Deviance. London Psychic Book 3

by Penn, J. F.

  O looked up out of the window, suddenly pointing.

  "Look, Magda, the ravens!"

  Magda spun quickly and climbed the stepladder up to the high window, gazing out at the birds above, transfixed by their flight. She pushed open the window and began to whistle, soft notes that lilted with a Celtic refrain. It would seem impossible for the tune to be heard above the din of the city and the wind that swept Southwark, but the ravens began to wheel closer.

  Magda's song was like a silken cord, drawing the birds to her, and soon there were hundreds of them flying close to the studio windows, their dark eyes fixed on the woman who sang within.

  There was a vibration in the air, a heightened sense of connection to the natural world, something Jamie hadn't felt so strongly before in London. It was as if the wild had been brought in here, the rhythms of a far older world reasserting themselves in this cornered civilization. Magda finished her song and threw her arms wide on the final note, the ravens cawing as they winged away and the sky was clear again.

  "The ravens are my totem," Magda said, her eyes dark as she descended the ladder. She pulled up her sleeve to reveal the tattoos on her arm in more detail. "They are on me and in me, and they channel my deeper connection to the city."

  "I've heard you called an urban shaman," Jamie said. "Is that to do with the ravens?"

  Magda smiled. "If I see beyond the skin of the city, then my sight is from the birds. But mainly I live in the world of the practical and human. Like last night."

  "Did you know the victim, Nicholas Randolph?" Jamie asked.

  "I didn't recognize his body at first. I didn't know it was him …" Magda sighed. "Nick was a friend and we worked alongside each other. He used to work the streets himself years ago, before finding the church. He was gay and spent a lot of time helping the young male prostitutes. He didn't judge them, but helped them with health issues, education, even with places to stay when they were desperate. He visited them in hospital if they got beaten up. He bought their meds. He was a bloody saint and he didn't deserve to die like that."

  "But despite his good works, people judged him as they judge the rest of us," O said. "Especially the Society, those bastards who marched behind us last night." She shook her head. "Suppression of Vice – it's a crazy aim, especially around here. The sex trade has been in this borough since Roman times, through medieval London and up to today. The Society tell themselves that they're trying to save us, but they're really trying to get us to conform."

  O pulled on her clothes. Skinny jeans and a man's shirt soon covered her tattoo and she could easily pass for an art student on the street. Then she turned around sharply, her face set in determination.

  "Tell her, Magda," she said quietly.

  Chapter 6

  Magda sighed, her face suddenly looking much older.

  "Nick's murder is just the latest in a series of worrying events. There've been a number of people going missing round here recently. Sex workers, illegal immigrants, homeless people. Not exactly the cream of society, but people from our community." Magda paused for a moment to take a sip of her coffee. "Of course these things happen everywhere, but this area is under development and many in power want us gone. Since the Shard was built, prices have shot up and there's a lot of money to be made round here," she said, referring to the 87 story skyscraper in Southwark that opened in 2012 and was still under construction. "If only they can get rid of the deviants, the misfits, those of us who don't fit their idea of the future borough."

  "If we're gone," O said, "then they can pretend it's all hipsters and expensive coffee and build luxury flats over the sins of the past."

  "What have the police been doing about the disappearances?" Jamie asked.

  "We report all of them," Magda said. "But missing persons aren't unusual in these transient lines of work, apparently."

  Jamie nodded, understanding the other side. The police didn't have the resources to tackle every MISPER in London.

  Magda looked at her watch. "I've got to head along South Bank for a meeting at the Tate Modern. If you want to walk with me, I'll show you where some of the people disappeared from as we walk."

  "I'll come along too," O said. "I'm heading in that direction."

  They left the studio and walked back towards Borough Market, turning down Southwark Street and then into Maiden Lane. Neat terraced houses were interspersed with old converted warehouses as they approached the river.

  "This was one of the main streets for prostitutes," Magda said, "back when the Globe and the Rose theatres were the center of the red-light district. Bankside was the Elizabethan Soho. If you look at maps of London, you can tell the areas where sex was for sale, although the street names are changed to something more genteel now, of course."

