Metropolitan Dreams (Cityscape Book 1)

by Mark A. King

  “Are you okay to walk that far?” Robbie asked, concerned that Charlie’s injuries hadn’t had enough time to heal.

  Charlie nodded. “I’m not sure you would have bothered to ask before. It’ll be a challenge. I might need to lean on you for help, but we need to see this through.”

  “Lean on me all you want. No strings. I just want you to be safe, and this way he’s coming for you, maybe coming for me, but it’s on our terms.”

  “Do you have a plan?” Charlie asked.

  Robbie had a plan, but Charlie wouldn’t like it.

  As they approached the shimmering Thames, the Millennium Bridge glowed like a bleached-white whale-spine, suspension ribs jutting out at obscene angles from beneath the footpath. Robbie and Charlie started to cross the Thames, heading away from St. Paul’s towards the industrialised brick cathedral of Tate Modern and the thatch and oak curves of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. Half-way across, they stopped.

  “I don’t want to do this. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Do what?”

  Robbie looked down both sides of the bridge. He saw an elongated shadow creeping from the north side of the river. Ryan.

  Robbie maneuvered himself behind Charlie, yanked her hair back, and levered his free forearm around her neck. She instinctively whimpered. He needed it to look as realistic as possible, so he tightened harder.

  Ryan Thistle approached, his suit rumpled and lopsided, his hair dishevelled. “Hand her over, Pigeon.”

  “You got the money?” Robbie replied, manhandling Charlie for further effect.

  “Fuck that! Although I did bring something you might want to see.” Thistle opened his suit jacket. In the belt of his trousers was the handle of a handgun. Thistle clicked his tongue and winked. “You didn’t really think I’d give the likes of you money, did you, Pigeon?”

  Bollocks. Didn’t expect that. Robbie tried to buy some time while he considered his options. “Hang on a minute. We had a deal.”

  “Deal? You are really one thick idiot, Pigeon. Now, let her go. I want a clear shot. Then I might give you a running start, if you tell me where the phone is, of course. Nothing like a bit of practice on a moving target, is there?”

  Even for criminals like Thistle, guns were not commonplace. It was easy enough to handle most situations with personal violence and knives, if it came to it. Guns drew attention and inevitably led to an uncontrollable escalation in violence. The last thing the criminals, Londoners, or the police wanted was an arms race.

  Thistle took the gun out and pointed it at Charlie. “Have it your way. I’ll just shoot her from here.”

  “Think you’ll get away with it? What about the gunshot noise?”

  “You think that’ll stop me? Or do you think I carry one of those great screw-on silencers, like in the Hollywood movies? Or even better, I could use a plastic water bottle or padded fabric. It’s all bullshit, Pigeon. We’re far out across the bridge. Nobody’s here. Much of the noise will be supressed by the river and the buildings, what little is left won’t be loud enough to draw attention. Probably not the best location you could have chosen, is it?”

  Robbie thought about CCTV, but there were no cameras in the middle of the bridge. Perhaps at either end, but Thistle’s employers could easily delete or tamper with any evidence. Robbie released Charlie. She fell to her knees and gasped for breath. Robbie held his hands up and walked slowly forward, blocking the line of fire. He looked at the railings closest to him and down below to the swirling Thames.

  “What are you doing?” Thistle said.

  Robbie glanced back at Charlie. She was still struggling for breath and rubbing at her wounds. Robbie didn’t smile or slow to check on her. His priorities were elsewhere. He marched forward.

  “That’s far enough,” Thistle growled, waving the gun at Robbie. “Stupid move, Pigeon. I’ll just shoot you, then shoot her.”

  “What about the phone?”

  “Something tells me there is no phone, Pigeon. Come on, no point in trying to play games anymore. You’ve lost.”

  Robbie smiled. “No. You’re right. I don’t have the phone.” Robbie assessed the gap between them. It would take at least two or three seconds to lunge at Thistle. More than enough time for him to fire one or two rounds at close range.

  Stay low. Use the space well. It’s the only way.

  Goodbye, Charlie.

