by Helen Harper
‘His son goes there.’
The woman is taken aback. ‘Oh. Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
She considers this before declaring, ‘I still don’t trust him. We should go round to his place later. Tell him that his sort isn’t welcome here.’
So much for a community spirit. I raise my eyebrows slightly. The witch is growing more and more uncomfortable. ‘What can I get for you anyway?’
‘Tin of baccy. And a bottle of vodka.’ She rubs the base of her spine. ‘Helps ease the pain.’
I try not to snort. She has no problem castigating her neighbour for allegedly taking or selling drugs, yet here she is at eight o’clock in the morning buying hard liquor. What a difference the law makes. Booze will rip families and people apart just as much any illegal substance.
The woman pays for her purchases and walks out without paying me any attention. Once the door shuts, I eye the witch. ‘Interesting clientele you have.’
‘She’s harmless.’
‘And the man she was talking about?’
‘Same.’
‘If you say so.’ I smile. ‘Now, it’s the two of us alone all over again.’
The witch holds out her hand. I jerk, expecting a flare of magic, but her palm remains bare. ‘I’ll ring up your items,’ she says. Her fingers twitch with a nervous tremor. She’s a lot more scared of me than I am of her.
I cock my head and observe her then shrug and step forward. I keep my fangs at the ready. Just in case. The witch keeps her head down as she scans my shopping. I have one eye on her and one eye on the door behind her. Maybe there are more witches skulking back there, waiting for the right moment to jump out and attack. I tilt my head back. There’s a CCTV camera in the corner. Its little red light blinks at me.
The witch bags everything up. ‘Twenty-two pounds and seventy-eight pence.’
I blink. ‘For a bunch of junk food?’
‘I don’t set the prices. You should eat more healthily. All this stuff is full of additives.’
I start to smile, my gaze dropping to her neck. ‘Oh,’ I purr, ‘I eat pretty healthily when I need to.’
The witch pales and steps back. This is kind of fun. I dig into my back pocket, pull out the money and she drops it into the till.
I’m tempted to kill her but we’re close to the warehouse and if she lets it be known that I was here some bright spark is bound to put two and two together. It’s inevitable that we’ll be discovered there sooner or later but, despite my grandfather’s assurances that it’s as safe a place as we’re likely to find, I’d prefer it if our presence is made known later. I have enough hassles as it is. I run my tongue over my lips. The smart thing to do would definitely be to kill her. I can easily destroy the CCTV; there’s no way this shop runs anything other than a cheap in-house video recording system. Those images aren’t going anywhere.
‘I wouldn’t tell anyone about this if I were you,’ I say eventually.
She nods. I take my shopping and leave.
I’m barely five steps from the door when my phone rings. I dig it out and check the display. O’Shea.
‘Hey,’ I say. I walk up to the fence and unhook Kimchi’s lead. The dog performs a bizarre dance of ecstasy. I’ve only been out of sight for ten minutes; you’d think I’d abandoned him for a week. He slobbers down my legs.
‘It’s me,’ O’Shea says unnecessarily. ‘You won’t believe what I’ve got to tell you. I mean it. I’ve heard some strange things in my time, I’ve seen some strange things too, but this is about as weird as it gets.’
I walk briskly. The homeless guy has vanished but other people are starting to emerge onto the street. I glance back at the shop and swear I can see a flutter of movement at the window. Bugger. Is the witch watching where I go so she can find me later? I veer right just in case.
‘The hooded men?’ I ask.
‘Not exactly.’
I pause for a beat. ‘Green men?’ I say finally.
‘Eh? Green men?’
I feel a bit stupid. ‘Yeah. Like … aliens.’
‘I think all that sun has made you go a bit soft in the head, Bo. Aliens? I know these kids are being abducted but I doubt it’s so they can be taken up in UFOs and experimented on. This isn’t Roswell.’
I scratch my ear. ‘Well, what then? What have you found out?’
‘I asked around about the hooded men. Either no one knows anything or they’re keeping quiet. So I asked about missing children. Long before I met you, there was a group of teenagers living rough near one of the poorer Agathos daemon neighbourhoods. Most of them were runaways. I knew a few of them. They were good for errands, running messages, handing over contraband, that kind of thing.’