  They walked down to the Anchor pub on Bankside, now flanked by a Premier Inn. The budget accommodation seemed appropriate to the history of the area, a place that a modern Chaucer's pilgrims might stay. Magda pointed to a service doorway round the side of the Anchor.

  "A friend of ours, Milo, used to sleep rough here," she said. "He disappeared about a month ago. He preferred sleeping out to the hostels where he'd just get bothered." She smiled, her features soft in reminiscence. "He had the face of a fallen Greek god. I've got some photos of him back at the studio."

  "He also had a gorgeous back tattoo," O said. "We compared ink one time. He loved dragons and they flew over his skin, scaled in hues of purple and orange flame."

  "And you've never heard what happened to him?" Jamie asked.

  Magda shook her head. "He's not the only one, and with Nick's murder, I'm worried that Milo may have ended up the same way." She pointed up at the Anchor pub. "The location echoes with Nick's murder, too. The Anchor used to be a brothel and a tavern, a popular place near the bear-baiting pits round the corner in Bear Gardens."

  "The Stews," O said. "That's what they called this area. And it's only a block from here to the Palace of Winchester, where the Bishop who licensed the whores sat in luxury. For four hundred years, it was the Bishop's right to exploit the brothels here, and many of London's most attractive architecture is built on the proceeds of the sex trade."

  Magda laughed, a hollow sound that reflected the irony of the past. "For all its official line on celibacy and prudery, the church turned a blind eye to prostitution, believing it to be something that would always be part of life. As Saint Augustine said, 'Suppress prostitution and capricious lusts will overthrow society.'"

  They walked down a little further to stand on the banks of the Thames. The waters ran swift today, in hues of grey and brown. A working river for trade and commerce, as fast as the city itself, taking goods to the world.

  As they continued on, Magda gazed over to the towers and high-rise office blocks on the north bank.

  "Look at the City over there. A square mile of conformity, where they slander us by day and then come to play here by night."

  She pointed up at a carved stone head with two faces, one pointing east towards the sea and the other west towards the interior of England.

  "It's Janus, the god of two faces," Magda said. "A perfect metaphor for London."

  Jamie understood the dichotomy. London was both sinner and saint. It was glamorous and gorgeous, a rich and intoxicating pleasure garden. But there was also dirt here and darkness and the stink of rotten dead, the wretched mad and crazy drunks lying in its gutters.

  Magda turned to face Jamie, her eyes soft. "This is where the women of the outcast borough have always walked, where men have sinned upon them through sex and lies and judgement. But the earth beneath us and the river that flows through here has nourished us for generations. Someone or some group is trying to move us on, trying to sweep the darkness under the carpet and pretend we don't exist. That's why people are disappearing. But we're not going anywhere."

  They continued west along Bankside, the south bank of the river, a popular path with tourists and locals alike. Every time Jamie walked here, her love for the
city was renewed. She had been offered a job in the police far away from the city after Polly died. But this was her home now and what was happening in Southwark made her even more sure of her place here. London could rip you up and spit you out and leave you with nothing, but then you wanted more of it. And Jamie craved that edge.

  A violinist played in the underpass under Southwark Bridge, the sweet strains of music filling the confined space. O gave a little twirl and put some change in the violin case, blowing the young man a kiss as she did so. There were posters for a masquerade ball pasted along the underpass walls, emblazoned with coquettish eyes peering out from colorful masks.

  "You must come to the ball, Jamie," O said. "We're all going and it's going to be such fun. It's a fundraiser for cleaning up Southwark and a number of the Mayoral candidates will be there."

  Jamie thought of her nights at tango, a side she had kept away from her professional life in the past. Perhaps it was time that she integrated both into her new life.

  "I'll be sure to get a ticket," she said.

  They emerged out of the underpass into the sun and walked a little further to the replica of Shakespeare's Globe, a magnet for tourists who snapped pictures against the backdrop of the round, white theatre.

