by Tim Lebbon
As she knelt beside him he heard the soft click of her knees. Good. The sound was the first thing that made her real.
“It’s not much, I’m afraid,” she said, placing the tray beside him. Her voice was music. On the tray were a bowl of porridge, several slices of buttered toast, and a cup of steaming tea. Vince’s stomach rumbled and he reached for the toast, biting into it.
It was the best he’d ever tasted.
“Good,” the woman said. “Nice to see you have your appetite back. Here, let me see that arm.” She reached for his left arm, lifted it, and studied the deep cut briefly before starting to wipe at it with a wet towel. It stung, but Vince was happy to let her tend him. There was a power about her, even though she was so gentle that she barely seemed to touch him. He suspected the towel was soaked in more than water.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Mainly scratches, although the wound on your elbow should have been stitched. Too late, though. You’ll carry a nice scar, but then don’t we all?” She appeared to sniff his arm. “No infection. You’re lucky. I know someone who could help you if there was, but everyone’s lying low right now. Too much risk being out on the streets, even at night.”
She dropped the towel and picked up another, turning her attention to his face. She watched him chewing the toast and he tried to hold her gaze, but had to turn away. She’s so beautiful! As he took another bite of toast she started wiping his face.
“Sorry I haven’t done this before, but I thought it was best to let you rest. I’ll try to get some fresh clothes for you soon. Best that you stay here for now. Stay hidden.”
“What are you?” Vince asked. The question didn’t throw her at all. A chill stroked his spine, his balls tingled.
“You killed two of them, and they’ll want revenge for that. They’ll want to make us suffer, but we can’t forget that you helped us—and we never will.” She stared into his eyes. “I never will.”
Behind the pulsing pain in his head flashes of memory formed, and even when he closed his eyes they were still there. He wished they’d go away. Violence, blood, and death danced before him, flooded red with every beat of his heart.
“Angela is looking for you.”
“Angela!”
“We’re trying to warn her off.”
“I’ve got to go to her.” Vince struggled to rise, but dizziness took him, and the woman’s gentle grip eased him back down. Though small as a child, she was incredibly strong. Her hands seemed to press against him, kneading his shoulders, and he smelled her breath, her scent. It was mysterious and thrilling, fragrant and unknown. Her warmth reached him, and his skin tingled all over. He felt himself growing instantly hard. His breath came faster.
She smiled gently, then let go of him with a single shake of her head.
Vince sat against the cool wall and she pressed the hot mug of tea into his hands.
“Drink. You have to stay here. I’m looking after you, but you must stay hidden away, and you can’t go to Angela.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re watching her, waiting for you.” She looked him over, glanced at the tray she’d brought, then stood and backed away. “I’ll come back later to collect that.”
As she turned and opened the door, Vince placed the mug on the floor beside him, pushed himself up, and staggered across the room.
The woman turned in the doorway and he saw past her into the corridor beyond. The carpeted, smooth-walled corridor, its lights glaring and wide, panoramic windows offering a high view all across the city. A million lights burned. Traffic moved in distant streets, and aircraft lights flashed on other tall buildings. He’d thought they were way down low, but the opposite was true.
Seeing his surprise, the woman smiled for the first time.
“Hiding in plain sight,” she said. “How do you think we’ve survived for so long?” She pulled the door toward her, and moments before she closed and locked it she whispered through the crack, “I’ll be back later.” The words hung in the air like a promise.
Alone once again, Vince sat back against the wall and closed his eyes, willing the pulsing pain in his head to settle.
Angela, he thought, I’m so sorry. The idea of never seeing her again was dreadful, so he tried to think of other things.
By the time he ate his porridge it was almost cold.
4
Angela thought she spent the night trying to sleep, lying awake in bed, glancing at her phone every few minutes even though she’d heard no pings. Struggling not to panic, and waiting for dawn to burn away the night that felt so deep. But then the sounds of enthusiastic screwing stirred her from a troubled slumber, and she realised that she’d drifted off after all.
She felt guilty about that.
She was also unusually annoyed at the couple upstairs, and padding through the apartment toward the bathroom, she hoped they’d finish quickly. They were being much more vocal than usual. Maybe they’d had nice dreams.
As she sat on the toilet, the front doorbell chimed. Startled, tugging up her pajama bottoms, it was only while she hurried along the hallway that she remembered about Lucy.
Her friend stood on the doorstep. In one hand she held two huge takeaway coffees in a cardboard tray, clutching a bag of croissants in the other. She smiled, then looked past Angela into the shadowy hallway and lifted an eyebrow.
Angela shook her head and started to cry. It surprised her as much as Lucy.
“Oh, come on babe!” Lucy said, shoving her back from the door and closing it behind her. She hugged Angela, arms pressing close as she balanced their breakfast. “Come on. It’s a lovely day, let’s go through to the garden and…”
From behind and above, Angela heard her neighbours reaching a crescendo.
