Suzie and the Monsters

by Francis Franklin

  I dodge the first, only for the heel of the other to catch my right eye, making me cry out with the shock of it. ‘Suzie!’ Cleo shouts, and scrambles out of bed to my side. I’m holding a hand to my eye in a vain attempt to lessen the pain. It stings like crazy. Soon, tears are streaming down my cheeks. Everything is blurred, and that’s looking out of my good eye. ‘Let me see it,’ Cleo orders, worrying for no good reason.

  ‘I’ll be fine in a minute, silly,’ I mutter. Fucking stings now, though.

  Indeed, after a minute the pain fades and I am able to open both eyes, and blink away the tears. I can’t help laughing a bit. ‘You can’t say I didn’t ask for it.’ I give Cleo a long, gentle kiss. ‘It’s the middle of the night, honey. Go back to sleep. I’ll look after Jenny.’

  Cleo looks round at Jenny, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me anxiously.

  ‘I’m really sorry —’ she starts.

  ‘No!’ I interrupt her, glaring. ‘If you say sorry again, you really will have to walk home barefoot. Maybe naked as well.’ She shuts up.

  ‘Okay,’ says Cleo, grinning. She kisses me again then goes back to bed.

  I bring Jenny back to the chair, wrapped in the duvet again, and pour fresh tea for her. She’s looking pretty exhausted. ‘Do you feel better now?’

  ‘I still hate you.’

  ‘No you don’t. You’re just confused about your sexuality.’

  ‘I’m not gay.’

  ‘That is obvious. Was always obvious.’

  ‘Then why did you choose me?’

  ‘I was feeling hungry, and you’ve got legs to die for.’

  ‘Have you done this before?’ She’s starting to sound angry.

  I sigh. ‘I have done very many terrible things, and many terrible things have been done to me, but all that is nothing to the horror and suffering I have witnessed. What has passed between you and me, Jenny, is merely a difference in opinion of what is socially acceptable.’ I have to pause to cool the curdling anger invoked by the sudden flood of memories. ‘I refuse to be a victim,’ I say. ‘If you can face life with honesty and courage, you’ll see that all I did was open your eyes a little.’

  My sudden passion and intensity has startled her, and she’s quiet for a long time. ‘I was wrong,’ she says. ‘You’re a lot scarier than Cleo.’

  *

  The phone rings at ten o’clock precisely. The hotel phone, that is, the one you use to get Room Service and which no one otherwise uses in this age of the ubiquitous mobile phone. I crawl out of bed and answer it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Check your messages,’ says a man’s voice, then the connection dies.

  Huh.

  My mobile is in the pocket of my jeans which are draped over the back of one of the chairs. There’s one message, from an unfamiliar number. ‘Downstairs. 5 mins.’ I stare at this for a good minute. Someone wants to meet me. Someone who knows exactly where I am. Who knows my phone number, and, almost certainly, even my new name.

  The phone’s the giveaway, the weak point. Someone has made the connection from Alia to me via Jamie’s mobile. It has to be someone at SOCA, but then why aren’t they breaking the door down and surrounding me with guns and tasers?

  I reply, ‘Make it 15.’ I join Cleo in the shower, washing and scrubbing with such haste that Cleo picks up on my tension. ‘What’s up?’ she asks as I pour apricot-scented shampoo into my hair.

  ‘Not sure,’ I reply. ‘Something spooky.’

  ‘What, like ghosts and stuff?’

  ‘No,’ I laugh. ‘Spies, intelligence, James Bond stuff. Something.’ I rinse the lather from my hair and step out, reaching for the towel. Five minutes later I am dressed, Desigual and Tributes, my hair bundled up in a towel. I grab a brush and open the door. Cleo is standing naked, wet and delicious in the bathroom doorway, watching with a bemused expression. ‘Downstairs when you’re ready,’ I say on the way out.

  I’m still brushing knots out of my damp hair as I emerge from the lift into the lobby, the white hotel towel draped over one elbow. Sitting by himself on one of the creamy leather sofas is the man who was with Ricky on Friday. His eyes when he catches sight of me now are filled with curiosity, mixed with self-satisfaction. I don’t get any sense of danger, that this is a trap. He stands as I approach and holds his hand out for me to shake. ‘Thank you for meeting me, Miss Kew.’