I stare at him. ‘Bloody hell, O’Shea. You used kids to help you break the law?’
‘Hey!’ he protests. ‘They needed the money. It was quid pro quo. Nothing I asked them to do was dangerous ‒ I’m not totally heartless. And pot kettle, Bo Blackman. What about Rogu3? How long have you been using him for illegal activities?’
‘That’s different.’ Sort of. Well, it’s not actually. I wince.
‘Whatever. Do you want to hear this or not?’
I sigh. Sometimes, where O’Shea’s past life is concerned, it’s better not to know. And with mine it’s better to forget. ‘Go on,’ I tell him.
‘Well,’ he drawls, ‘I bumped into a mate of mine who said that one of those kids disappeared about three and a half years ago. A Glaswegian boy with red dreadlocks. If you ask me, no white person should ever have dreadlocks. I once offered to get the kid shampoo, I even said I’d pay for it. He looked at me like I was mad and…’
‘O’Shea,’ I interrupt. ‘Is his hair relevant to this story?’
I can almost hear him pouting on the other end of the line. ‘Yes. He was very proud of his hair. He told me he’d never wash it and never cut it and he wanted to go to his grave looking like that.’
I turn a corner, the shop now out of sight, and immediately start looping back towards the warehouse. Kimchi picks up the pace too, apparently happy that we’re heading home.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’m still not sure why you’re telling me this.’
‘My mate said that one of these kids disappeared.’
Kimchi, spotting a squirrel, tugs sharply at the lead. I haul him back and hiss. He responds by barking in delight. Idiot dog. ‘I imagine that they disappear all the time. Maybe he went back to Glasgow.’
‘No chance. There was nothing for him back there. He had a girlfriend here and things were on the up and up. Even the council was involved and had arranged sheltered housing for the whole group. Benjy disappeared two days before he was due to move in.’
I nod slowly. ‘Okay. But I don’t see any smoking gun.’
‘That’s the thing. My mate says that last year he saw Benjy over in the West End. He said he called to him and Benjy ignored him. It was like he’d never seen my friend before. No recognition. Nothing.’
I shrug. ‘So?’
‘So out of interest I went looking for him today. Went to the same place my mate was and hung around. I was there less than three hours when I found him.’
‘Benjy?’
‘Yep. He was coming out of some swanky apartment ‒ and he was wearing a suit. His hair had been cut and he looked like your average corporate idiot. I said hello and he looked right through me. Then,’ O’Shea adds quickly before I can interrupt again, ‘I ask the doorman who he is. He says he’s related to some bigwig who works in finance. There used to be a man called Colin Fairworthy in the apartment and now his nephew, James, lives there. I’m telling you though, it was Benjy. It was the kid I knew.’
‘So he found himself a sugar daddy. Big deal. I’d probably want to forget my past life too if it was me on the streets.’
‘You don’t get it, Bo,’ O’Shea says earnestly. ‘He looked like Benjy. He walked like Benjy. But he wasn’t Benjy. Not any more.’
I mull this over.
‘A glamour?’
‘No way. It was too good. And the doorman said he’s been living there as James Fairworthy for three years. No one can sustain a glamour for that long.’
I clench my jaw. ‘I’m betting a Kakos daemon could.’
‘It’s not a Kakos daemon. Trust me on this, Bo. Something stole him away and wiped his memory and is now using him for their own nefarious purposes. Maybe even this Colin Fairworthy. And if they can do it to one kid, they can do it to hundreds.’
O’Shea sounds very sure but all this is nothing more than circumstantial evidence. And even if it’s true, I don’t see where Alice would fit in. A homeless kid might be able to melt away into a different life without anyone noticing but Alice was all over the news. She still appeared on television every anniversary of her disappearance. Someone would recognise her. But it’s not as if we have much else to work on.
‘Okay,’ I say finally. ‘Do you think you can track down the other kids? The ones who were living rough with Benjy before he vanished?’
‘I’ve already got several names and addresses.’
‘Good. Ask them about the hooded men.’
