by David Wood
The note had been quickly scrawled in blue ink, and gave nothing more than a street address in Camberwell, just off Peckham Road. Still south of the river and only a couple of suburbs away from the Holm Institute. Rose had used her maps apps to look it up and discovered it was a simple suburban area. Street view showed a non-descript townhouse, not unlike Jake Crowley’s from the outside, but bigger, and the suburb a lot leafier and more upmarket than Crowley’s inner-city Deptford address, where everything seemed to be gray concrete.
She called Crowley after that, while she sat drinking bad coffee in a Dulwich Village café. She told him all about the encounter with Zochowska, how poorly it had gone. He was skeptical of the receptionist coming to her aid, but agreed when Rose pointed out they had no other leads to follow.
“I finish at lunchtime today,” Crowley said. “My last class ends at twelve-thirty and I normally spend the afternoon in the staff room, marking. But today I’ll skip it and come to meet you. I don’t like the idea of you going there alone.”
Rose had been about to protest when a ripple of nerves in her gut gave her pause. Perhaps he was right, it might be too risky. What if the receptionist was on the side of the guys who had tried to abduct her twice now? What if the receptionist had aided the data breach? She hated the way her thoughts were going, the dark and paranoid possibilities she found herself considering. Rather than voice them, she simply said, “Okay. I’ll text you a place to meet.”
Rose then found herself with a few hours to kill and a desire to be outside, so she walked from Dulwich Village to Camberwell. It took her nearly two hours, but only because she rambled left and right, looking in shops. She could have made the journey in less than one hour if necessary, but the busy streets and inviting stores were a welcome distraction. The sheer normality of life around her was a balm to a soul battered by dark alleys and hooded attackers searching for birthmarks. Eventually she found another café on Peckham Road, a place of dark polished wood and blue velvet seating, with mirrors on the walls and stained glass lampshades hanging over each table to make rainbow pools of light. It felt safe, cozy, and was only about a five minute walk from the address she had been given. She settled in, ordered more coffee, and sent Jake a text message with the café’s address. Then she tapped up an e-reading app on her phone. She opened a collection of Annie Proulx short stories she’d been meaning to read for months and let the talented writer carry her away on a sea of words, but she couldn’t help keeping one nervous eye on the door, partly in anticipation of Crowley’s arrival, partly in fear that someone else would find her here.
She was getting hungry by the time Crowley showed up, just after one in the afternoon, and slipped into the seat opposite her. She was inordinately glad to see him. They ordered sandwiches and more coffee. She wondered if she ought to cut it back, before the caffeine set her buzzing, but for now it seemed to calm her nerves. They ate while she brought him up to speed on all the details.
After they’d finished and paid, Crowley put a strong hand on her shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “Come on, then. Let’s go and see who these people are.”
The house stood among several others just like it, thoroughly non-descript. A nice enough place, the tiny piece of garden out the front well-tended behind its low brick wall, a Japanese maple tree in resplendent leaf. The front door was painted a deep maroon, the doorbell in the center of the upper panel a shining brass affair with curlicue back plate and faux-ivory button.
“Think it’ll play Für Elise when you press it?” Crowley quipped, but his voice was tight.
Rose realized he shared her concern, but tried to mask it with levity. She threw him a quick grin and pressed the button. A muted ding-dong echoed from inside the house. Silence followed and Rose began to wonder if all her tension would be wasted on an empty residence when she spotted movement through the frosted glass panels beside the door. A gap appeared at the frame, then the door clanked to a stop on a brass chain. A woman’s face appeared, maybe mid-forties, friendly enough under a mop of blonde curls. A large port wine birthmark covered one half of her face from forehead to throat, right over one cheek and entirely circling her left eye.
“Yes?” The woman’s voice was taut with suspicion.
Rose swallowed, momentarily at a loss for something to say. The woman stared. Eventually, Rose said, “I was given your address. I think you might be able to help me.”
