Triad

by Simone Leigh

“Depends what you want to do with it.” The old lady sounds puzzled. “Girls your age usually know how much that sort of thing costs, even if they’ve no idea about anything else.”

  “I want it all cut off and a different colour.”

  “What, beautiful hair like that? Cut it off? Seems a shame.”

  “I want it all off.” she insists.

  “Well if you’re determined to do that, and you want to make some money, why don’t you sell it? Hair as lovely as yours, you’d get a bit for it.”

  The girl stares at her. “How much?”

  “Well, I’m not sure exactly. But my daughter’s a hair-dresser. She’ll give you a fair price.”

  “Can you do it now?”

  “She’s not here. But if you wait until next week....”

  “No, I want you to do it now. Cut it off and give me what you think it’s worth. I don’t mind if you make some more selling it.”

  “Are you sure of that, Sweetheart? It seems such a shame.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. And, where would I go to get something to change the colour?”

  “Any pharmacy will sell you home hair dye, Sweets... but....”

  “Cut it off. Please. Do it now and give me the money.”

  “If you’re sure...”

  *****

  A scrawny figure with a slumped walk tramps through the City. It could be a boy who is shooting up early.

  Or perhaps it’s a girl. It’s hard to tell through the unkempt cut of hair, all different lengths at different angles. Mousy brown, it would draw no attention from anyone. Indeed, most fashionable teenagers would immediately colour or highlight or streak it. Yes, it’s probably a girl.

  She flops down on a bench by the park, looking over the clipped lawns and a children’s playground. Children toss bread into a lake, drawing in flotillas of ducks. Young boys play football with fathers and friends. Lovers lie together on the grass, entwined and engrossed.

  The figure sits, watching, then pulls a pasty from a paper bag, gulping it down with large economic bites. When it’s finished, fingers and thumbs are sucked clean of crumbs and gravy.

  At length, she draws a breath, stands and starts walking again.

  *****

  By the rail station, she draws to a sudden halt, staring at a face. Hesitating, she takes a couple of steps back, pauses, then looking around, finds a shadow and withdraws into it, looking out.

  The face she watches: a man, apparently reading a newspaper, sits on a bench. He has a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the station.

  Is her looking for her?

  Or someone else?

  Unobserved, un-noticed, she watches.

  The crowd throngs in and out of the station, busy, going here and there; things to do, places to go, people to see.

  He is uninterested, maintaining his apparent newspaper reading.

  After a while, a girl wanders out of the station. She walks slowly, looking lost. Young, with an innocent, vulnerable face, she carries a small, battered suitcase. Her face is white, her eyes red, as though from lack of sleep, or tears, or perhaps both.

  Standing helplessly for a moment she stares first one way from the station, then the other. At length, with the air of picking a random direction, she starts walking.

  The man with the newspaper watches her as she walks. When she is a couple of hundred yards along, he folds up his paper, stands and follows her at an inconspicuous distance.

  The mousy-haired figure, from the safety of the shadows, watches all this.

  Sharks circling the shoals....

  The figure hesitates, starts to walk in the opposite direction, pauses and looks back. Another hesitation, then with a decisive move, the figure swivels to follow.

  At the second or third step, a hand claps down on the shoulder. Another on the wrist.

  “Gotcha, Jennifer.”

  She shrieks and spins, or tries to, but the blue-uniformed man keeps his hold on her.

  “Thought we might find you around here. What’s this now? Five, six times? You'll get yourself in real trouble you know. There's all sorts of predators out there looking for girls like you.... And what on earth have you done to your hair? What’s this? Some kind of protest?”

  She struggles and writhes, fighting to break free, her voice rising to a shriek while passers-by stare incuriously...

  “Let me go! Let me go....”

  ... but another man in blue uniform arrives, taking hold of her. “Come on, Jennifer. Let’s get you back home to safety.”

  *****

  “You’ve been a very bad girl, Jennifer, spoiling your hair like that. It was the only pretty thing about you. What do you think Mr Klempner’s going to say when he sees you?”

  “He’s going to say that he’s not very pleased about it,” drawls a voice.

  A tall figure towers over the teenager, looking down with a curl to the lip. He fingers what is left of the hair.

  “Made a real mess of that didn’t you, Jennifer. Was it on purpose? Trying to stop yourself growing up pretty?”

  She stares at the floor, staying silent.

  The figure addresses the superintendent. “Get rid of the dye then keep her under lock and key. I’m getting tired of having to retrieve her.” He turns to leave, then at the door turns back. “Oh, and make sure she understands that she’s misbehaved.” He jabs a figure. “But don’t touch her face.”

  “No, Mr Klempner. Of course not.”

  *****

  “Oh, that’s alright Livy. I know you have a job to do. Where do you want to go first?”

  The woman is middle-aged and dumpy, her hair too highly coloured for her jowly face. Cheap shoes nip at her toes and her briefcase is scuffed at the corners. She flips a sheet on a clipboard, then jots a couple of notes.

  “Um, well it’s on my roster to check over the infirmary facilities.”

