slid the phone into her pocket. She checked on Archie again before saying goodbye to Maria and Raf.
Iona hailed a black cab. The streets were largely empty, and she only noticed the red blur of double-deckers, the yellow glow of road-cleaning machines, and the occasional, stumbling pedestrian. The cab cut its way through the streets, heading towards the eastern portion of the city.
As they entered the street where Danielle Greene’s apartment was located, the road was smudged with the faint wisps of smoke.
“Probably another bin set on fire,” the chunky taxi driver offered. “The fire engines probably won’t even come out this time. Most of the time it’s trouble-makers wanting to pelt the fire engine with rocks or drink cans. Disgusting, if you ask me.”
Iona made an exaggerated tutting sound. The last thing she needed was a long conversation about whatever was grinding the gears of the taxi driver. “That’s fine. You can drop me off here.”
Paying the driver, she noticed that the smoke was thicker and it seemed to be spewing from a window on the third floor—and Danielle was in Apartment 303.
Iona rushed to the doors. Glass littered the floor in tumbled shiny beads. The security door was hanging off its hinges, holding on to the frame like a drunk to a lamppost.
As Iona entered the building, the smoke grew thicker and denser the further she looked up the stairwell. The fire alarms started to sound, and the residents were making their way down the stairs in various states of undress and confusion. Iona stood aside to let them pass. Most were coughing, their eyes clearly stinging from the thicker smoke above. The residents spilled into the street, crunching the glass underfoot as they congregated on the pavement.
Iona tried to hold her breath. The small gulps of air she sucked in passed through the fabric of her sleeve.
She could smell the acrid, choking stench of plastic burning, but she could also smell something else. The very faint smell of petrol.
This wasn’t an accident.
She was six again. Smoke billowed out into the night like a demonic creature. Inside the smoking building her mum was trapped. Maybe drunk. Maybe stoned. Perhaps already dead. The guilt for wishing her mum away. The fear of the fire. Pushing forward, regardless. Burning air in the lungs. Clothes smouldering, skin-hair singeing. Choking. Gagging.
Being lifted and dragged out into the night, so, so cold. Lying on the hard concrete walkway, breathing, trying to scoop the air in, not enough, not enough. Wheezing and fearing that the next breath might not come, might not fill her body with clean, pure air. Wanting to go back into the flaming onslaught, but watching the silhouette of Jimmy Kinsella smashing through the flames as though they were nothing more than flimsy, annoying spider webs.
Through the hellfire he runs, to save a woman. To save her mum.
The stream of residents slowed from a torrent to a trickle to none. In the multitude of passing shapes and worried faces, there was no Danielle, no Cal.
They were up there somewhere. Trapped.
At the side of the stairwell was a fire notice underneath a reeled firehose and variety of large fire extinguishers.
Iona pulled the hose out, turned the stopcock, adjusted the nozzle, and dowsed herself in the punishing assault of the ice-cold water. She ripped a piece of her sleeve off and drenched it, to cover her mouth and nose. Grabbing a large blue and red CO2 extinguisher, she clambered up the stairs two at a time. She felt like an acrobat, one hand holding the drenched cloth over her face, the other dragging the deadweight of the giant metal canister. Iona attempted to adjust her weight and balance while climbing to avoid tripping. Visibility was increasingly poor, and the heat started to rise with every two-step leap.
Between the first and second floor, two men were coming down. Not coughing. Moving leisurely. As they approached, it became clear that they had breathing masks on.
Trouble.
As Iona ascended, the first man lunged at her.
She ducked, and he lost his balance. As he started to fall, she shoulder-barged him into the railing, where he toppled over the edge. The second guy stopped. He had the higher ground and stood in a fighting stance, one foot in front of the other, fists up like a boxer.
No time for this nonsense.
She gripped the extinguisher firmly. There wasn’t enough room to swing it at his head, which was the only sure way to floor him. She swung it straight back and unleashed it full force into one of his kneecaps. He screamed—a deep animalistic howl. He buckled but did not fall. He swung his elbow at her. Iona tilted, but not quick enough. Although the blow was just a glance, it almost knocked her off her feet. The man, still above her, swung his fists at her in an uncoordinated onslaught.