  ‘SIO Wallace, I presume?’

  He smiles. ‘Call me Ian. Mind if I call you Suzie?’

  ‘Please do.’ It occurs to me that he may only know the name I’m using now, not that there’s a whole identity built around it. That he still thinks Suzie Kew is my real name.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ he offers.

  ‘A pot of tea would be lovely.’

  He nods. ‘Have a seat,’ he suggests, indicating the sofa. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  While Ian orders drinks over at the bar, I sit where he sat, and open the folder he left on the table. There are a lot of photos. Me outside Alex’s, although unclear. Several of me at the Renaissance, some with Cleo or Alia. A series of me with Cleo outside Dave’s Place, some showing the Albanian psycho with the knife. The Albanian appears in several other photos that look like long-distance surveillance pictures, and in two of these he is standing next to John Smith, the man who shot me.

  There are forensics and postmortem reports. A ballistics report for the bullets that killed the Albanian indicates that the same gun has been used for a string of other murders over the past year. No details are given of these other cases. There’s a document listing pornography found at Alex’s house and on his computer — not the laptop I stole, obviously. Some of this has been categorised as ‘rape/snuff’. To my dismay, there’s also a postmortem report for Dave (it’s definitely Waterfront Dave), signs of torture, multiple stab wounds, indicated time of death Tuesday 2 p.m.

  Ian sits down next to me. ‘As I’m sure you will understand, the Met’s enthusiasm for catching Alex Graham’s killer has dampened rather drastically. If it wasn’t for the general assumption that his killer was a hired assassin, they’d be proposing a medal for her.’

  ‘It’s a shame he was so well guarded. I would have liked to get some answers from him.’

  ‘You think Jessica might still be alive?’

  ‘Probably not, but it would be good to give her a proper burial.’

  Ian nods thoughtfully, then points to the ballistics report. ‘The gun that shot Kosta has been used in several recent execution-style hits. What do you know about that?’

  I hunt through the photos for the two I saw earlier. ‘The gun belongs to this man. His ID said John Smith.’

  ‘I see. And where is the gun now?’

  ‘At the bottom of the Thames, for all I know.’

  ‘And John Smith?’

  ‘I dare say he’s hanging around still.’

  Ian doesn’t know how to interpret that. ‘Will we see him again?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, but I doubt he’ll be killing anyone else.’

  Ian leans back with a sigh, deep in silent thought. He must be mid-fifties, his grey hair is neatly trimmed, and he’s still in excellent condition. He strikes me as being a genuinely nice man, but also ruthlessly capable.

  ‘How is it you can track me down so quickly, but a criminal like Valon can operate practically unnoticed?’

  ‘Because you are just one person, while Valon is wrapped in layers. It would be easy for us to pick up girls one at a time and send them home but that wouldn’t get us the evidence to put the traffickers away.’

  Really? From what I’ve been reading in the newspapers recently, they can’t even find the girls, let alone the traffickers.

  ‘And much as we’d sometimes like to,’ he continues, ‘we can’t go round killing them. Indeed, it would be professionally irresponsible even to suggest that someone might do that.’

  I can’t believe my ears. ‘What possible incentive could there be for someone to do that?’


  He just shrugs. The barman arrives at that point with the tea, and Ian starts to pour milk into my cup. ‘No milk!’ I interrupt quickly.

  He finishes making the tea, and I sit back with my cup, breathing in the aromatic steam. Ian meanwhile turns to the back of the folder. The final sheet is a copy of my contract with Iverson.

  ‘SIO Roberts was rather surprised to receive this yesterday. He said it makes the whole investigation rather pointless.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Ian smiles. ‘So it would seem that no one at SOCA or the Met is terribly interested in the enigmatic Suzie Kew any longer. What curiosity remains could, I’m sure, be forgotten.’

  ‘You people never forget anything,’ I say, and the friendliness in his eyes cools. ‘But I must admit to a certain optimism.’

  Ian studies me for a minute, then laughs. ‘You are a strange one, Suzie Kew.’

  Cleo arrives in the lobby, bringing colour and youthful energy. Her smile when she sees me is like a blaze of sunshine. ‘Good morning, Officer Wallace,’ she says cheerfully.