  "This was a popular place in medieval times to pick up customers," O said. She flashed a flirtatious smile at a handsome young tourist. "Perhaps it still is …"

  Jamie still wasn't certain what O did. The police side of her was ready to ask, but another part wanted to encourage friendship. In the end, curiosity overcame politeness.

  "Do you …"

  Jamie's words trailed off but O picked up the meaning.

  "Sell sex?" O said, her eyebrows raised. She appraised Jamie for a moment, as if weighing trust. "Does it matter?"

  Jamie shook her head. "No, not at all. I've seen you dance and I would think you'd have people queuing up after that."

  Magda grinned. "That she does – but you're picky, aren't you, O?"

  They stood for a moment looking out at the Millennium Bridge, a silver parabola that spanned the Thames between the Tate Modern and St Paul's in the City. Tourists walked over it, their footsteps and happy laughter filling the air.

  "I used to do a lot more," O said, "but most of my income is from dancing and modeling these days. I still have a few regulars and of course I campaign for better safety. The situation is crazy right now. It's legal to buy or sell sex, but it's illegal for women to join together in a brothel. So we can't practice safely together, we can't get security to protect ourselves from the nut-jobs who inevitably try it on. Sex work is just another kind of work after all, and we should all be safe in our jobs." Her face softened. "Most customers aren't too bad, though."

  Magda stretched out her tattooed arm displaying the image of Mary Magdalene kneeling in front of Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. The reformed prostitute as the devoted servant of God.

  "Many of my previous clients wanted to cuddle," she said. "To be touched by another person. They were lonely."

  "Why did you give it up?" Jamie asked.

  "I'm called for other things now," Magda said. "But I know how it feels to be treated the way these women are by a society that can't do without them. It's important for our community to accept the freak and the stranger." She touched the face of Mary on her arm. "The sinners."

  "Who is the sinner, anyway?" O said, indicating St Paul's with a nod of her head. "Did you know that the lanes around there are some of the best pickings for the boys?"

  O looked at her watch. "Right, I've gotta get to the Kitchen or I'll be late for my shift. When can I see the photos, Magda?"

  "I'll have the edits for you tomorrow morning if you want to come over then?"

  "Great." O leaned in and kissed Magda on the cheek.

  "Can I come to the Kitchen with you?" Jamie asked. "I've heard a bit about it, but I've not been down there yet."

  "Sure." O smiled. "We're always in need of a helping hand."

  Chapter 7

  They walked a couple of blocks into a warren of streets near Mint Street Park, finally reaching a rundown warehouse in a cul-de-sac.

  "It's not much, but we try to look after our own round here," O said as she pushed open the back door and stepped into the Kitchen. Jamie followed her inside to find a storage area, shelves stacked high with tinned goods, all labeled and ordered by date. Many were over the sell-by date and O caught Jamie's sideways glance.

  "We get a lot of the tins from supermarkets when they go over date," she said. "But there's a period when the stuff inside is still fine. The food bank gives out specific rations, but then we let people take what they want from the over-date bin. Sometimes that makes all the difference." She pointed at a tin of sticky toffee pudding. "I mean, come on, what's not to like about that?"

  O laughed, a silvery sound that lifted the dank atmosphere of a place set up to feed the increasing number of poverty-stricken Londoners. She led the way into a commercial kitchen area where several other women had already started work. They called greetings to O as she passed.

  "Can you help Meg with chopping vegetables? We've got to get the stew on." O pointed Jamie towards an older black woman with dreadlocks tied back in a blue patterned scarf. She stood by a large sink with a mountain of potatoes in front of her and a box of carrots and other mixed veg next to it.

  "Of course." Jamie headed over and introduced herself, grabbed a peeler, and started on peeling the carrots. Although tentative at first, Jamie was soon into a rhythm. There was a meditative state in food preparation, a repetition that left the mind free to wander.

