by Janet Pywell
‘Would Matt know?’ asks Peter.
‘Maybe. We need to know how long ago they were relocated to foster homes. Did they know each other in the cult or did they meet at Dixon House – afterwards, after they were rescued?’
‘Perhaps they were lovers,’ suggests Peter.
‘They’re kids.’
‘Mikky, don’t be naive. How old were you when you had sex for the first time?’
‘I’m not answering, but it wasn’t pleasant or comfortable.’
‘Maybe you should speak to Matt or Claudia again, or someone down at Dixon House. Find out what you can about their relationship.’
‘What about you, Peter?’
‘I’m seeing Sandra today, and a couple of stunt doubles. They’re looking at the safety of the building for freefall diving. They’re shooting later this afternoon and tomorrow.’
Rain begins pounding heavily against the glass and London is covered in dull, heavy mist, and I feel the weight of the low cloud on my shoulders.
‘Mikky, are you alright?’ Peter asks.
‘I’m frustrated, Peter. Monika doesn’t want to know me, nor do any of the Parks. I just don’t feel we’re getting anywhere.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘We need a catalyst. We need to stir them all up and get a reaction.’
‘That would be like stirring up a nest of vipers, Mikky. These people are dangerous, and you don’t want to get involved with the Asian. We’re not doing that. Let’s just tread softly …’
‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams …’
‘Pardon?’
‘W.B. Yates – The Cloths of Heaven. But I, being poor, have only my dreams …’ I quote, just as a thunderclap rips open the sky.
Chapter 8
“Punishment is not for revenge, but to lessen crime and reform the criminal.”
Elizabeth Fry
An hour later, after I’ve showered and dressed, I’m sitting comparing the photograph of Monica’s tattoo and the close-up image that Peter managed to take from the picture of Ali’s body he hacked from the coroner’s records.
I’ve also placed the iron dagger, made in Morocco, on the table beside me.
It’s not much of a match, but it’s something. It’s a rough sample, so I spend a while sketching the dagger, amalgamating the images, noting the smaller details and trying to analyse the short inscribed text.
When I finish, I scan the Internet, looking at images that resemble my sketch. There is a substantial similarity to my sketch and a dagger that once belonged to Shah Jahan, who lived from 1592 to 1666 and who was probably most famous as the Mughal emperor who built the Taj Mahal, constructed as a memorial to his wife.
The original dagger was sold by Bonhams in 2018, for $3.3 million.
I check some more sites, official records, and my favourite – the Art Loss Register (ALR), the world’s largest database of lost and stolen art, antiques, and other valuable collectables. The ALR is London-based and part of the New York-based non-profit International Foundation for Art Research (IFAR). The database, created in 1991, is used by the art trade, collectors, insurers, and law enforcement agencies worldwide.
It’s my bible, and I know enough about the artwork, and priceless artefacts, to understand that the original dagger would be a collector’s dream.
I call my contact at the London auction house, and I ask for some information, but none is forthcoming. He tells me, off the record, that the sale was recorded as ‘owned by a private collection’.
I hang up, discouraged and thoughtful.
The original dagger is beautiful and quite unlike the iron weapon made for me in Morocco. The carved jade hilt is just over eleven centimetres long, and the curved watered-steel blade almost thirty centimetres. And, according to my contact at the auction house, it was more of a ceremonial weapon, with scrolling designs inlaid with gold at the top of the blade.
More importantly, it appears to match the tattoos that Monika and Ali have on their bodies.
‘But why this dagger?’ I ask aloud. ‘If this is the original dagger that Monika and Ali’s tattoos are based on, why hasn’t it been reported as stolen. Or could it be a replica?’
I show Peter the images of the shah’s dagger downloaded from the Internet. ‘I wonder what happens in the initiation ceremony?’ I ask. ‘Who is there?’
Peter checks his watch, then stands up. ‘Sorry, I have to go, Mikky. I’m meeting Keith and Sandra on set, do you want to come with me?’
