They shuffled nearer to the platform’s edge, ready to jump on board at the earliest possible moment. Why are we always in such a rush?
“Can you hear me, Sally? Sal?” She gave up. “I’ve gotta go. Love you,” she shouted.
A large crashing sound could be heard over the noise of the train. Passengers turned to see where the noise had come from. In the entranceway to the platform, for no apparent reason, the station clock, hanging from the ceiling, had broken from one of its hinges and swung to hit a wall, shattering its casing. Commuters squealed to avoid the falling glass, then quickly carried on jostling for platform position. The train was almost at a standstill.
As it’s cold shadow fell across her face, a powerful punch drilled into her lower back, delivered with such force it threw her body forward, and out onto the track.
Time stood still as she fell, flailing, hands grasping at her precious mobile, watching in slow motion as her coffee cup arced the air. She turned to see the stricken train driver’s face, behind the pane of oncoming glass. It's not your fault.
With all his might, the driver mouthed a silent scream, “Nooooo...”
She closed her eyes and waited for the pain.
Black.
Silence.
“Hello, hello…what’s happened?” The phone crackled, lying in the dirt beneath the platform’s kerb.
“Amy…are you there? I can’t hear you. Amy?”
Inquisitive tiny brown mice scurried to sniff the brightly lit screen and its surrounding droplets of blood. They scampered to safety as the train’s brakes screeched to a final halt, blocking the sound of Sally’s cries and commuter’s screams.
“AMY…. AAAMMMYYY.”
Chapter Four
One month later. The Prince’s Estate,
East London, UK
She stepped through the doorway and walked to the middle of the dimly lit room. He didn’t notice her or the cold, drafty air she brought with her…yesterday Monte Carlo, today London’s East End…God I love my job, never a dull moment.
She glanced around, her eyes adjusting to the light. A grubby brown sofa sat cowered against a wall; torn, stained, hidden beneath soiled clothes and crumpled greying bed linen.
With its rusty chain hanging dejected to the floor, an upturned tandem bicycle leaned against a bookshelf. Bulging black garbage bags huddled together in a corner, supporting each other’s weight. Takeaway cartons, beer cans, and old newspapers scattered the floor, camouflaging the filthy, thread-bare carpet. Well, he’s definitely not house-proud.
A child’s distant cry caught her attention. She spun her head towards an open window and its partially drawn burgundy red curtains stifling the bright sunny day and the chatter of children at play. A small gap in the heavy material showed the bobbing blonde ponytail of a little girl standing outside the apartment, giggling with her friends. Squeals and shouts danced along the concrete walkway of their make-believe world.
They were four floors up in a damp, crumbling, council block—not an ideal playground—but children possess the ability to create magical realms wherever they are.
She turned to look at him and took a deep breath. An immediate mistake. The stale pungent smell of sweat, semen, cigarettes, and old trainers hit her senses. She covered her mouth in disgust and rasped at air through her black suit jacket’s cuff. Urrgh, for god’s sake, do you ever wash?
Smells always get to her. As with music or old photos, smells conjured up deep hidden memories, whether welcome or not. Tugs to the heart, or in this case, bile to the back of the throat. She swallowed hard, forcing back the threatening retch.
The sooner she got out of there the better. It was time. Grabbing the lapels of her jacket, she gave a sharp tug on her collar. It stood up, framing her long neck, glossy blonde hair, and beautiful face.
Placing hands on her hips, chest out, and legs apart, she stood tall, squaring her athletic body to face him. She gave a discreet ‘I’m here’ cough.
He didn’t look up.
She coughed again, louder.
Nothing.
The little girl outside gave a shrill squeal of laughter, catching the man’s attention. He looked over at the curtains with small beady eyes, listening, biting his lower lip, anxious to see what the children were up to. But a computer screen fought for his attention and won. He remained seated, scrolling through images and text.
She coughed again.
Nothing.
He didn’t notice her; she was used to that by now. They hardly ever did, but it was always best to check since some were more in tune than others. Some of the people she had to deal with lived in their own selfish bubble with no thought for anyone but themselves. Being ignored was normal for her. He was no different.
Except, he was different. He was one of them, the reason she was there, the reason she did this job, the reason she’d been delayed in her journey.
A few feet away from her, he sat behind a cluttered desk and large screen. Busy fingers clicked across a keyboard. He can type fast…hours spent surfing the deep dark web, no doubt.