“You’re kidding me,” Lucy said.
“I’ve told you about them, right?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were living underneath Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas.”
Angela laughed through her tears. “Thanks for coming.”
Lucy glanced at the ceiling. “That’s what she said.” Then she gestured. “Come on. Garden. I’m famished.” She was dressed smartly for work, and she held that healthy glow that Angela was so used to. She’d probably already run five miles that morning.
They sat in the garden eating croissants, drinking coffee, and talking over what to do. Lucy was a strong, calming influence, as she always had been, and Angela loved her for that. It was strange having breakfast with her friend instead of her lover, and she couldn’t shake the idea that every hour that passed took her further from ever seeing Vince again. She thrummed with the need to do something.
She didn’t show Lucy the notes, or tell her about them. She wasn’t sure why.
After a few minutes Lucy said cautiously, “You know the police won’t be interested.”
“Yeah, I know that. They’ll just say he’s left me.”
Lucy remained silent.
“He hasn’t left me. No way.”
“I don’t know,” Lucy said, sipping the last of her coffee.
“Well I do!”
“How?”
“Because we’re in love!” Angela shouted. A few gardens away, beyond fences and shrubs left to grow high, a little dog started yapping. Elsewhere a door closed. She was airing her grief in public, but right then she didn’t care.
“Okay, sweetie,” Lucy said. She stood and hugged her friend tight. “I should be getting to work, but I can swing a sickie if you like?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll go to his office, talk with them, see if he said anything yesterday.”
“You’ll tell them he’s missing?”
“Well, if he’s just left me like you think, he might even be there.”
Lucy sighed, then gathered the empty cups and bag from the patio table. Angela watched her, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. By not showing her friend the notes, was she hiding from them herself?
Because she knew V
ince wouldn’t be at work. Behind the notes was a hint of danger, a shred of fear. She was the only one who could tease it out.
* * *
Angela had driven past Vince’s office a dozen times before, picking him up or dropping him off when for some reason it wasn’t convenient for him to take the Tube. It was housed in a nondescript building a ten-minute walk from Oxford Circus station, and as she dodged flocks of tourists and countless Londoners keeping to themselves, she had time to think about what she was going to say.
It was a warm, sunny day in the city. Pollution hung heavy in the air with nowhere to go and nothing to move it, and she wasn’t surprised to see the first of the face masks out, similar to the type surgeons wore. They’d become more and more prevalent, and it was another reason she’d started to think about moving out of London. She could never have kids while living in the city.
There had been other boyfriends back in Boston, and an engagement while she was in her twenties, but Vince was the first man with whom she could seriously see herself being a parent. They had chatted a few times about moving out of the city, though he’d never seemed keen. He liked his job, but she thought it was something more.
She’d started to wonder if he’d ever wanted kids. It had become a deep-set worry, an ache in their relationship that had the potential to turn into a canker, and it was the one thing she’d been afraid to broach. Her own thoughts of children had never been overly powerful, not until she’d fallen in love with Vince. Then the clock’s ticking sometimes became a roar.
She reached Anders and Milligan and stood outside for a moment, across the road and shielded by a bus stop. The office was on the second floor of an old building, above a ground and first-story clothes shop. The entrance door was up two steps and there was a small nameplate screwed to the wall beside a bell and speaker, but nothing else to give away the company’s location. She’d asked about this the first time she’d seen it, and Vince had replied that it wasn’t a business that took casual callers.
As the city bustled around her she stared. Blinds were drawn against the glaring morning sun, but she could still see a large plant pot behind one window, and movement behind another. She shifted left a little, but couldn’t make out anything more.
He might be in there now, she thought. Maybe he’s a mess. Upset at what he’s done to me, supported by his colleagues. “There, now, Vince, it’ll all be okay, plenty more fish in the sea, and you did the kindest thing.”
“No,” she muttered. A young man standing beside her glanced in her direction, but he looked away again, unconcerned. London was full of crazies. He probably thought she was just one more.
Angela left the bus stop and crossed the road, dodging taxis, cyclists, and a buzzing clot of mopeds. She pressed the bell before she had a chance to think about it anymore, standing back and waiting for the response.
An electronic crackle, and then a woman’s voice.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Angela Gough, Vince’s girlfriend. Any chance I can come in?”
“Oh, hi. Sure. Vince isn’t here, though.”
She sounds fine, Angela thought. Not on the defensive. Open and cheery.
“I know,” she replied. “That’s what I want to ask about.”
The speaker turned off, the door buzzed, and she entered a blissfully cool corridor.
She climbed four flights of stairs, and the bright young woman behind the reception desk stood to welcome her in.
“I’m Baria,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you at last. Vince is always talking about you.”
“He is?” Angela shook the woman’s hand, thrown by the welcome.