‘No, thanks. Call me later,’ I say. ‘Let me know how you get on?’
‘Okay, and you let me know if there are any developments this end,’ he replies, grabbing his coat and hobbling out of the door, while I’m left to ruminate the questions of the dagger on my own.
It’s almost lunchtime when my phone rings.
‘Are you coming in today?’ asks Matt.
‘I thought you were on the film set with Peter,’ I reply. ‘He left a while ago.’
‘No, the Parks aren’t filming until tomorrow. They’re checking health and safety today, and maybe changing some of the stunt routines with the stunt team. Freefalling, I think …’
‘How awful.’ I laugh.
I hear the smile in his voice. ‘Aren’t you interested?’
‘Only if it was off the edge of my sofa. That’s the highest for me. I have terrible vertigo.’
He laughs. ‘So, will you come to Dixon House?’
‘Do you need me there?’
‘Monika’s here.’
I sit up straight, pushing the iPhone closer to my ear. ‘How is she?’
‘Quiet. But you said to let you know if she showed up.’
‘I’m on my way.’
* * *
Monika looks exhausted, and her eyes are devoid of any emotion. Her sharp features shock me; her face appears thinner, and her cheeks more prominent. Although she’s sixteen, she looks like a small child, vulnerable, alone, and defeated.
I fetch us drinks and slide onto the sofa beside her at Dixon House.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
The canteen has machines that dispense lukewarm coffee and hot chocolate, and a tray of assorted wrapped biscuits, and it overlooks the outside interior patio, where two men are smoking. I recognise them as the homeless ones eating dinner last week. The one wearing matted, filthy gloves says something, and they both laugh loudly, expelling smoke and warm air from their mouths. The other one experiences a coughing fit.
Monika holds the mug of hot chocolate between her hands.
‘Did you know there are more food banks in this country than there are McDonald’s?’ Her voice is soft and raspy.
‘No, I didn’t.’ I sip the tasteless coffee.
‘Half a million people need help and turn up at food banks regularly.’
‘Really?’
‘Our government’s crap. They feed the rich and penalise the poor.’
‘Probably.’
‘Don’t you know anything?’ Her scornful brown eyes rest accusingly on me.
‘I haven’t spent much time in England, but I’m sorry – it’s no excuse for my ignorance.’
‘There’s a five-week wait for Universal Credit, so it means most of the time we haven’t got money. It’s cash flow. Don’t you realise? Everyone needs money to pay bills.’
I nod and hold the Styrofoam cup balanced in my palms as I listen.
‘That’s why it’s so easy to get hooked. That’s why you get into it and do what they ask you to do …’ Monika’s voice is a whisper, and I lean forward with my elbows on the Formica table.
‘Who’s they?’ I ask.
‘The gangs. Isn’t that what you want to know? They prey on us. They watch the lonely ones. They look out for the kids who are unhappy and who don’t fit in.’ She taps the table with her index finger, a stirring, rhythmic, angry beat. ‘They trap us.’
‘Did they prey on you?’
She looks away, and her gaze rests on the two men
outside. One puts out his cigarette and pockets the stub in his shabby coat pocket.
‘Mum thought we’d stand more of a chance if we stayed here. She’s from Ukraine originally, and she was a baby when she came to live here in England. She met my dad; he’s from Barnet, but his parents are originally Jamaican – that’s why I’ve got this hair. It’s his hair and this skin is from dad’s side of the family. I hate it. I’ve got his flat nose, too.’
‘I like your hair – and colourful beads. You look beautiful.’
She gazes scornfully at me. ‘What do you know—’
‘What does he do, your dad?’
‘I don’t see him. I haven’t seen him since I was six. Mum threw him out.’
‘Why?’
‘She said he was abusing me, but I don’t remember. I’ve got a vague memory.’ Monika shrugs. ‘I told you about my stepdad and his friends, and what they did to me. I told you everything – you know, that night.’
