by Rachel Green
In this one she carved the symbol for Shaitan, the deceiver. Fitting that this should be the sigil she’d chosen for her father. She hadn’t known what love meant in those days, and her father’s furtive whispers about keeping secrets or she would be taken away for being a bad girl, did nothing to make her feel guilty about his subsequent disappearance.
Was it so surprising she’d turned to self-defense, as a means to never letting that happen again and then to convent life, to remove herself from the temptation of men’s eyes?
She gathered her tools into a leather pouch she’d bought for the purpose and tucked them into a pocket. The sun was beginning to sink and it was time to pay a visit on her old friend the vicar. He would be home soon.
Twenty-two Acacia Road was dark and silent, though it was nowhere near as salubrious as the Catholic priest’s house. The windows were streaked with dirt and rain, the sills black with grime thrown up by the passing cars. The front door hadn’t been opened for a long time. A spider had woven a web in one corner, although the letterbox had been shined by contact with the daily postman.
Valerie headed around to the back of the house. Several plant pots held frost-withered annuals and sprigs of ill-tended herbs. The path had been swept recently as fallen leaves were piled like a snow drift against the plain wooden fence. The back door was well used, the shine on the Yale lock indicative of the vicar’s constant comings and goings. The windows were cleaner here; Reverend Mackenzie must spend more time at the back and take more care of it. If that wasn’t a good indication he lived alone, nothing was.
Despite the lack of activity, she knocked on the door, hoping, even though it was not yet five o’clock, the reverend was inside. She was not surprised when there was no answer and tried the door, intending to wait for him inside. The door was locked, so she tried the kitchen window next to it which slid open under the application of her knife to the catch.
She swung her leg over the sill, placing her foot in the sink and nudging away the pile of dirty dishes. Thanks to the length of her legs, she could then pull the other through and step straight down to the kitchen floor. It was tidy, for a man, but he’d left in a hurry, for the dishes in the sink mirrored the dirty pans on the stove.
She took off her jacket, draping it over the kitchen chair then turned to the sink. She turned the radio on, tuned it to radio three, found washing up liquid in the cupboard under the sink and then began to wash dishes.
Her recent expulsion must have shaken her, for the first she knew of the police was a plastic-faced helmet at the kitchen window. She’d barely had time to step back from the sink, grabbing a tea towel to wipe off her hands, before twin booms from the front and back doors announced the forcible entry of four police officers, each with their batons out.
“Down on the floor!” one shouted, obviously an avid watcher of American crime drama. “You’re under arrest for breaking and entering with the intent to…” His voice trailed off as he looked around the kitchen.
“Wash dirty pots, sergeant?” One of the younger policemen spoke and his companion, who had come with him through the front door, stifled a giggle.
“Cause criminal damage,” the sergeant finished.
“If she dropped a plate, you mean?”
“You be quiet or I’m putting in an official complaint.” The sergeant pointed a finger at the constable, who looked suitably chagrined. “Now,” he said, turning his attention to Valerie. “Who are you, and why have you broken into this house?”
“My name is Valerie Quarter and I was waiting for Reverend Mackenzie,” said Valerie. “Really, I was doing no harm.”
He nodded to one of the constables, who went outside to use his radio. “You admit breaking in then?”
“I broke nothing,” said Valerie. “I only lifted the latch on the window. It’s you who did the damage by breaking the door down.”
“Let us be the judge of that.” The sergeant looked up as the constable returned. “Well?”
“There’s nothing on her on file,” said the constable. “That’s assuming she’s not using an alias, of course.”
“Are you?” asked the sergeant.
“Using an alias?” said Valerie. She shrugged. “Perhaps. Until this morning I was known as Sister Mary.”
The sergeant frowned. “You were a nun? How does a nun learn to break into someone’s house?”
Valerie smiled. “Because the Mother Superior kept the communal wine in a locked cupboard?”
One of the constables chuckled.
“Very amusing, I’m sure.” The sergeant held up a finger and made a stirring motion. “All right,” he said. “Let’s wind this up. Take her down to the station.”
“Should I cuff her, Sarge?” The PC who had laughed, held up a pair of handcuffs.
“You might as well,” the sergeant said. “It’s not often you get to use them outside the bedroom. Chances are she knows how to get out of them anyway.”
“That’s hardly likely,” said Valerie, even though it was, in her case, absolutely true.
The sergeant shook his head and turned to survey the damage his men had done to the door. “Give Charlie a call,” he said. “Tell him we need two doors and a window boarded up. Jenkins? You can stand on guard.”
“Yes sergeant.” The constable who hadn’t said a word prior to this went to stand outside the shattered front door.
“Come on then, love.” The sergeant went around to Valerie’s back and helped her up. “Let’s get you down to the station. If this really is your first offence they’ll probably let you off with a caution.”
“Would you tell Reverend Mackenzie I was looking for him?” said Valerie. “I need his help.”
“No love,” said the sergeant, leading her through the house to a waiting police car. “We’ll appoint a solicitor for you.”