  ‘Hello, Miss Lane. May I say you look quite stunning today. Quite a difference from Friday.’

  ‘Friday wasn’t a good day for me.’

  ‘Well, ladies, if you’ll excuse me...’ Ian puts the folder away into his briefcase and stands up. We shake hands again, and then he’s gone.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Cleo asks.

  ‘A reprieve, and one last mission, for Suzie Kew.’

  *

  Jenny’s awake and in the shower when we get back to the room. In unspoken alliance, Cleo and I strip, then carry the protesting girl, still wet and soapy, straight to bed, continuing more or less where we left off last night, only this time we’re not satisfied until Jenny has satisfied us both. Whatever her feelings about us, Jenny’s enjoyment of this treatment is unmistakeable. She’s still pale and exhausted, but she lies there afterwards smiling dreamily as she gently caresses her sex with one hand, and last night’s bite mark on her thigh with the other.

  ‘Cleo and I are meeting a friend for lunch,’ I tell Jenny, after covering her with the duvet. ‘Why don’t you stay here and relax, get Room Service to send up breakfast. Or lunch. Or both.’

  ‘Okay, Suzie,’ she murmurs, puzzling me until I remember Cleo calling out my name after my traitorous Tributes wounded me this morning.

  *

  We meet Alia at Dalla Terra for lunch, Alia ordering Antipasto for herself while I order a bottle of the Allegrini La Poja for the three of us to share, and a Rosso del Conte for later. The Allegrini is a beautiful rich, spicy wine with overtones of cherries and blackcurrant. I relax and enjoy the wonderful aroma while Alia eats and Cleo chatters excitedly, telling Alia how amazing it is to be a vampire while carefully editing out minor details like blood, corpses and nymphomania. I’m in no hurry to say what I don’t want to say.

  Alia, who knows me too well, glances at me from time to time but is otherwise happy to engage with Cleo’s teenage enthusiasm and moral innocence. It’s only after her lunch has been cleared away, leaving the three of us alone with the sexy La Poja, that she taps a finger to her lips to quiet Cleo down, and asks, ‘What is it, Suzie?’

  I don’t answer immediately. I twirl the stem of the wine glass for a few seconds, staring into the dark elixir. ‘I don’t like to talk about my origin,’ I say, and can feel Alia and Cleo staring at me with a new intensity. An abrupt anxiety makes me want to panic, to escape deep into the anonymous city, leaving behind all questions and judgement. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When Cleo takes my hand in an attempt to comfort me, it makes me jump with shock, wine splashing red across the back of the hand holding the glass.

  I force myself to calm down, consciously easing the tension from my muscles. ‘I don’t even like to think about it,’ I continue. ‘It’s not that anything terrible happened to me as a child. It’s the vertigo I get looking back across so many years, centuries of fear and rage and hatred, of blood, death and grief.’

  This time it’s Alia who takes my hand. ‘Ssh, Suzie,’ she says, ‘you don’t need to talk about it. It’s who you are now that’s important, not your real name or age.’ But she’s lying. I can see she’s dying to know.

  ‘I was born in the early hours of the first of April, 1519,’ I tell them.

  Alia’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Today’s your birthday?’

  ‘Today is April first?’ Cleo asks a moment later.

  ‘Yes and yes,’ I reply. ‘Today’s my birthday. I’m four hundred and ninety three years old.’ I let this sink in in silence for a minute. ‘My early childhood was nothing very special. My father’s brother was steward of the estate of Sir Henry Courtenay, Earl of Devon, and my father assisted him in the running of the estate. My mother was a chambermaid. We certainly weren’t aristocracy, but while life wasn’t easy we never went hungry, unlike some. I remember very little really about those days, or my parents. I don’t even have a clear idea of what they looked like, but I do remember love and happiness. I remember one summer there was a big celebration, and I guess that must have been in 1525 when Sir Henry was made Marquess of Exeter.’

  It always seems unfair to me that the historical record is so blind to good, honest people like my parents. In my occasional searches through what local records exist, I have seen the names of my uncle, the steward, and my aunt, the midwife, but no mention yet of my parents. I was their only child, and even I disappeared without a trace.