‘Yes, you did.’ I remember our conversation in the hotel in Morocco vividly. ‘Do you live with your mum now?’ I ask.
‘Nah. She’s in and out of rehab, so I stay with my dad’s sister – my auntie.’
‘Do you like that?’
‘She’s got three sons. They’re not always nice to me.’
Her eyes grow darker, and she puts the chipped nail of her thumb in her mouth and chews. ‘She doesn’t want me training no more. I can’t do any more films. I’ve got to leave the Parks.’
‘Did you tell Matt?’
‘He said he’d speak to her. He said he’d explain. It’s not just a physical thing; it’s mental, too. It helps me.’
‘Does it make you stronger, as a person?’
‘Sure, it does.’ She grins without happiness. ‘I’d be dead without it.’
‘Why do you say that?’
She pauses and looks at the two men outside. The one sitting down is coughing and rolling another cigarette.
‘Look at them. They’ll be dead by the time they’re thirty. Drugs kill – but I won’t take drugs.’
‘Do you now?’
‘For a while, I did. I had to. It numbed the pain.’
‘Then you stopped?’
‘I met Matt.’
‘How did you meet Matt?’
‘I was watching them. They were in the park on the estate where I live. They were doing these jumps and leaps. Joe had a skateboard then, and he’d board down the handrail of the steps. He was so cool.’
‘Was he the best?’
Monica grins. ‘Nah, Adam’s the best, but Ali used to pretend he was. Ali was the gobbiest. He talked the most, and in the end, we would believe everything he said. He always sounded so convincing.’
‘I’m sorry about Ali. It was a terrible shock.’
Her eyes darken. ‘Ali’s not here now.’
‘You must miss him.’
‘He killed himself.’
‘Do you know why?’ I ask gently. ‘Why would he do that?’
She shrugs.
I persist and lean forward. ‘He didn’t appear unhappy in Morocco. That last night we all sat talking, he said he wanted to be a policeman. Like you, he had plans for the future.’
‘You can’t have plans here.’
‘Where – at Dixon House?’
‘No, outside, out there.’ She flicks her thumb at the window.
‘Why?’
‘Because they come along and spoil them. You have to do what they say.’
‘The drugs gangs?’ I lean forward, nearer to her.
She nods.
‘Listen, I need to ask you something, Monika.’ I wait until she makes eye contact with me, then I continue, ‘What do you know about a group – maybe drug dealers – who ask you to swear allegiance to a group, like a cult?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I know you get a tattoo of a dagger, so they know you’re part of them, and you can be trusted.’
Her eyes don’t leave my face, and she doesn’t reply.
So, I insist. ‘You can trust me,’ I whisper.
‘How do you know about this, this dagger tattoo?’
‘Ali had one.’ I reach for my bag and pull out the sketch of the dagger I made earlier, and I turn it around for Monika to see.
She glances down at it and then looks away, out of the window. I can see her thinking as she bites the skin inside her cheek.
‘What about Joe and Lisa? Are they in it, too?’
Monika continues to look at the sketch of the dagger, but her eyes appear unseeing and unfocused.
‘What about Adam?’ I persist.
‘Adam, he doesn’t speak – in case you haven’t noticed.’ She pushes my sketch aside.
‘Were you and Ali lovers?’
She shakes her head. ‘We slept together sometimes but nothing serious.’
‘Did you buy that new iPhone?’ I nod at the pink one lying on the table beside her elbow.
‘Yeah, with the film money. They said they’d still pay me for the next scene even though I won’t be able to do it tomorrow. My auntie says I can’t. I would have taken them to court if they didn’t pay me. I’ve got a contract.’
‘Life is short. There’s no point in haggling over money. But it’s good that they will pay you. Sandra is a decent person.’
Monica shrugs, as if she’s unconvinced.
‘Why won’t your auntie let you do the film?’
‘She don’t like it. She wants me at home.’
‘The other Parks will miss you.’
