Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1)

by James, Victoria L.

  “I don’t want to believe it,” I say a little too softly for her to fully hear me. “But, I have no argument for it either. Everything you’ve said makes sense.” A defeated sigh escapes me before I move my drink to the side, throw both my elbows onto the surface of the table and rest my chin in my hands. “So, what the hell do we do now? If drugs are involved, she could be anywhere with anybody.”

  “Ah, but she isn’t just anywhere, is she, Izzy? She’s in central Manchester. She’s around here somewhere; that much we do know. All we have to do now is make sure we investigate the right places.”

  “The right places?” I ask. I feel like all I’m contributing to any of this is question after question after question. I’m so glad Lauren has at least some degree of patience, even if I am testing it.

  “The right places,” she repeats. “I.e. not this jumped up little funk stop that we’re sat in right now. The only kind of drugs intel we’re going to find here is which redhead we should look out for in the toilets with a bag of pills sewn into her underwear.”

  “Oh my…” I quickly reach for my glass and throw the remainder of my drink down my neck in just two swift gulps. I’ve never taken drugs in my life and, quite frankly, the whole dark side of that world terrifies me more than I can ever truly explain to anyone. The thought of being so out of control and reliant on a chemical substance takes me straight back to thoughts of my mother and the lack of control she had over her life. While I might be wandering around a little aimlessly myself these days, at least I’m not dependant or anyone or anything else but me. “W-where do you suggest we go?”

  “I know just the place.” She grins back at me a little too mischievously. “Grab your things. We’re about to go dark.”

  “Dark? Right, okay.” Grabbing my bag and jacket, I slide out of the seat I’ve been occupying and straighten my dress when I stand. I’m trying hard to look confident and not even a little bit scared, but something tells me the detective in Lauren reads my body language much better than I want her to. “Lead the way.”

  The next thing I know, I’ve been thrown into the back of a black cab and we’re on the move. My partner in crime is enjoying this way more than she should be, but it’s nice to have someone next to me who is turning this into a mini adventure while all I seem to be doing is trying not to imagine myself in the back of an ambulance by the end of the evening.

  I lose track of the amount of times she tells me to stop jiggling my legs and that The Basement, where she’s taking me, is just another bar, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Not that I’m getting my hopes up. Natural curiosity has me already wondering if I will bump into Paris. It seems my nerves are born from a mixture of both fear and excitement. I’m just not sure which one is the most dominant, right now.

  The journey seems to take forever. You can feel the shift in the atmosphere as we go from the bright lights of the city centre to the darker back streets of the outskirts. The air seems tighter here, like I’m already struggling to breathe. Every corner we turn, the headlights of the taxi sink deeper into nothing. My imagination is running so wild, I feel like we’re stumbling into a really bad horror movie, and the only people that can’t see the watchful eyes in the shadows happen to be us.

  When we eventually pull up outside a dimly lit building that promotes itself as a live music bar, I take a deep breath to try and summon some never-before-seen bravery, flinging open the car door while Lauren pays the fee. I’ll square it with her later when my eyes and mind aren’t solely focused on the large white lettering that sits above the door.

  “So, this is The Basement?” I whisper to no-one in particular. I hear the click of her heels against the path as she makes her way beside me and rests a hand upon my shoulder.

  “That’s the name it goes by, but those in the know have a few other names for it.” Before I even have time to hold my hand up and question her, she’s silenced me with a subtle shake of her head and continued with her little speech. “If your friend has had anything to do with the drugs scene, she’ll have been here at least a handful of times. My bet is that there’s someone in that building who knows her whereabouts.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” I ask as I suddenly begin to move forward with a brand new sense of urgency.

  Even though I know she doesn’t mean for me to hear it, I don’t miss Lauren’s breathy whisper. “I was just waiting for you to find your woman balls.”

  “Found and in check, now let’s go,” I shout back over my shoulder.

  When I open the door to the bar, I feel like I’ve walked into a new world entirely.

  *******

  His name keeps repeating over and over in my mind. I can’t seem to think of anything else other than those eleven letters. I’ve barely slept for fear of wasting time that could be spent finding out more about the arsehole she has got herself involved with.

  Jason Dagson.

  Jason…

  Dagson…

  Or as the whisperers at the bar had called him: Daggs.

  It hadn’t taken long for us to find out what we needed to know. Lauren had been nothing short of magnificent in her quest to discover the whereabouts of my best friend. Anyone who hadn’t known would have thought that she was as invested in Paris’ safety as I was. She moved around the bar subtly, somehow extracting the answers she was seeking from staff that usually remained tight-lipped and discreet.

  At the time, I felt relief at having found out the name of the person she was living with so quickly, but the reality of what that meant soon began to sink in. It meant she was well known around these parts and it meant that she was, in fact, involved in the world of narcotics. The more information Lauren dug up from the regulars, the more I began to shake. The more answers she pulled from those who were too high to even truly see who they were talking to, the more my stomach began to twist into a tight knot of fear.

  I kept telling Lauren I was fine, that I could do this, that I wasn’t prepared to leave the bar and head home until I knew exactly where Paris was living, but one look at my ashen face and she pulled me out of that place in a heartbeat, shoved me in yet another cab and sent me home.