“Help you?”
“Yes, I... Honestly, I’m not sure how, but I’ve got nowhere else to go. You’re my last hope.” Rose heard the fear in her voice and part of her loathed that she’d been reduced to begging strangers for assistance. But perhaps the genuine concern would convince this woman to open the door. Though Rose had no idea what kind of help she might be.
“Show me.”
Frowning, unsure what help it would be, Rose held out the slip of paper with the Holm Institute receptionist’s quickly scrawled handwriting. “I was given this address...”
“Not that. You’re not getting in until you show me proof.” The woman raised one hand, pointed to her purple cheek. “You want me to help you, so show me you need my help.”
Crowley leaned forward, whispered in Rose’s ear. “I think she wants to see your birthmark.”
Rose nodded. “Yes, I realize that now!” The response had been snippy. She glanced back at him. “Sorry.”
The woman crossed her arms and tapped her foot, waiting.
Rose turned and lifted the back of her shirt, her gaze darting nervously back and forth along the street beyond the wrought iron gate. What must this look like to anybody who happened to be passing?
The woman at the door gasped. She wore a horrified expression as Rose turned back to face her, then the door closed and she heard the clink of the chain being undone. Relief flooded her as the door opened again.
“Get in here.” She grabbed Rose’s hand and hauled her inside. Crowley stepped forward to follow but the woman put a palm into his chest to stop him. “Not unless you have a mark,” she said doggedly.
“I’m with her,” Crowley said, brow knitting in annoyance. “She’s in all kinds of trouble and I don’t plan to leave her alone in a strange house.”
“You got a mark?” the woman demanded.
A liquid panic swelled in Rose’s gut. Had she walked right into a trap? Was this woman somehow connected with the people who had been hunting her? Then again, the diminutive creature was really no match for Crowley should he choose to force his way in. Or Rose herself, for that matter.
A tall, thin man appeared along the narrow hallway, footsteps silent on the deep red Persian carpet. Rose jumped, but he put a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, wisps of gray hair floating around his almost completely bald head. He looked to be of a similar age and bore a bright red birthmark over the back of his right hand. It ran up his wrist and disappeared into the sleeve of a linen shirt. “What’s happening, Margaret?”
Margaret nodded toward Rose, her hand still pressed to Crowley’s chest. “She has the same mark as Danny.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up. “The same? Really?”
“Exactly the same! And he insists on accompanying her.”
“I’m not leaving without her, and you’re not closing that door with her inside,” Crowley said. He ignored the hand on his chest, but his voice had become dangerously hard.
The man raised both hands, palms out. “It’s okay, no need to worry.” He gently removed Margaret’s hand from Crowley. “I’m George Wilson, this is Margaret. You’d both better come in.”
Chapter 10
Camberwell
Crowley’s breathing relaxed as he stepped into the house and closed the front door. The warm hallway smelled of roses and fresh coffee. A mahogany side table stood against the wall, with wallets and keys in a ceramic bowl on top. Alongside it stood a coat rack loaded with anoraks and scarves. At the end of the hall lay a kitchen bathed in sunlight; an inviting scene, all clean pine cupboards and gray marble benchtops
. The place was as homely and unremarkable as anywhere he could imagine.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret muttered before turning to follow the man. Her husband, Crowley assumed.
“It’s fine,” Crowley said. “I don’t blame you for caution when strangers come knocking at your door.”
She glanced back. “Well, we get quite a few, but things have been tense lately.”
“Come in, come in,” George said firmly before Crowley could question what Margaret meant by ‘tense’. “I’ll make us a drink and we can talk.”
He led the way into a lounge room with a heavily padded floral sofa and armchairs. Glass-fronted wooden cabinets lined the walls, filled with all manner of souvenirs and knick-knack. It appeared that George and Margaret had spent many holidays in the Spanish islands, Majorca and Minorca memorabilia all over the place. A bookcase lined one side of the room, covered with novels and history books, atlases and dictionaries.