She cocked her head to one side, studying this chubby, diminutive man’s outline. A lock of blonde hair untucked itself from behind her ear and fell over her face. Not caring, she didn’t tidy it away like the old her would have, but she was no longer a slave to unruly hair, to looking good, to vanity. Such a relief.
She continued studying her man, her next job, staring at him through the wayward curl. Do you know Dick, Richard Michael Parker? Is he a friend of yours?
She sashayed over to his desk, taking her time, moving slowly into his space to get a closer look at his face. She peered down at him, examining his features like a plastic surgeon deciding what work to carry out.
He looked a bit like Dick Parker, and they would be around the same age, with the same stocky fat build, the same sweaty eagerness and glassy-eyed look, the excited stare of taking something that didn’t belong to them, of taking something special, something out of bounds, something beyond their normal reach, and getting away with it.
She’d been only four years old. To a four-year-old, everyone towered like a giant.
He looked the same as Dick—dumpy, pallid, and pathetic. Why had she been frightened of a man like him? He was just flesh and bones, a cowardly bully, nothing special. Ahh, but he is special. He’s one of them.
Dick had told her she was special, but she didn’t want to be special. Special gets you noticed. Special gets you picked off from the herd. Special gets you attention you don’t need. Special attracts bad people. Special fucks up your life.
He leaned leisurely back in his chair, legs apart, dressing gown falling open and exposing pink, sweaty skin and a flaccid sallow cock. His breath quickened as he stared at the screen. His right hand clutched at the mouse, gliding the flashing cursor from one image to the next. The monitor’s flickering light dappled his eager, shiny face.
She watched his mouth open with concentration as his tongue absentmindedly licked the corner of his lips. His gaze darted through images, excited, squinting with smiles as something he liked popped up. His right hand dropped to his lap, giving his cock a quick squeeze, easing it into life.
She guessed Dick hadn’t changed much over the years. He’d have gained weight and his thick dark curly hair would have thinned and greyed; and, like this man, his dark beady eyes would have shrunk, sinking deeper into his face, framed with age-crumpled skin, no longer full of the energetic youth she remembered.
She would recognise Dick again. She was confident she would, but memories could play tricks, especially when something that bad happens. Those memories never quite leave a person. The fundamental act remains intact, no matter how much protective, emotional scaffolding you put in place to forget it. You smell the same as him, you bastard.
She leaned over the desk to detect what engrossed the man so intently. His stench of sweaty feet and stale semen swirled in her nostrils. A memory flashed in her brain of a clammy hand clutching hers, guid
ing it, making tiny fingers do as they were told. She shook her head...not now.
Moving in closer, she focused on the man’s computer and noticed a chat box open in the middle of the screen, lines of text rolling down it. His screen name, PrincessB07, shared comments with Sienna2006. His excited chubby fingers jogged across the keys, creating another line of text. He pressed enter, pinging the message up the line of conversation—It will b r secret.
Behind the chat box Amy witnessed images of young children, in various stages of undressing, scroll across the screen. Dirty gnarled hands pushed, pulled, and manipulated their innocent bodies. Child porn.
Amy’s heart sank. A wave of tremors swept through her, ushering bile up her throat. She threw her hand over her mouth to tame her repulsion.
She closed her eyes as the scaffolding started to fall away. Wait, wait, not yet!
She edged nearer, holding the back of his chair. She bent close to his face and blew a long, cold breath across his cheek. He shook his head in annoyance, swiping his hand through the air as if chasing a pesky fly, but his eyes did not leave the screen. He can feel me. Good!
Ping. The noise excited him.
He had a reply to his message—My mum told me not to do that.
She moved in closer, eyeball to eyeball, daring him to acknowledge her. His rancid breath disgustingly warmed her cheek.
His fat fingers replied—It will b r secret. Your mum won’t know… ever.
“Well, I’m here…just for you.” Amy whispered.
He ignored her.
“I’m ready,” she sighed.
He took no notice.
“What…don’t you want me?” she cried in mock horror.
Tearing at her blouse, Amy unfastened the top buttons to reveal her braless cleavage.
He gave no reaction.
“Don’t you like what you see?”
She cupped her breasts and thrust them into his face.
Nothing.
“Too old, am I?”
Nothing.
“Good.”
She could see him, but he couldn’t see her. She was dead.