Chapter Seven
Blood welled and spattered onto bone-white porcelain as Felicia shaved her legs over the toilet bowl. This close to a full moon, her hairs were wiry and stubborn, blunting the razor after a single stoke. Felicia swore and tossed the disposable into the waste bin, breaking out her fourth from a packet of ten.
“Problems?” Julie walked into the room taking in the scene at a glance. “Want me to try?”
“There’s not much point,” said Felicia. “I haven’t shaved them for so long that they’re as stubborn as underwear stains.”
“I could pluck them out.” Julie picked up a pair of tweezers and waved them at her sister. “It might take a while but…”
“No thank you.” Felicia snatched the tweezers and put them away. “It’s bad enough when you pluck my eyebrows. Gods knows what pain I’d be in if you took a shot at my legs as well.”
“It’s all for the greater good,” said Julie. “Who’s the dress in honor of? You normally wear trousers.”
“It was Gillian’s request,” said Felicia. “She bought it for me.”
“Sweet.” Julie crouched down and took the razor from Felicia’s unresisting fingers. “Do you always do as she tells you?”
“Mostly.” Felicia watched as her sister spread cream over her leg and shaved it with long, easy strokes, rinsing the blade in the sink after each pass. “Unless she told me to leap from a tall building or something. Then I’d have to ask why first.”
“You’d still do it?”
“Probably.” Felicia grinned and swapped legs. “But at least I’d ask.”
“That’s something, anyway.” Julie broke out a fresh razor. Her task was made easier as Felicia relaxed under her confidant strokes. “Where are we going tonight?”
“The Crypt, I think.” Felicia laughed at her sister’s mortified look. “The club on Temple Bar, not the mausoleum.”
“Right, of course.” Julie concentrated on the shaving to cover her flush of embarrassment. “Will the
re be anyone else there we know?”
“I’ve no idea.” Felicia looked at the down-turned head of her sister, her long dark hair forming a curtain as she bent to her task. “All sorts of people go there. Don’t worry, though, I’ll look after you. I know you don’t like crowds.”
“It’s not the crowds, it’s the energy. It’s like a living entity, feeding from the excitement of a hundred underage drinkers.”
“They’re not all underage. We won’t be the only oldies there.”
“That’s a relief.” Julie sat back on her haunches. “There. You’re all done. You shall go to the ball, Cinders.”
“Thanks.” Felicia stood and viewed her legs critically. “You’ve done a better job than I could have.”
“That goes without saying.” Julie stood to stretch her legs. “I could have done that if I’d still been blind.”
“Thanks a bunch. First round’s on you then.” Felicia pushed her out of the bathroom. “Now I have to get dressed so push off.”
“Charming.” Julie turned as the door closed. “Do you need me to do your hair?”
“I’ll manage,” said Felicia through the door. “Thanks for the offer.”
* * * *
Gillian drove them into town in Felicia’s car, using the private parking space at the back of the art gallery. It was a short walk to the club from there, though Julie struggled to keep up with Gillian’s long, leather-clad strides or Felicia’s speed walking and they had to stop at the bottom of the club steps for her to catch up.
“What’s the hurry?” she asked. “We’ve all got partners. It’s not like we’re out for a bit of man-totty, is it?”
“We might all have partners,” said Gillian, “but the point of it is that they’re not here.” She winked at Felicia. “Two of them, anyway. That means we can relax without the boys getting uptight about it.”
Julie laughed. “That’s true. If I get the least bit tiddly, Jas gets all concerned about me.”
“That’s good up to a point,” said Felicia, “but it’s a bit cloying, don’t you think? Having to pander to male insecurities all the time.”
“Very.” Gillian started up the steps. “You wouldn’t catch me pandering to Harold like that.”
“Of course not.” Felicia followed her. “You always tell him everything, don’t you?”
Gillian glared at her. “What Harold doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him,” she said. She stopped in front of the bouncer, a man twice her size and four times her weight. “Well?” she asked. “Are you going to open the door or what?”
“Sorry, love.” He did as she asked and let her and Felicia past but closed the door before Julie could get in. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re at the wrong club.”
“I’m with them,” Julie said, nodding to the closed door. “You can’t let only two of us through.”
“I can you know.” He switched position and stood across the doors. This made it only more ironic when the door bashed him in the shoulder as it opened from the inside.
“Come on Julie. What are you waiting for?”
“He won’t let me in,” she said, indicating the doorman.
Gillian pushed the door open enough to get out. “Why ever not?”
“I don’t like the look of her face,” he said. “She looks the sort to cause trouble.”
“Julie?” Gillian made a critical examination of her friend. “Surely not? She’s a pussycat compared to me. I could snap every bone in your body with one hand tied behind my back and you let me in.”
“Is that a threat?” The big man took a step backward until his back was against the safety rail.
“Not at all. An observation.”
Julie tapped him in the chest. “You may not like my face,” she said, “but I don’t like the long, agonizing death you’re going to suffer in eighteen months time and I can still be pleasant.”
“That was a blatant threat,” said the bouncer. “You’re all barred.” He stepped forward, raising his fist.