  Robbie ducked his head and ran full-pelt at Thistle.

  A crack, like thunder, reverberated across the river.

  Lights dimmed.

  The impact slowed his momentum but didn’t stop him.

  He was on Thistle before he could fire another round.

  Thank God for that. He’d find out if there was a god soon enough. Another hit would have finished it.

  Robbie threw himself upright and shoulder-charged into the thin, tall figure of Ryan Thistle. Robbie thrust in the air at the last moment, smashing the crown of his skull up into the underside of Thistle’s chin. A crack of bone, or teeth, it didn’t matter. As Robbie tumbled over the side of the safety railing, he wrapped his arms around his neck, grasping Thistle as he toppled. The man had gone limp and was falling with him.

  Job done.

  Robbie Hawke fell. The city had never looked so beautiful. And in the weightlessness, in the cold rushing wind, for the briefest moment, Robbie knew what it was like to soar.

  Maria

  In the shelter, I was given blankets, food, water, and reassurance. When I told them my story, Helena, the night manager, cried until the dull floor was filled with the shine of her tears.

  I asked Raf to help find Dad’s address, for I still did not know it. It took Raf only a few moments.

  I stayed with Archie for a while. He slept in restless jerks, like a dog does when it dreams. He would heal, Helena told me. She agreed that he should go to hospital to be safe and to be checked over, but we all knew that would not happen.

  “Will he be okay?” I asked.

  “That depends on what you mean,” she replied. “He was on the streets for a reason. He will find adjustment hard. He might have withdrawal…” she looked at me. “Do you know what that is, Maria?” I nodded. “Withdrawal is more than a just feeling want or need. It can make you physically sick, and it is traumatic in itself. I do not want to lie to you, Maria. You deserve better. It will be hard.”

  “How many children are there like Archie?” I asked.

  “Too many to count, Maria. We only get to help a small number. Most stay hidden. The numbers are larger than anyone would think possible. Archie is lucky to have you helping him. But even I don’t know if he will make it.”

  But I knew Archie. I knew the darkness outside and the darkness within everyone. I saw pain, shaking, coldness, isolation, desire, and temptation, but I saw him come through the end of it. Settled, happy, confident. “If you help him, Helena, he will fight and he will win. I know it will be up to him to see this through, but he will need help. Can you give him he help he needs?”

  Helena smiled. She held my hand and said, “Yes. We have a range of specialists we work with. We will do our very best.” Helena let go and turned to Raf. “She’s a remarkable young woman. It’s time she went to see her father now. Although I really think it would be safer for him to come to us.”

  Raf looked at me. His face was relaxed, and there was no concern in his voice. “She has come this far. Trust me, it’s safer if we go to him. We know the risks. He needs to stay where he is. He can’t even know we’re coming.”

  “I’ll still have to tell the authorities,” Helena said. “It’s protocol.”

  “Can you at least give us some time?” Raf said. “I’ll be honest. I fear for her safety, and like you said before, the police have hardly covered themselves in glory in this case, have they?”

  Helena nodded. “I’ll give you an hour. No more.”

  She called us a cab. Raf worried that hailing one outside might take us too long or expose us to risks—anyone could pi
ck us up, he explained. I looked in the mirror before we left. I ran my hands through my dyed blonde hair, I would change my hair back as soon as I could, for I was proud to be me. Who else could I be, anyway? I no longer felt the need to fit in or be accepted. My background, my condition, my experiences were what made me. Why should I react to the way that others judged me? That only weakened the one true thing I had, and that was that there was nobody else like me. I would embrace and celebrate my uniqueness. I would need to remember these things, not just in my grief, but in the months and years to come. I had work to do. There were people to save and a city to protect. In the mirror, in my eyes, I saw not only Am’ma, but I saw Merla, confidence and strength.

  When the cab came I sensed no increase in umbra, but it was building around the city. It was in the east, which was useful, as that’s the way that we needed to head to reach Dad. I did not tell Raf that we would not be seeing Dad, yet. “I think you should phone Iona,” I said. “She will want to know I am safe and that we are heading to meet Dad.”