“This isn’t what I expected.” Rose accepted a seat in one of the armchairs.
Crowley took the other armchair, privately thinking he knew what to expect now, but he kept his silence. Better to let these people say what they would without prompting. He could press them for more information if he felt they weren’t particularly forthcoming, but something told him that wouldn’t be necessary.
“Can I get coffee? Tea?” George Wilson asked.
“No, thank you,” Rose said. “I’d really just like to talk.”
George nodded, sat beside Margaret on the sofa. “Who gave you our address?”
Crowley watched as Rose bit her lip, clearly wondering how much to tell. He stayed silent. This was her issue. She would be more than capable of deciding what to say, what to ask. He desperately hoped they found some answers here. From a simple date the night before to this, it was insane how quickly things had spiraled away from any kind of normality.
Rose let out her breath. “Okay, here’s the abridged version. For no reason, out of nowhere, people have started following and attacking me.” She gestured to Crowley. “If it wasn’t for Jake here they would have me already. For some reason, they seem to be interested in my birthmark. The only thing I know of that could have led them to me was a data breach at a clinic I visited last year to enquire about maybe having the thing removed.”
“The Holm Institute?” George asked.
“The very same. So I went there, demanding information because I had nowhere else to turn. They were hardly helpful, but as I left, the receptionist told me to be careful and pressed a piece of paper into my hand. It had your address on it. So here I am.”
George nodded, hands clasped. He tapped his index fingers against his lips for a moment. The he said, “We’re a support group for people whose birthmarks have had a negative impact on their life. It started with a couple of friends and a private internet group and led to us meeting regularly here. We open our house for the meetings, lend mutual support, and people find acceptance here.”
Margaret smiled, patted George’s knee affectionately. “Sometimes we find more.”
“So the receptionist sent me here to get support? Why did she tell me to be careful?”
“You mentioned that Rose has the same mark as someone called Danny,” Crowley said, nudging the conversation in the direction he thought it should go.
“Yes,” George said. “I imagine that’s the connection. The receptionist at the Holm Institute is Claire Brady. She has a mark too, here.” He ran a hand over his side, from ribs to chest. “She comes to our meetings, as did Danny.”
“Did?” Rose asked. “What happened to Danny?”
Nerves rippled in Crowley’s stomach. It was surely a very strange coincidence for two people to have the same birthmark. He would never have considered it possible, let alone likely, unless Margaret here had said it were the case. So it seemed these people hunting Rose were not just after any mark, but a very specific one. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Danny had met the same guys who had accosted Rose, only perhaps poor Danny had not managed to get away.
George spread his hands, then clapped them together again. “This is entirely speculation, of course, because we don’t know anything for sure. Danny is a member of our group. Odd fellow, very interested in the occult and stuff like that, but a very nice young man. Friendly. Genuine. He was always talking about wanting to find the Devil’s Bible, whatever that is. He said it was the key to understanding his mark, that there was a lot more to some birthmarks than simple skin irregularities. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago he didn’t come to the meeting. It’s not that unusual, of course, people don’t come every week. But Danny was pretty regular. We’ve become as much a group of friends as anything else. We usually play cards, chat, you know. It’s a social thing, regardless of what brought us together. Then he didn’t come again last night. He may very well come along next week and everything will be fine, but I think perhaps Margaret got a bit of a spook when you showed up with a similar mark after he’s been AWOL for a while.”
“It’s not similar,” Margaret said. “It looks exactly the same!”
George frowned. “That seems unlikely...”
Crowley couldn’t help but agree, though he had seen the shock on Margaret’s face. Rose stood and turned around, hoisted up the back of her shirt.
A long moment of silence hung in the air, and then George said quietly, “Good grief.”
Rose sat down again, eyes narrow with concern. Crowley couldn’t bear the haunted look she wore. “What did Danny mean by this Devil’s Bible being the key to understanding his mark?” he asked.