  Now, I couldn’t be more grateful for everything that she did for me last night. Had she not been there, Lord knows, I wouldn’t have made it past that first bar in the city, and I most certainly wouldn’t have the information to hand that I do. It may not be much, but I now have the name of her boyfriend, along with a few other pieces of information about him that do nothing to settle my nerves. Nothing at all…

  As I sit at my kitchen table and scrunch my eyes tightly shut in a bid to will them back to life, I trace a finger lightly across the keyboard of my laptop while resting my head against my other hand. I’m tired, so damn tired, but I can’t allow myself to sleep, knowing full well that she’s living her life with one of the biggest underground drug dealers in Manchester. The voices of the people we spoke to last night play on an endless loop in my mind. From the rough, to the sweet, to the tragic, to the innocent… they all knew her. The way they spoke about her terrified me, so did the widening of their eyes when they realised who we were really chasing.

  “Paris? Yeah, I know her. She ain’t called Paris no more, love. Round here, she’s known as Rider.”

  “Nope, no clue where she is. No-one does. Daggs keeps her under lock and key most days. Probably so he can beat up on her fine arse some more. Hey… Fuck… I shouldn’t have said that. You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “I’ve seen her in here a few times, but she isn’t a regular. Daggs drags her out when he needs a little faux trophy wife on his arm. God, she’s pathetic. OUCH! What the fuck did you just hit me for?”

  “Her name’s Paris? Well, damn… That sounds pretty regal for someone who always looks so off her face. This shit we’re all on, man. Tsk. It can make the strongest of men fall to their knees. I hope you find your friend before it’s too late.”

  Just remembering all those awful words makes my head fall against
the desk in defeat. The images they create threaten to bring me to tears every single time I replay them. All this time I’ve been living my life completely blind to her pain and suffering. I’ve sat in my own misery and sorrow, hoping she’s happy while I try to rebuild my life without her in it, and all this time she’s needed me and I haven’t been there.

  And whether she wants me to save her or not, I’m not going to give up on trying. Not unless she plucks up the courage to finally stand toe to toe with me and begs me to leave her forever; maybe not even then.

  Letting out a heavy sigh of desperation, I force my tired, swollen eyes to open as much as they can, rest my chin on the palms of my hands and look up at the computer. The image of his face stares back at me on a public mug shot that I found at some point during the night. The smug, arrogant smirk on his face, even after being arrested, doesn’t do anything to reassure me that he’s a good guy at heart or that I’m worrying needlessly. With his shaved head, his narrowed eyes and the cocky lift of his chin, he looks nothing short of evil.

  The longer I look at him, the heavier my breathing becomes and the tighter my chest begins to feel. I’m suddenly in a standoff, but only one of us knows about it. No matter how painful my eyes begin to feel as the burn takes over, I can’t tear myself away. He has her. He’s abusing her. He’s shoving drugs into her body for free and brainwashing her into thinking he is what she wants, what she needs. He’s controlling her in any way he can.

  My jaw tenses as I grind my teeth together in frustration. Another woman I love is being hurt by a man. Another woman has been let down by me turning a blind eye for too long. I intend to put a stop to it as soon as possible. No matter what happens from here on in, I’m about to start my very own one man army and go to war with an underground criminal who swats his enemies away like they’re nothing but pesky flies.

  “Keep smiling while you can, Mr. Dagson,” I whisper at his picture on the screen. “I’m bringing her home whether you like it or not. Do not under estimate me.”

  Twenty-Six

  February - April 2006

  Research, research, research.

  A good victory requires a good strategy.

  There isn’t anything I don’t try to find out about this guy. Every time I’m feeling weak, frightened or exhausted, I just repeat the words of the strangers we spoke to in The Basement to remind myself of exactly what it is she is going through.

  Not that I would be allowed to forget. Dandy’s voice seems louder than ever before. He’s there on a daily basis when I close my eyes and fall asleep, pushing me forward, replaying all those times we spent together in his final days when I promised to never let anything bad happen to her. He’s urging me on, telling me I can do this, even though I’m facing the stormy path alone.

  I start by sending more emails. I know it wasn’t a coincidence that she turned up outside my new home just days after my first point of contact with her, and knowing that she read those all important words I wrote fuels me on to type even more promises of her safety along with everything I know.

  When the emails get no response, I make phone calls to everyone she ever knew before Daggs came into her life: family members, old friends, old enemies… all of them. I start my very own version of a spy network in the middle of Manchester. While it may not be hi-tech or prove particularly useful, I feel better in the knowledge that I’m not the only person in the city looking for her every time I turn a corner.

  Lauren calls upon me occasionally. It seems she had more fun than she expected to on our impromptu night out on the town. Even when she’s asking me for updates, I try to keep as many details from her as possible. I like her too much to see her get dragged into this and hurt in any way. From the few facts I’ve learnt about Jason Dagson over the last few weeks, it seems there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep his crown in the criminal world. He hurts people for fun and I’m not prepared to allow Lauren to become a part of his games, although she does prove useful with her inside knowledge of almost everything that exists north of London. I often wake up with an envelope shoved through my door, which simply read along the lines of:

  This is me not getting involved. I’m not here. You can’t see me. The name and telephone number of this associate of Marlon Brando himself must have just fallen through your post-box. I bet it was that damn sparkly fairy godmother, again. She’s a sly one.