  He pauses, then smoothly.... “Of course. Um, would you like a coffee first? I was just about to take a break when you arrived.”

  “That would be lovely, Charlie. I’ve been out since seven.” She shuffles uneasily, shifting her weight. “I’m parched.”

  “Fine. I’ll just go and get a couple of cups. Take the weight off your feet for a few minutes. You can use my office.” He ushers her through then walks smartly down the corridor.

  Stepping through a door into a green-painted room, he closes it carefully behind him. The room houses a couple of hospital beds and smells of disinfectant. One of the beds is occupied by a teenage girl who lies at an awkward-looking angle, one arm stretched up to the bars of the bedhead.

  To the nurse, “Get her sedated, quick. And then get rid of the cuffs. We’ve got the inspectors here.”

  He returns to his office where the care worker is waiting, picking at her nails. He reaches into a cupboard, pulling out a bottle. Want a tot in there Livy? It’s nippy today. You must be cold.”

  *****

  Back in the ward, the girl lies tucked in bed, apparently in a doze.

  Livy walks over, leaning in. The girl semi-opens her eyes, looking up at her and trying to speak, but not much comes out. She raises a hand, fingers outstretched, but then the hand drops again.

  “Poor mite. What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’d been drinking would you believe. We’ve no idea where she got it from, but she fell down the stairs, broke an arm and cracked three ribs.”

  “How is she now?”

  “Oh, she’ll heal, but we’ve got her sedated against the pain for the moment. I don’t think you’ll get a lot of sense out of her.”

  Pulling out her file, “I need to make a report on this of course.”

  “Of course. I’ll get you the notes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jennifer Conners.”

  “Oh, yes. her. She’s been a bit of a trouble-maker for you, hasn’t she?”

  “Fraid so. you just can’t help some of them.”

  *****

  James

  Mich
ael stamps into the room, shaking sleet off himself like a dog.

  He makes for the larder, rummaging around before he fishes out a can, waving it at me, brows raised.

  “Mmm... yes. Thanks.”

  He reaches for another, plonks it on the table beside me then flops down onto the chair at the other side. Flipping open the ring-pull, he sucks out half the can in one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Ah, that’s good. One thing about living in primitive conditions. Old stone larders are a good way to keep beer.”

  “Hard day?” I ask, opening my own can and taking a gulp.

  He swipes a hand back through sweaty, grit-filled hair. “Mmm, yes. Long day too. And the short winter daylight isn’t helping either. We’re having to do a lot of the work on lights and cables.” He nods down at the stack of files and papers next to me. You working late too?”

  “I’m reading reports.”

  “Reports? About what?”

  “Blessingmoors. And wishing I could get my hands on the bastards that did this.”

  His face clouds. “You and me both. Found anything?”

  “No. I don't think there are any short-cuts except for Charlotte's interview tomorrow.”

  He nods glumly. “Where is she?”

  I thumb across to the bedroom door, standing ajar. Golden light flickers out. “She went to bed early. Couldn’t keep her eyes open. Nervous exhaustion I’d say.”

  He drops his voice. “Got much more to read?”

  “Quite a bit. I want to be at least slightly familiar with all of it in case anything comes up that.... I don’t know... if.... I don’t know. I just want to be able to respond intelligently if I need to, rather than having to ask Charlotte.”

  He tips his head back, emptying the can. “You alright staying here while I go through to the hotel for a shower?”

  “I’ll not leave her by herself. Take your time.”

  He leaves, and I return to my reading. After a while, it dawns that I’m not alone. Looking up, she’s there, leaning against the bedroom door, her head resting against the woodwork as she watches me.

  She’s wearing another reclaim from Michael, an out-sized tee-shirt that hangs around her, draping in folds. She’s pale and quiet, looking childlike in the voluminous garment.

  I sit up, take off my glasses. “Hello. Feeling better?”

  “Mmm... yes. I slept for a while.”

  “Want to join me? A cup of chocolate maybe? Or soup?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’ll make something then. You go and put some more clothes on before you chill.”

  I opt for the soup. She needs real food inside her. There’s plenty. I’ve settled into the habit of having a large copper always on the go on the range. It holds a couple of gallons and I simply keep tossing in whatever ingredients seem a good idea at the time. Anytime that anyone comes in from the cold, there’s always something hot waiting for them.

  Right now, I think it’s just what she needs. She re-emerges wearing that ridiculous sweater of Michael’s that she’s taken to, thick socks and slippers.

  As she spoons up chicken and veggies and herbs, I ask, “Don’t you have any of your own clothes here? If you’re that short, we’d better get you some more while we’re downtown.”

  “I’ve got plenty here, Master. But I didn’t want to spoil a lot of them with all the mud and....” She snuggles herself into the sweater. “.... I like wearing this. It smells of Michael.”

  I hide my smile.

  What better reason?

  “More soup?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.... Master?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Master, are you alright with this?”

  “Alright with what, Charlotte?”

  “They’re going to ask me questions. And I don’t know what they’ll be... What they might want to know and....”

  Oh, crap....

  I shoot out a hand, taking hers.

  You're still nervous of me...