‘I’m on it. I got a photo of the new and improved Benjy, too. They’ll confirm that it’s him, I promise you. It’s the Manchurian Candidate, Bo. That’s what’s happening to these kids. I already spoke to your grandfather and he reckons it’s possible. He should know. We’re staying in MI7’s own hideout. Maybe it’s time we skedaddled after all.’
I murmur non-committally. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that jumping to conclusions never does anyone any favours. You start making the evidence fit your assumptions rather than the other way around. And wiping someone’s mind? It just seems so implausible. There’s no apparent motive either, despite the many conspiracy theories that immediately spring to mind. But then, as O’Shea has already pointed out, the idea of aliens is implausible as well. ‘Ask them about green men too,’ I say. ‘With, er, big eyes.’
‘Bo, the government has to be behind all this. We already know how shady Vince Hale is. But aliens from outer space?’ He pauses and draws in a breath. ‘Although now you come to mention it… You don’t really think…?’
‘Just ask, O’Shea. That’s all.’
‘What are you going to do?’
I glance at Kimchi. ‘Drop off a few things at the warehouse then go back to Rogu3’s neighbourhood. There’s someone there I need to talk to.’
***
In the end, I take Kimchi with me. I might be a vampire but people trust dogs. This is the sort of country where if a soap opera highlighted a storyline of terrible domestic abuse a few people would complain, but if they included a story of animal abuse the complaints would run into thousands. With Kimchi in tow, I project an image of being trustworthy. Of course, the image projected onto a million screens a couple of nights ago was of Bo Blackman, thug extraordinaire, not Bo Blackman, caring animal lover. But not everyone recognises me for who I am and I reckon I was justified with what happened with the hybrid witches. If nothing else, it keeps Kimchi happy to be out and about and my grandfather is delighted to have him as far away as possible.
There’s still no sign of Maria emerging from her room, but she’d probably be pretty happy to have Kimchi out of the building too. Unfortunately I now understand why. Any time I think about it incandescent rage rises inside me until it’s almost overwhelming, but I can’t pretend all this shit hasn’t happened to her.
Rather than piss around trying to hide my approach, I park outside the crazy guy’s house and get out. It looks normal enough; in fact, if you put Rogu3’s house next to this it would be nigh on impossible to tell the two apart without going inside. The joys of suburban England.
I go to the front door and knock. Kimchi, trying to be helpful, barks as well. I just hope crazy guy is amenable to bloodguzzlers.
A moment later the door opens and a young woman appears. I’m taken aback; I was certain that the Bruckheimer and Berryhill report said this ‘eyewitness’ lived alone and had no family. The woman smiles but her expression falters when she sees who is actually on her doorstep.
I force the issue. ‘Hi. I’m Bo Blackman.’
She blinks rapidly. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I know.’ Her hand travels to her throat. I can’t blame her but the action makes me wince. ‘I’m here because I’m investigating the disappearance of Alice Goldman.’
The woman forgets her fear and stares at me. ‘Really? Shouldn’t you be investigating what happened to all the vampires?’
‘I know what happened to them,’ I say, more shortly than I intended. ‘But I can’t do anything about it.’ Yet. I can’t do anything about it yet. ‘Anyway,’ I continue briskly, ‘I’m looking for Adio Brown.’
Her brow furrows in both puzzlement and relief. ‘Oh, he doesn’t live here any more.’ Sodding hell. I try not to curse aloud. ‘He used to own this house,’ the woman explains hastily, seeing my expression. She shrugs. ‘I only know that because we still get post for him, even after all these years.’
All these years? ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘We moved in about four months after Alice disappeared. I remember it because,’ she looks embarrassed, ‘er, because we got it really cheaply as a result of what happened to her. No one else wanted to live round here.’
I scratch my chin. Interesting that Mr Brown left so quickly. ‘Did you ever meet him?’ I press her. ‘Adio Brown?’ What I really want is a stranger’s opinion of his sanity.
The woman shakes her head. ‘No, I’m sorry. To be honest, I thought the house had been re-possessed. We bought it direct from the bank, not from him.’
I consider this. Mortgage defaults were at their height back then so it’s certainly credible. Brown had already retired a few years before, though; how many retired people without families to support still had mortgages? Something doesn’t ring true. I thank her anyway.