  Stay safe.

  Tinkertush x

  I’m starting to truly believe this woman was, indeed, sent to me from above. Every number she sends me gets contacted, but not from my home or mobile. I’ve watched enough bad movies to know that if you’re going to call someone dangerous, you do it from a phone box positioned at least ten miles away from where you live.

  Unfortunately for me, no matter how hard I try to break down the impenetrable walls that seem to surround Daggs, all I ever come face to face with are dead ends and blank faces. I even try to go back to the bar we originally went to, but on my second visit, I’m refused entry by some doormen that I’m almost certain wasn’t around the first time we came here.

  “Why are you turning me away?” I ask as politely as I can, pulling on the front of my leather jacket before wrapping both my arms across my chest in an unconscious bid to protect myself.

  “Because we can,” one snarls through a mouthful of spaces where I’m certain there should be teeth.

  “Don’t I have a right to know?”

  “No, but we have a right to forcibly remove you from the premises and this,” his mate snaps, pointing his finger down at the pathway we’re all stood on before lazily pointing up at the surrounding gates that enclose us in, “is part of our premises. So, unless you want us to get all hands and less manners, I’d take your pretty little legs back up the path and forget this place ever existed… darling.”

  The looks on their faces tell me they’re far from joking and, while I want to be the David in this fight with Goliath, I know there are some battles I need to walk away from in order to win the war. So I leave without much fuss, but I see the recognition of my face in their eyes. It’s clear I’m not being turned away because I don’t fit the profile of their usual crowd. No, I’m being refused entry because they’ve been given instructions from a higher power.

  In the heat of my anger and my need to ensure my friend’s safety, I’m dangerously close to losing myself in the thrill of trying to handle this single-handedly. There is a certain satisfaction in knowing that you bother someone so ruthless so much that they go to all the effort of barring you from one of their favourite hangout spots. However, that thought provides me with only a brief smile of satisfaction before the reality of the situation becomes abundantly clear.

  Daggs knows exactly who I am now. He knows I’m going after him and that I’m the one who has been asking more questions than I probably should have been doing. More importantly, he knows I’m going after the one thing he holds dearer to him than his own ego… His Rider.

  My Paris.

  The chances of me coming out of this unharmed suddenly don’t seem so good.

  *******

  Without paying too much attention to time, the hours turn into days, the days turn into weeks, the weeks shape into months and the season eventually changes. February becomes April before I’ve had time to blink and register it. I’m so involved in trying to find a way to get her to come home without either one of us getting hurt that I seem to be missing everything happening around me.

  It’s a sunny morning in the first week of the new spring month, and I’m driving with the window of my Ford Fiesta down, one arm hanging out over the edge as I slowly steer the vehicle up the narrow, winding pathway of the graveyard. The silence that surrounds me is only interrupted occasionally by the sound of a few birds singing their songs in the trees. The noise of the tyres against the gravel pathway annoys me more than it should. I know I’m the sole reason for the disruption of the serenity that this place is trying to provide for my fellow mourners and I.

&nb
sp; I pull the car to a stop as quietly as I can, parking it in its usual spot under the cherry tree before I grab a hold of my things, make my way out and start the familiar tip-toed walk to where my adopted father lies sleeping. I’ve not been here as much as I should have been since Paris went away, and the guilt that eats away at my stomach as I draw closer to his grave doesn’t go unmissed. There are no apologies to be made today though, only silent prayers for his intervention and a hope that the plan I’m about to put into place will somehow, eventually, work.

  The impact of seeing his name written in stone never fails to bring me to my knees in front of him.

  Daniel Hemsworth. Always loved; never forgotten.

  Time is a great healer, they say. Those words are tossed about far too flippantly by those who don’t know what to say when faced with the reality of death. I’ve said them myself in the past, only I’ve known full well it’s a lie. Time isn’t a great healer at all. Time takes away everything. It makes you forget the way a person smelt, the exact pitch of their voice when they were happy or sad, excited or scared. Time makes you forget the feel of their hands upon your back when they held you in an embrace. Time takes away all those memories you try to cling onto, because new ones push past, bigger and brighter than the last and worm their way into their place. Time makes you forget. Time makes you question. Time isn’t a healer.

  It’s a destroyer.

  Taking a calm, steadying breath, I shuffle closer on my knees and place the small bouquet of daffodils I brought in the very centre of the headstone. The bright yellow against the dull granite gives the exact effect I wanted. These were always the flowers I picked for him when he was ill. Every morning, while he lay sick and Lily stayed by his bedside and Paris busied herself in the kitchen, doing the chores, I would sneak out into the field behind us and pick a fresh stem to take up to his room. It wasn’t the grandest of gestures, but it brought a smile to his face, even in his most fragile of days. This flower will always represent him. It will always be our thing.