  Raf smirked, his scars tightening around his grin. “You’re right, Maria. That’s the right thing to do. Maybe if I was less selfish and more considerate, Iona and I might still be together.”

  As we headed east, towards where the sun would be rising before long, the umbra was growing in the buildings, in the pathways, in the underground tunnels. I was not afraid. The Emptyman was no longer a threat. The Emptywing, Westbourne, could spawn as many helpers as she needed. There would be no end to this until someone confronted her.

  It was her turn to feel scared and frightened. I was coming for her.

  Iona

  Before they left the dark car park that overlooked the smouldering building that once was home to Danielle Greene, Cal fumbled in his pocket.

  “What the hell are you doing, Cal? This is hardly the time to be messing around. We need to get out of here!” Iona shouted.

  Cal removed a small package, which was wrapped in what looked like pink paper. He unfolded the paper and read it. Iona waved at him. “This is important, it’s why they came after us,” Cal insisted. He handed a micro memory card to Iona. “I don’t know what’s on this card, but I guess it’s bloody important.” Iona took the card from him. “Someone died for this,” Cal’s voice trembled. “We tried to access the data, but it’s locked. I guess we need to find the phone that it came from.”

  Iona’s heart jumped. She scrambled for the phone. She thrust it out and edged the memory card towards the slot. “I think I have it here. This phone came from the crime at the newsagents’. We know the gang behind the attack wanted this phone back desperately. Why? If the card belongs to the phone then it will only be unlocked by it. But that depends on unlocking the phone, and I can’t unlock it without the right tools and software. I don’t want to put the card in unless I know for sure I can unlock it.”

  Cal held the pink paper up. “If the card unlocks when the phone does, then I reckon you won’t need to hack it at all. Try this number.”

  Iona tapped the number in. She almost dropped the phone as the final digit unlocked the device and the Home screen appeared. She slotted the card in, and the decryption automatically worked with the unlocked phone. She scanned through the open files, and her grin widened. “Bloody hell. We’ve got everything here.” Her face turned sour as she realised what she was seeing. Each discovery confirmed what she suspected, but desperately didn’t want to admit. “Most recently there are texts on the day of the newsagents’ attacks linking Ryan Thistle and Leo Jeffers to Westbourne. We’ve got contact details of her customers and the people she uses. It’s even got Jimmy Kinsella listed. There are photos linking the phone to Verity and Gerry Armitage. This is Gerry Armitage’s phone! It looks like he knew what she was doing. He’s taken copies of invoices, e-mails, text messages, IP addresses, all with the name Westbourne on them. Bank account transactions under the name of Westbourne but subsequent ones with matching values and dates under the name of Verity Armitage. That scheming bitch. It was her all along.”

  “We need to move,” Danielle harried. “She’ll do anything to stop that information from being exposed.” Danielle looked at the plumes of smoke. “You’ve seen just what she’s capable of. She’ll send people after us again, you can be certain of that. What’s the plan?”

  “We need to get to Liverpool Street Station,” Cal replied.

  The nearest Night Tube station was Stratford, a good ten-minute walk away. From Stratford, they could get head to Liverpool Street.

  Iona started to jog, with Cal and Danielle beside her. She worried that running through the streets made them highly visible and easy targets.

  “Get the night bus?” Iona asked, figuring it would be safer to be off the open streets, away from the large spaces and almost infinite places hitmen could hide.

  Cal paused as though processing the idea. As they all darted across the street, he replied, “It makes sense, we’d be able to see them. It would also be quicker, but it would trap us. If they did board the bus, how would we get out? It would take too long to clamber out of the fire windows.”

  They scurried in and out of the parked cars to avoid being easy targets. Iona, even with her normally heightened state of paranoia, couldn’t see anyone tracking them.

  Iona thought about what Armitage had done. She’d hidden evidence, used her position, prevented Iona and Raf from getting close to the truth, and then seen to it that Raf had almost died. And what about Maria Mathan, her mum, countless victims of an extended crime network? And what of the hundreds, maybe thousands of others being exploited or ruined in the name of money for the sordid gratification of the powerful?