‘Nice dog,’ she tells me.
Kimchi, instantly aware that he’s the topic of conversation, wags his tail furiously. ‘Oh, he’s wonderful,’ I agree, lying through my teeth. ‘And so well-behaved.’
We get back into the van. Kimchi hops into the passenger seat and swings his head towards me, his tongue lolling and a long thread of spittle dripping onto the cracked leather. I rub his ears. ‘Well done,’ I say. ‘Even if it didn’t get us anywhere, you played your part well. I’m impressed that you managed to hold off drooling until we got back here.’
I glance back to the house; the woman is still standing on her porch. She probably wants to make sure that I leave her quiet little street. She’s smiling, no doubt because she can see me holding a conversation with a dog. Daft. ‘You know what bothers me, Kimchi?’ I ask, as I start the engine. ‘That people will think I’m a good person because I have a dog, even though it’s been proved that I have a strong thread of psycho. Yet an old man who lived here for decades says once that he saw some aliens and everyone dismisses him as nuts.’ I wag my finger. ‘Appearances can be very, very deceptive. Remember that.’
We drive off. I’m about to head back to the warehouse – the desperate need to spend more time with Michael is gnawing away at me – but I decide to make one more call while I’m here. I don’t want to, in fact I’d rather sink my fangs into Kimchi’s hide and drink from him than do this. But I’m here now so I guess I might as well.
***
Alice Goldman’s house is less than thirty metres from Rogu3’s. I’d like to say that it looks exactly the same as it did years before but there’s a haunting air of neglect about it. I’ve been to houses like this before and it’s never fun.
I pull up and wonder whether the Goldmans can smile with genuine emotion now, or whether there’s nothing more than well-constructed facades on their faces and an aching, Alice-shaped void in their hearts. I think know the answer without asking.
I steel myself for the inevitable. This time, I leave Kimchi in the van. Even if his presence would smooth things over, such tri
cks don’t seem fair. I walk up the path alone.
Before I can raise my fist and knock, the door opens and Mrs Goldman’s familiar face appears. We never had chance to meet before; I was under orders not to approach the family. Bruckheimer and Berryhill probably thought that meeting the grieving parents would make me develop a conscience and work against the insurance company to get the family what they deserved. I didn’t need to talk to the Goldmans face to face to have a conscience; I was human back then.
‘I saw you park outside,’ Mrs Goldman says, all in a rush. Her face is flushed and her eyes are anxious. I’m troubled that she might think I’m with the police. It’s a ridiculous notion but there’s something about the way she’s looking at me that sets me on edge.
‘Uh, great,’ I say. ‘I’m Bo Blackman.’
‘I know. Of course I know. Everyone knows.’
She knows I’m not a copper then. That’s something. I hold my tongue, refraining from plunging straight into my own agenda. Mrs Goldman wants something and she deserves the opportunity to ask for it before I bulldoze my way through and make her spend the rest of the day sobbing.
She takes a deep breath. ‘You’ve been very kind to Alistair.’
For a moment, I don’t have the faintest idea what she’s talking about. Then my brain kicks into gear. Rogu3. Of course. ‘He’s a good kid.’
Mrs Goldman bites her lip and nods. ‘He was very helpful with Alice. You know. Before.’
I maintain a professional air. ‘Yes, I do know.’
Her words are expelled in a massive rush. ‘I wanted to come and talk to you. When you visited his parents. I’ve been looking out because I thought you might come round again. I thought if we could just speak then you’d understand and you’d help.’ She wrings her hands and I see that they’re red and raw. She sees me looking and grimaces. ‘Sorry. Plumbing.’
I blink. I already know that Mrs Goldman has an inner strength that I couldn’t begin to muster – not after the loss of a child – but the last thing I expected was to hear that she’s knee-deep in pipes and wrenches. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, yes.’ She wipes her brow and meets my eyes. Even confronted with the tell-tale red in my pupils, Mrs Goldman doesn’t flinch. ‘I know it’s been a long time and you have other things going on right now, but you did it for Alistair and his family and now I want you to do it for me.’