George shook his head. “No idea. He was always saying strange things like that. Sometimes we’d press him for explanations and he’d clam up. Other times he’d go rambling about all kinds of things I could rarely follow. He wasn’t crazy, but he was a bit... left of center, you know? He said there was stuff in this Devil’s Bible that would give him access to the truth, but he never really clarified what he meant by that.”
“Is that why you looked so shocked when you saw my mark?” Rose asked Margaret. “Because it’s just like Danny’s? Or is there something more?”
Crowley smiled inside. Perceptive girl. He’d wondered the same thing himself.
Margaret frowned. “Partly that. Is your name Rose Black?”
Crowley realized the Wilsons had introduced themselves, but he and Rose hadn’t. And the Wilsons hadn’t asked. Perhaps they assumed answers would come in their own time, but maybe they had known all along who Rose was. And Crowley himself didn’t matter to them, unmarked as he was. The nerves rippled back again. So much unknown, so many possible traps or pitfalls.
“How did you know my name?” Rose tensed, her voice wavering slightly.
“Well, I’m no great shakes with names but that one stuck. I heard it three weeks ago when someone new came to the meeting. Danny wasn’t here then either, but we already knew he’d be on a night shift that week, so we weren’t expecting him. This new guy had a mark on his arm...”
“But it looked fake,” George interrupted.
Margaret nodded. “It did. We were suspicious, but at that time we had no reason to think anything weird was happening. Why would someone fake their way into a group like ours? We’re not special people, you know. But this fellow asked if Danny Bedford or Rose Black were in the group.”
The nerves in Crowley’s gut became a swirl of surety. This place was compromised. His muscles tensed, mind snapped alert. They needed to be away from here quickly, in case the men on Rose’s tail were keeping the place under any kind of surveillance.
“How did he know our names?” Rose asked, eyes wide.
“The data breach, I think. When you mentioned it just now it made sense. Danny had been there too. But I think perhaps they were only able to find names among that data, not more personal information, so they’ve been...”
“Canvassing possible contacts,” Crowley said. “They obviously learned of your group and they’re trying all they can to find Danny and
Rose because of their shared mark. But they must have been gathering more intel, because they found Rose’s home last night.”
“And Danny is missing,” Margaret said, brow furrowing in concern.
“At the time we asked him how he knew those names,” George said. “He told us he’d met you both at another place and was hoping to catch up with you again. He seemed evasive and it made us nervous. We told him we didn’t know anyone by those names, just to be cautious, and after the meeting we decided we wouldn’t let him in again. But he never came back.”
“And neither has Danny,” Margaret said. “None of us has heard a word from him since. And we’d never heard of you at all, of course.”
“And now you’ve appeared here at our door,” George said.
Crowley’s concerns became overwhelming. He caught Rose’s eye and stood. “We have to go, I think. Thank you both very much for your help. Can we have a number to reach you on?”
“Of course.” George scribbled a mobile number on a Post-It note and handed it over. “If you find Danny, please let us know. We’re very worried for him.”
Rose stood and they moved into the hall. “This man who came asking after us,” Rose said. “What did he look like?”
George gave a rough description of the man and Crowley overlaid the words quite easily onto the man with the gun who had limped from the alley after Rose’s kick the night before. He caught Rose’s eye and she nodded slightly, that haunted look even more evident in her eyes.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t be more help,” George said. “But call us if you need anything, or if you think of anything else you might want to ask. We’re happy to help if we can. Even if it’s just offering some support.”
“We are,” Margaret agreed. “And I hope you’re both okay. I hope all this blows over.”
Crowley huffed a soft laugh. Such a thoroughly English attitude, that armed men trying to abduct strangers might be something that would just ‘blow over’. “I hope so too,” he said anyway. No point trying to convince them of anything else. He did hope they wouldn’t get any more visits from the same men though. “Keep up your caution,” he said as he shook George’s hand. “Keep that chain on your door.”