  .... I let you down twice....

  .... No more....

  I start to speak, unsure of how to answer, then buy myself some time to think by moving around the table to sit next to her.

  Wrapping my arms around her. “Charlotte, I understand there may be things you've not yet spoken of, the memories that give you nightmares perhaps. It doesn't matter.” I take her by the shoulders, turn her to look at me. “No.... that’s not right.... it does matter, but not in a bad way. Not in a way that affects what lies between you and me....”

  Her eyes are glossy. “Charlotte, whatever happens or is said, I'm yours. I am here for you. If anything comes out over the next days or weeks that I didn’t know about or didn’t understand, it’s alright. I know you were a victim and I know that you.... that you may have done things that most people would never have to even consider in their normal, tidy little lives....”

  I hug her to me. “I’m sorry that I.... behaved badly over the summer.... With the things that came out, I simply wasn’t prepared. But now, whatever happens, that won’t happen again. I promise you that. I am here for you and while there’s breath in my body, I always will be.”

  *****

  Richard

  “How is she? Do you know?” asks Beth.

  “Michael rang earlier. He tells me she’s in a grim mood and having nightmares but is determined to go through with it.”

  “It can’t be easy for her.”

  “No, it can’t. The kind of memories she must have... And just when she’d thought she could push them back down and forget about them.”

  There is a knock and Michael enters, followed by Charlotte, then James.

  Beth stands, giving Charlotte a hug. “I’m not going to ask how you’re feeling, but we’re all here to give you some moral support.” She nods towards me. “Richard cleared his diary for the day to be here, so we have as long as it takes.”

  Charlotte’s answering smile is tight. She sits between James and Michael, her face pale but set. Michael takes her hand in his.

  Francis enters carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. “Hello, Charlotte. They’re chocolate chip, your favourites.”

  “Thanks, Francis.” Charlotte’s voice is almost inaudible.

  James pours her a coffee, pushing the plate of cookies to her. She sips the coffee but doesn’t touch the biscuits.

  The door to the conference room opens. The police interviewing officer, Corby, steps out. I can’t say I care for the look or the attitude of the man, but Will Stanton sent him, and he knows the importance of whatever happens next.

  “Will you come through, please Jennifer,” says Corby.

  Beth and I exchange glances. James wears a face like thunder.

  Charlotte’s mouth twitches but she rises, Michael with her, his hand in the small of her back. He kisses her on the cheek. “Good luck.”

  She gives a curt nod and follows Corby into the conference room, closing the door behind her.

  “Jennifer?” says Michael as the door closes. “I hope they’ve sent someone who’s been properly briefed.”

  James says nothing, but sits, slit-eyed, staring at the closed door.

  “Richard,” says Michael, “do you know that officer? The Police Commissioner is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is, and it’s not like Will to send someone who doesn’t know his job.”

  We lapse into silence. The kind of silence where no-one speaks because there is no right thing that can be said.

  Wonder how long she’ll be in there...?

  James stands, staring out of the window, paces a few steps, then sits again, drumming his fingers. Michael draws invisible doodles on the table top with a fingertip.

  There is the scrape of a chair from the next room and a raised voice, Charlotte’s. Then, Corby’s, more nasal.

  What the hell?

  The door bangs open and Charlotte strides out, her face apocalyptic. Corby is close behind her, following...

  “We’re g
oing home.” she hisses.

  Whatever has happened, Charlotte has moved from anxious and apprehensive to battle-ready in the space of a couple of minutes.

  Michael and James exchange alarmed glances, both standing to meet her.

  “Charlotte? What’s wrong?” asks Michael.

  She ignores him, spinning on me, face livid, a finger aimed at my face. “Mr Haswell, I’m sorry, but you told me that this was about Blessingmoors. Not about some kind of witch-hunt on James.”

  I find myself sitting back in my chair against her wrath.

  What on earth...?

  “What...?”

  James does a double-take. “Sorry, Charlotte?”

  “They’re trying to pin something on you, about the auction house and what went on there...”

  He goes very still, eyelids drooping.

  Fuck!

  Does she think I set her up...?

  .... And James?

  Corby interrupts. “Miss Conners, I understand that you’re upset but....”

  “Upset? Upset? I’ve been brought here under false pretences.” Her face on me is pure fury. “Nothing was said to me about any attempt to attack James. And if you think I’m going to help with that, you can all go to Hell!”

  *****

  The Story Will Continue In

  ‘Alphas’

  Free Resource

  ‘Buying the Virgin’

  Timeline Infographic

  ‘Buying the Virgin’ started out as a bit of fun erotica. My original intention was to write a series of five short stories that would give readers a 30 minute ‘helping’ of erotica over a cup of coffee.

  But the story has grown in the telling. With four Box Sets out with more to come, side stories, extra characters and.... well.... Spoilers.... Lol!

  So far, the tale is up to around 600,000 words and is still growing.

  So, for those of you who would like to check in what order to read the books, I have an infographic for you. I update it regularly, and at some point, when I get my ‘tech-head’ screwed on, I’ll produce an improved version with the book links built in.