  ‘At ten years old, I was just a young serving girl, running around doing errands while trying to stay invisible, ever fascinated by the riches and behaviour of the nobles we served on the rare occasions they stayed in the country. One day, while I was scrubbing the stone floor, I forget where exactly, I looked up to discover Sir Henry himself watching me. I was really quite frightened, and tried to gather my stuff and leave, but he ordered me to follow him, through to the ballroom, where he positioned me under one of the portraits, and stood back to examine me.

  ‘The portrait was of his first wife, Elizabeth Grey, Countess of Devon. I knew it well, for the lady had died on the same day that I was born and I had been named for her.’

  ‘Was she your real mother?’ Cleo asks.

  ‘Yes. Stop jumping ahead of the story.’

  ‘Elizabeth?’ Alia asks. There are tears in her eyes.

  ‘Yes. Anyway. I never got a complete explanation of what happened, so this is mostly conjecture, but the Earl and his retinue had been at court, and the steward was also away, so my father, the steward’s brother, that is, was in charge of the house, and my mother’s sister was the midwife not only for Elizabeth, the Countess, but also for my mother who gave birth within an hour of my own birth, in a room across the hall. Unfortunately, the other child did not survive. It seems that my mother had given birth several times, but none of the children survived.

  ‘On that night there was a double tragedy, since Elizabeth died in childbirth. She was barely fourteen years old. A child lost a mother, and a mother lost a child. It was the middle of the night, and an opportunity was taken. History says that Elizabeth Grey, Countess of Devon and Baroness of L’Isle, died childless.

  ‘Ten years later my resemblance to my birth-mother, her portrait painted shortly after she was betrothed at the age of ten, was enough to convince Sir Henry of my true parentage. I was taken away from the only family I knew, the mother and father I loved. I was kept hidden away, and a tutor appointed to strip away all the commonness from me, and to give me at least a basic education. For two, three years, I don’t think a day passed that I wasn’t whipped with birch sticks. I was completely miserable, but I was slowly transformed, from a happy but ignorant peasant girl into an elegant, curious young woman.

  ‘I have to say, suddenly discovering your great-grandfather was King of England certainly changes your world view.

  ‘At the age of thirteen, I was finally declared “presentable”, and I was taken in secret to the court. By this point I was able to und
erstand some of the need for secrecy. When my mother died, Elizabeth, that is. More and more I was thinking of Elizabeth Grey as my mother, wondering what she had been like. She was orphaned when she was only seven, narrowly escaping one betrothal, to her ward Sir Charles Brandon, only to be passed along to Catherine of York, Sir Henry’s mother. By the time she was my age she was already married. The struggles that I imagined she must have faced made me feel a kinship to her, and it helped me to accept my strange fate.

  ‘So, I should have inherited the Barony of L’Isle, but this passed instead to my mother’s aunt, another Elizabeth Grey.’

  ‘Are you related to Lady Jane Grey?’ Alia interrupts.

  ‘Only very slightly, and that through my father. I don’t know if there was a family connection to my mother. Anyway... if Sir Henry had presented me straight to the king, saying, “Here’s my long-lost daughter, give me her inheritance,” you can imagine how many feathers would have been ruffled. This at a time when King Henry VIII was trying to divorce Catherine of Aragon. 1532, that was. I never did get to see the king, except once or twice in the distance, but I did get to see Anne Boleyn, that year, before she married the king.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ Cleo says.

  ‘Anne Boleyn and my mother were cousins — their mothers were sisters. As far as I know, she is the only person that my father, Sir Henry, revealed my true identity to.’

  ‘What was she like?’ Cleo asks.

  ‘I was in awe. She was beautiful. Over thirty by that time, but still beautiful. Graceful. Intelligent. Completely in charge of her own life and subservient to no one, not even the king. And very kind to me. Smiled and said I looked just like my mother, whom she remembered playing with when she herself was a child. I only spoke to her that one occasion, and it’s my most treasured memory of my childhood. The following year she married the king, became Queen of England, and gave birth to a daughter, Elizabeth, when everyone had been hoping for, and even expecting, a son. It was a tragedy for her, and whatever plans Sir Henry had had for me were quietly forgotten.’