  "This stew is for the evening run," Meg said. "It's best to cook it for a long time to soften the offcuts of meat that we get, so we have to start cooking it soon. We get a load of regulars every night and then we take any leftovers out into the parks round here." She smiled and Jamie saw that her teeth were crooked and bent. The wrinkles in her skin were deeper than a woman of her age should have and there were faint scars around her neck. Meg put down her knife and Jamie noticed her hands shaking, perhaps a symptom of long-term alcohol abuse.

  "For some who sleep rough, it's their only meal of the day." Meg pointed to a number of round mixing bowls on the side, covered in tea towels. "That's bread, too – we make it ourselves. We have an allotment out east. That green veg is from our garden." There was a quiet pride in Meg's voice and Jamie wondered about her past. Her own tragedy was just one voice in a city of hurt and sometimes it was good to get some perspective, to realize how much others suffered too. Everyone dealt with life in their own way.

  O's laugh rippled through the kitchen area and Meg looked up.

  "She's magic, that one," she said. "Keeps everyone's spirits up, even when we're overrun. She can bring a smile to the most depressed of our clients, and I've seen her face down a huge man high on meth. She's fearless."

  Jamie watched O as she organized the various teams with a smile and a personal touch that left people beaming. She made them laugh with light remarks, always remembering their names. Jamie thought how different this place was from the police, how isolated she had been there. Her own independence had been partly to blame, but as a woman in a male-dominated environment, she had definitely felt left out. But here she might find a place in a community that really seemed to care for its people.

  "Time, everyone," O called out and went to the front door, unlocking it to allow a stream of people into the front area, set up with long tables and benches. They had clearly been queuing outside and they knew the drill. They were quiet as they came in, taking a bowl and lining up for thick porridge liberally doused in white sugar.

  One woman with cardboard pieces tied around her body hefted her plastic bags into one corner and stood silently in line.

  An old black man shuffled forward with little steps, his gait evidence of Parkinson's, his hands shaking as he reached for a bowl.

  A waif of a girl slid through the door, a dirty denim jacket over a short dress, her arms wr
apped around herself for warmth. Her eyes were black with kohl and darted around with nervous energy, her movements jerky and jolting.

  The smell of unwashed bodies pervaded the cooking area, but no one reacted to it. Jamie supposed it was nothing unusual here. She finished the carrots and began chopping the bunches of green leafy veg. Meg pulled two huge saucepans from a rack and began browning onions and garlic, her shaking diminished as she concentrated on working.

  O served strong instant coffee from a big vat, handing it to each person with a smile and a welcome. There was no judgement in her eyes as she looked at them, and Jamie saw that her respect gave the homeless more dignity. They walked to the benches a little straighter in posture, their humanity restored even for a brief moment. Jamie had seen the other side of poverty in the police: the crime and domestic abuse that often resulted from money problems. She had seen these people as criminals, but O and her team saw them as people needing food, warmth and a community.

  After everyone had been served, O went around the benches, speaking in low tones to each person. She carried a bunch of leaflets, clearly trying to help with advice as well as food. The waif-like girl kept her head down as O approached, turning her face away. But O sat down next to her, whispering soft words and after a few minutes, the girl reached out a hand and took a leaflet about the sexual health services she could access.

  The breakfast service soon finished and as each person left, a young man on the door gave each one a brown bag. He had a blue streak in his blond hair and Jamie recognized him as the guitar player from the Cross Bones memorial. Some people snatched the bag away without thanking him, but others were effusive in their gratitude. One woman had tears in her eyes as she left, clutching the bag close to her chest as she walked out into the day.

  "Right, let's get the benches to the side and start weighing out today's rations." O rallied the team as Jamie helped Meg add the meat to the pans and begin to brown them, adding some oregano and other herbs. A delicious smell began to waft through the warehouse, drowning out the unwashed stench that still lingered. The smell of cooking reminded Jamie of the opulence of Borough Market, where food carts overflowed with amazing produce at prices only few could afford. This place was just a few streets away and yet here, they were scraping the barrel to feed the hungry.