Gillian tutted. “You really ought to learn the difference between a threat and an observation,” she said. “Julie’s psychic. She’s probably seen you die in a car crash or something.” She looked at her friend. “Isn’t that right?”
“Or something,” Julie agreed.
“See?” Gillian smiled at the bouncer and ushered Julie inside, closing the door behind them.
“He’s a nasty piece of work,” said Julie as they caught up with Felicia at the top of the stairs.
“Big John? He’s a sweetheart.” Gillian checked her look in the full length mirror. “We’re old friends. I could eat him for breakfast.”
* * * *
The club was loud but quiet. Loud, in the sense that music boomed from a speaker on all three levels, but quiet as the attendees were few and far between. Felicia looked over the railing into the void that ran from ground floor to roof and was criss-crossed with suspended walkways. On the dance floor at the bottom, up-lit from the glass surface, a single girl danced, seemingly oblivious to the stares and catcalls of those not brave enough to dance in full view of the other clubbers.
“There aren’t many here,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the music.
“That makes it easier to get to the bar,” said Julie. “I promised the first round. What do you want?”
“Rum and cola,” said Felicia, “and a glass of water with a slice of lemon for Gillian.” She glanced at her partner, but the woman was silent, surveying the rest of the club.
“Are you sure?” Julie looked dubious. “I read a report which said, seventy-five-percent of lemon slices have up to forty strains of bacteria on them.”
“This is for Gillian.” Felicia looked at her partner pointedly.
“Ah. Good point.” Julie headed off. She pushed past a knot of people gathered in front of a life size coffin display to get to the bar and order the drinks. To avoid bumping into a tall boy wearing far too much lipstick, she instead collided with a more mature, heavy-set man.
“Winston,” she said, twisting to sit on the empty seat. “What are you doing here?”
“Wishing I still smoked,” said Winston. “Wotcha Jules. Haven’t seen you around.”
“I’ve been busy. Is this club any good? I’ve not been here since it changed hands,” she said.
“It depends on what you’re looking for,” he replied. “Personally, I think it’s gone downhill, but for dozens of underage drinkers,” he indicated those few standing around, “it’s a paradise.”
“It shouldn’t be allowed,” said Julie.
“It isn’t normally,” said Winston. “They’ve all got fake ID cards.” He nudged Julie in the ribs. “Not that we didn’t drink from the age of fourteen, eh?”
Julie’s face clouded. “I didn’t,” she said. “I was in hospital for sixteen years.”
“You got better, though,” said Winston. He fell silent as he scanned the crowd before looking back at her. “Look, can I get you a drink? Are you on your own?”
“I was on my way to the bar. I’m with Gillian and Fliss. What are you drinking? I’ll get you one.”
“Thanks.” Winston grinned and handed her his glass. “Cola, no ice.” He leaned in close to lower his voice, though with the volume of the music he couldn’t lower it very much. “If you don’t have the ice they have to fill the glass with cola instead.”
“Got you,” Julie said, standing. “I’ll be right back.”
The girl at the bar, wearing make-up which fluoresced under the ultra-violet lights, served her with alacrity and on a whim Julie added a second rum and coke to the order. The whole order for five drinks came to over twenty-pounds and Julie decided it was the last round she was stumping up for.
“What’s that for?” Winston asked when she deposited a second drin
k on the table.
“Your lady friend,” said Julie. “She’ll be here in a minute so I’ll leave you to it.”
“You know her?” said Winston. “I didn’t mention her.”
“No,” Julie patted him on the shoulder then leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. “I saw you with her. Pretty, isn’t she?”
Winston laughed and sat back in the chair, his smile wide and infectious. “Is she? I wouldn’t know. I’ve only seen her once and she was covered in pig shit then.”
“Just your type then,” Julie chuckled. “What happened to your mate Jim?”
“He’s director of Magelight now,” said Winston. “He gave me a job at twice the rate I was on before. Course, I don’t earn anything like the amount he does, but he was in the right place at the right time.”
“Is he still seeing your sister?”
“Seeing her? They’re getting married.” Winston shook his head. “Not what I’d want for a brother-in-law but she loves him so what can I say?” He sat upright again. “Hey! Do you want to come to the wedding? It’s on Saturday. I’m sure he meant to invite you.”
“Maybe.” Julie looked doubtful. “I don’t know him that well, though, and I’ve never met your sister.”
“I know, but it’s going to be awfully lonely in that church,” said Winston. “Just me and Jim’s mother and four of Lattie’s mates from work. It’d do us all a favor if you could come. Your sister too.”
“I doubt Fliss would venture into a church,” Julie laughed. “Too many bad memories of Mum making her sing in the choir.”
“Mention it to her anyway,” said Winston. “Tell her she’d be welcome.”
“I will.” Julie looked up. Across the room a woman in an evening gown with shoulder length brown hair parted on one side, stood on the edge of one of the steel walkways. “Here’s your mysterious lady,” she said, nodding toward her. “Take care of her. She’s a bit fragile.” Her eyes clouded. “There’s a shadow over her. Try and see what that’s about.”