“Sure.” Baria glanced aside at a man sitting on a sofa, drinking coffee, as if looking for support. He said nothing. He eyed Angela from face to toes and up again, slowly, and she turned her back on him.
“Has he been in yet today?” Angela asked.
“No, I think he was working out today. Hang on.”
The receptionist’s voice lost its shiny edge. She could tell something was wrong, and may have been turning over company policy in her mind as she skirted back around the reception counter, accessed her computer, and scanned a diary grid.
“Only he left his phone at home, and I know he’ll need it,” Angela said, as chirpy as she could muster. “The way it’s grafted to his hand, it’s amazing he can forget it. You know?”
“Huh, yeah,” Baria said without taking her eyes from the screen. She tapped a couple more keys, then stood straight again. She looked at Angela, smile back on her face.
“So if I know where his appointments are, I can take it along to him,” Angela said. “I need to be able to contact him. I’m sure you do, too.”
“He isn’t working for us today,” Baria said. “Not yesterday afternoon, either.”
Angela wondered what the hell she was talking about, and tried to keep the surprise from her face. She sighed and smiled, glancing around as she gathered her thoughts.
The reception area was light and airy, with several doors leading off, all closed. Baria’s desk was low and wide, uncluttered apart from the computer, phone, and a couple of other gadgets Angela couldn’t place. Three tasteful paintings adorned one wall, hanging between doors and displaying scenes from old London—grander buildings, fewer pedestrians, carriages, smokestacks in the distance.
The man on the sofa stared at a magazine, but she could tell his attention was on their exchange.
“He was going to Clerkenwell for work yesterday afternoon,” Angela offered. She couldn’t compute what was happening here, and rather than try to fake her way forward, thought maybe honesty would be the best route. Even on the defensive, Baria seemed nice.
“Not for us,” Baria said, frowning now. She glanced at the man, then walked toward one of the closed doors. “Follow me, we’ll pop into his office and check out his paper diary.” She nodded her head slightly for Angela to follow.
They stepped into a small meeting room, six low chairs set around a circular table scattered with building and property magazines. Casual, informal, intricately designed, and definitely not Vince’s office. Baria pushed the door closed.
“You know he’s freelance, right?” Baria asked, her voice low. She leaned on the back of a chair.
Angela considered lying, but only briefly. With every second that passed, her life became a more complex place. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, discovering truths that everyone but her knew.
She shook her head.
“He works for us two, three days each week,” Baria continued. Her fingers tapped the chair, and she looked just over Angela’s shoulder. “He’s a nice guy. You’re all he talks about.” It was almost as if she was speaking to herself.
“Look, I’m worried,” Angela said. “Things are really good between us, just… the best ever. But I haven’t heard from him since yesterday, and I’m worried that something’s happened to him. He’s not responding to calls or texts, and that’s not like him at all.”
“So he does have his phone,” Baria said.
“Of course. Like I said, grafted to his hand.”
The other woman nodded cautiously, and wouldn’t quite catch her eye.
“What?” Angela asked.
Baria stared at her then, an internal dialogue almost visible on her face.
“I’m getting a coffee for the gentleman out there,” she said. “Vince’s contact file is open on my computer.” She opened the door and left before Angela could respond, crossing the reception area with a smile and a nod to the man, disappearing through another door into a small kitchen.
Angela stood at the open doorway. The man read his magazine, blinking quickly. He wore a good suit, a nice tie, but there was a spot of brown sauce on his shirt, and one of his suit buttons hung on by a thread. She was good at noticing such details. It was how her mind worked, and that ability fed into her interests and studies. But right then the thought of the law, and her criminology degree a
nd thesis, seemed petty and far away.
She moved to the desk and sat quickly behind it, scanning the screen. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the man’s surprised gaze on her, but ignored it.
She froze. Breath held.
Then she picked up a pen and Post-it note, and wrote furiously.
She scribbled down the address and left the reception area without looking at the waiting man. It was only as she pulled the door shut behind her that she thought to whisper, “Thanks.” She didn’t know whether or not Baria heard her.
She didn’t really care.
* * *
Walking along Old Brompton Road from South Kensington station, she went further and further away from what she thought was real. Vince’s second address couldn’t be anywhere like this, could it? They sometimes came here together for meals, and occasionally to visit her folks when they flew over and stayed in one of the boutique hotels. They often gazed into real estate agents’ windows, marvelling at the multi-million-pound prices of apartments not much bigger than their own.
She’d always thought that the people who lived in places like this had two perfect kids, four-wheel drives, and six-figure salaries. Not couples like her and Vince.
Or just Vince.
She turned over the possibilities.
He’s got a second place somewhere with another woman, another lover. Those days when he’s not working for Anders and Milligan he spends there, with her, having another life during the day.
But he always came back to her at night, and there was something comfortable about that, something committed.
Or maybe I’m the lover! He’s unhappily married, and when he’s with me his wife thinks he’s away working.