  Iona paused and caught her breath, Danielle and Cal joined her.

  “Just give me a minute,” Iona said as they moved into the shadow of a nearby alleyway. Iona tapped the map icon and traced the GPS history. “I can trace the phone back to the newsagents’, then all the way back to the house that Verity and Gerry Armitage shared.”

  “Stop messing about. This is dangerous. You already told us you have everything we need. We need to go,” Danielle snapped. “What if she can trace the phone using Gerry’s Google user account? If he didn’t leave the accounts on ‘remember me’ settings, then she can easily just use one of the many tools to crack his account.”

  Danielle had a point. The phone could be traced easily, from nearby Wi-Fi signals to phone triangulation. Most phones were continually trying to assess where they were. Iona had tracked enough people using these same techniques. Using apps, browsers, phone or text only added to the risk. Iona tapped at the settings, selecting to decrypt the memory card before removing it and tucking the miniscule object into the coin-pocket in her jeans. She handed the phone to Cal. “We don’t really need this anymore, but they don’t know that, do they?”

  Cal nodded and stuffed the phone into his pocket. They headed out into the street again, running towards Stratford station.

  They cut through the Olympic Park, the stadium still fresh from the recent conversion.

  They heard the sound of motorbikes revving. In the distance Iona could see the smoke from their spinning tyres. The riders weren’t suited, nor did they wear helmets. No time for them to get changed, Iona guessed.

  Cal led, with Iona and Danielle close behind as they raced across the River Lea, multiple times, the river snaking and flowing through the park like dark veins underneath thin grey skin.

  The motorbikes growled and rumbled as Danielle, Cal, and Iona clambered flights of stairs and cut across the concourse. As the riders approached, Iona recognised one of them as the arsonist on the stairs whose mask she had taken.

  Iona was running so fast that the street ahead seemed to be shaking, as though they were in an earthquake. In the shuddering view, Iona tried to count the bikes. At least four, and each one had a rider and a passenger.

  The revving increased and the gap closed.

  We’re not going to make it to the station.

  The sensible t
hing is to spilt up.

  But…

  The bikes were behind them, wheels only feet away.

  The engines eased as the riders lessened the throttle—they didn’t have the clothes or helmets to avoid serious injuries in a crash.

  The engine noises increased again, and two of the bikes drew level while two tore ahead. On the bikes, either side of them, the passengers pulled out handguns, aiming at the three exhausted runners. Iona realised they had nowhere to go. The riders in front spun around and headed back towards them.

  Iona slowed so she was a foot or so behind Cal and Danielle. Then she dived headfirst towards the rushing concrete, her fall softened by Cal and Danielle, the impact throwing the three of them to the ground just as two shots reverberated around the Olympic Park.

  Cal took the brunt of the impact, landing just before Danielle, and Iona landed on top. Her hands scraped the rough ground. Cal and Danielle had fared worse.

  Before Iona could register pain, she looked up. She’d saved them, just in time. The bikes had fired at each other. Both bikes toppled and skidded across the concrete, the riders and passengers thrown into the air like ragdolls.

  Iona gingerly stood. A moment later Cal and Danielle did the same. They faced the two remaining bikes, accelerating towards them. The passengers used the riders’ shoulders as gun-rests. Cal, Danielle, and Iona separated and sprinted in different directions.

  Danielle ran for the river, but if she intended to draw one of the bikes away, it didn’t work. Neither bike went after her.

  Iona headed towards the crumpled heap of one of the unseated gunmen, whose discarded gun rested only a few feet away from the body.

  Cal sprinted northeast towards the gleaming shopping mall that separated the park from Stratford station.

  At first, Iona cursed Cal, thinking he’d scarpered to save his own skin.

  Then she saw of one the remaining bikes spin its wheels in a cloud of black burning rubber to hurtle after him, leaving her with the only the arsonist she’d nearly killed earlier and the gunman on his shoulder.