He’s not thinking. He’s desperate. Take advantage. Now is the time to strike. Hard. Unforgiving.
She dropped the rag from her mouth, lifted the base of the extinguisher, and grabbed it with her free hand. Unlike the on previous hit, this time she stood another step lower. He was so busy throwing ineffective punches, exhausting himself, that he didn’t see the battering ram coming. It smashed into his ribcage like a sledgehammer. This time he crumpled.
He tumbled down the stairs, almost taking her with him. Once he slumped on the landing, she climbed back down, careful not to breathe in any of the smoke. She checked his pulse.
Still alive. Still breathing. Come back for him later.
Iona removed his mask and put it on, hoping that he’d survive the smoke, which was thinner on the landing than in the stairwell above. Breathing through the mask, she tried not to think about the previous owner and what germs might be on the filter.
She darted back up the stairs, the smoke changing in shade and density from fossil to lead. She felt the heat burning through the thin fabric of her clothing.
Outside room 303, the angry flames of yellow and orange wrapped themselves around the doorframe. Between the roar of the inferno and the crackle of the wood, she couldn’t her any voices from inside.
Her mum had been saved, but she might as well have died. Her scalp had been left a patchwork of limp hair and bald, angry, plastic-looking mounds. The pain had never ended. Her mum had died long before she committed suicide.
“Danielle! Cal!” she screamed into the cacophony. The memories of her mum pushed her forward against the heat and smoke.
Nothing.
Iona took the fire extinguisher, removed the safety tags, and pointed the nozzle at the base of the fire.
She swept it across, and at first, the fire seemed to know who its enemy was, and it coalesced, twisted, coiled, and pounced on her.
She stood firm. The fire lessened but didn’t die. The door to the room was still intact. The fireproofing may have saved Danielle and Cal, but it meant no shoulder barge or firm kick.
What if there was a fire behind the door? Or a source of air? Opening it could cause fireball.
Iona could not touch the door to feel for heat, as she knew it would severely burn her even though the fire weakened.
No time for indecision.
“Stand back!” Iona shouted, unsure if they could hear her or not.
She used the fire extinguisher, once again, as a battering ram.
The door juddered, but did not fall. In the heat, Iona felt her knees buckli
ng.
Just one more try. One more…
The door smashed away from its frame and fell inwards to the apartment.
“Cal! Danielle!” she called. “We need to go. Now!”
From the far end of the apartment, a door opened and two people crawled out. They were covered in wet towels and coughing like they had lung disease, but Danielle and Cal were alive.
Iona helped them to their feet. They’d come from the bathroom. Iona could see the wet towels and robes rolled like sausages where they must have been wedged against the door to stop the smoke getting in.
“Are you able to walk down the stairs?” she mumbled behind the mask.
They both nodded. Both were still gasping for clean air, but opening the windows might have been dangerous.
Cal grabbed a hat before leaving Danielle’s apartment.
This isn’t Indiana Jones, Cal, Iona thought. “No time to mess about. Let’s go!”
Iona led the way through the flames, down the charred stairwell. The grubby stench of smoke filled her nostrils and tightened her lungs. “This was no accident,” she said. “I caught two men coming down. Let’s just say they came prepared.”
“What if this is Armitage?” Danielle Greene rasped.
The lower they went the more the smoke eased. Deep in Iona’s heart, there was an ache, a pang of unwillingness to accept what Danielle was saying. “Vanessa Coleridge confessed, just before she threw herself over the edge of the platform overlooking Queenhithe Dock. She said she was Westbourne, and now she’s dead, Danielle. Why would she have confessed if it wasn’t true?”
“I guess she was covering for Armitage,” Danielle spluttered. “She might have been trying to protect those she loved.”
Iona continued down the stairs, trying to process the possibilities as she went. Cal and Danielle followed. Down the stairwell, there was no sign of the either of the men Iona had tackled earlier, but she could see a pulsing glow of blue and red as it filled the hallway.