‘Yeah. Poor Lisa is the only bitch in the team now. She needs looking after.’
‘You need to look out for each other.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But what about Ali? No one could help him, could they?’
She won’t look at me, so I speak slowly, staring at the top of her head.
‘Monika, this is serious; I think he knew something. I think he knew something important and that someone might have wanted to stop him from telling anyone else. I think that caused him to jump off Tower Bridge. Do you think that’s possible? Do you think he had any information that could damage the cult or the Asian?’
‘The police asked me, and I said no.’
‘I’m not the police, Monika. I’m your friend.’
She runs her hand across her tight curls and then rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It’s dangerous. He’d kill me if he found out.’
‘Do you mean the Asian?’
She doesn’t reply.
‘If he found out that you’re talking to me, then the Asian wouldn’t be happy?’
‘If we spoke to anyone. And yes, he’d kill you, too.’
I look around the room to make sure no one can hear us before I lean closer to her ear.
‘I need to know about the dagger, Monika. Is this it?’
‘Yeah. It’s expensive. It’s a real proper one. Sharp.’
‘What sort of initiation ceremony is—’
Monika is looking over my shoulder and her face turns rigid with fear. Her eyes widen, but she’s not looking at me. I turn around, and Adam is standing in the doorway, staring at us both with fury in his eyes.
* * *
Monika doesn’t hang around. She grabs her phone and runs, and I don’t attempt to stop her. Within seconds, she and Adam have disappeared. I clear the table and go looking for Matt, but his office is empty, and Claudia has already left.
In the hallway, there’s a young bearded fellow with a bald head, wearing a striking purple shirt, who introduces himself as Sam.
‘I’m on duty,’ Sam says. ‘There’s a card game going on, and the homeless are arriving for something to eat, so if you want to help out, I’ll see you in the kitchen.’
Sam disappears with a small wave, and I chat to a few volunteers before heading into the kitchen where Sam is washing dishes. I pick up a tea towel and begin to dry the plates.
‘The dishwasher is buggered,’ he explains.
‘Have you worked here long?
’
‘About two years …’
‘You do a magnificent job. I was with the Parks in Morocco. I’m making a documentary.’ I let him digest this, then I add, ‘Matt said that some of them have had a terrible time and that this is a haven for them.’
‘They’re like family.’
‘Some of them are just kids like Ali.’
‘Yes, poor Ali.’ Sam wipes his moist eyes on his shirt sleeve.
‘Do you know who his friends were?’
‘Kiki was close to him. They were friends. She saw him the night he died.’
‘How can I find Kiki?’ I ask.
He nods his head toward the dining area.
‘Kiki’s in there. She’s the one with the green hair. It’s the first time she’s been here since …’
I glance through the open door.
Kiki, a small untidy girl who I haven’t seen before, is unsmiling and wiping tables. A few minutes later, she comes into the kitchen, and I smile at her.
‘Hi, I’m Mikky.’
‘Hi.’
She throws the cloth into the sink and is about to leave the room when I say, ‘I met Ali in Morocco.’
I have her attention. She turns and looks at me. ‘So?’
‘So, he was good at parkour. Did you ever watch him?’
‘Yeah.’
Sam glances at Kiki and moves past her. The washing up is done, and he moves away to put the pans in a cupboard.
‘Ali didn’t strike me as the sort of guy who would jump off a bridge.’ I fold my arms and meet her stare.
‘Nah.’
‘He told me he wanted to be like Matt. He wanted to be a policeman; did he tell you that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The night he died?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What else did he say?’
Kiki rubs her nose and looks at Sam’s back. ‘Nothing.’
‘What did you chat about?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you think he killed himself?’
She shrugs. ‘Dunno.’
Sam pauses near me and says, ‘A witness saw him jump.’
‘Yes, I know, but it doesn’t make sense. Why make plans about the future if you’re going to kill yourself.’
Kiki stares at the floor.
Sam clatters pans into a deep drawer.