Chapter Five
Amy Fox placed her hands around the soft folds of the man’s plump neck and tightened her grip, her cold fingers sinking into his doughy flesh.
Her pressure made him feel uncomfortable, made his throat tighten, and cut off his oxygen. The man raised his hand to his neck and kneaded fatty skin. He swallowed hard, trying to loosen the constriction, but it didn’t help. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of heartburn medicine.
Amy whispered into his ear. “This ain’t no heartburn, honey. This is karma. Meds aren’t going to help you now.”
She closed her eyes to concentrate, increasing the pressure. Her vice-like hold tightened.
He choked, crying out, his hands clawing at his throat.
“I can’t breathe, agghhhhhhhhhhh…” He screamed long and loud, a pig in agony.
The children outside stopped to listen to the strange noise coming from the Stinky Man’s flat. They looked to each other unsure what to do.
“Agghhhhhhh,” he screamed again.
The children raced to the window, stood on tiptoes, and peeked through the gap in the curtain. They could see Stinky Man sitting in a dark room, at his desk, writhing in his chair, pulling at his neck. Alone.
They didn’t see Amy standing over him, her blonde curls falling over her scrunched face, her arms ramrodded straight, her hands wrapped around his thick throat while she cursed at him and willed him to die.
“Jeez, for fuck’s sake. Die, you bastard…die,” she hissed.
Gripping with all her strength, she tried to strangle the life out of him, against his pathetic flailing struggle. Confident she had about succeeded, a disturbing slam jarred her concentration. Over her shoulder, she saw that the flat door had burst open. The one person she’d hoped to avoid long enough to complete the mission strolled into the room.
Her mentor and partner, Jack. All tall, dark, handsome, six-foot-four of him. His long black trench coat billowed from broad shoulders as his stride stirred up a recognisable wind.
He assessed the scene with a sweeping gaze from cheeky brown eyes, strutted over to the man’s desk, swept papers and mess aside, and plopped down on the desktop, hands in his pockets, his face full of amusement as he observed her.
“Miss Fox,” he said, greeting her with a calm nod of his head.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here? Get out! I’m in a meeting.” She panted, trying to keep a grip on her slippery, squealing prey.
Jack shook his head with a sigh and gave her a lethargic raised eyebrow.
“Really?” he twinkled. “What are you doing, Ames?” His brown eyes bore down on her through thick dark lashes.
“Killing him! What the bloody hell does it look like?” barked Amy, angry at being interrupted, tightening her hold on the wriggling man.
“But he’s not on the list. You don’t have authorisation.” Jack shook his head. “Have you been working solo...again?”
Her silence answered him. Jack ran his hand through his long shaggy hair and sighed. He took a deep breath and with a sweep of his arm waved his hand through the air and flicked his finger towards the sofa. Amy’s body abruptly rose in the air and flew through the air across the room. She landed in an undignified heap between the sofa and rubbish bags. She hated it when he did that.
The man, grateful for the sudden release on his throat, pulled himself up out of the chair, and scrambled out of the room, coughing and spluttering in search of a drink. The children at the window burst into giggles as his dressing gown wafted open, revealing his naked body. They ran down the walkway to tell their friends.
Amy eased herself into a sitting position, blowing her dishevelled hair from her face.
“I hate it when you do that. How come that magnetic shit works for you and not for me?” She dusted herself off, her black suit the lone article in her wardrobe.
“It takes practice,” Jack said, flashing one of his famous grins. “You’re a newbie.”
“Hardly. I arrived only a few months after you,” she muttered, brushing the dust from her legs.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got previous history in the body-throwing business. The Army taught me well.”
“You make it look so easy.”
“You can use the guns, can’t you?”
She nodded.
“Well, use the same technique but cut out the grabbing. You’re trying too hard. You don’t really need to touch anything. Empty your mind, hover your hand over the object, feel the energy, let it build, and throw in the direction you want it to go. E-F-B-T: empty, feel, build, and throw…simple.” He reached down to offer her his hand.
She reluctantly snatched it and pulled herself up, slapping the last of the dirt off her backside.
“Jeez, when did he last clean this place?”
For the zillionth time since they’d started working together, Jack tilted his head and studied her. She was beautiful. He could watch her all day.
“You went off grid again, Ames. You know you can’t do that. We have to work as a team, or we’ll be chucked out. Maggie will have our guts for garters,” he chided.
“Yes, but the Unit doesn’t get to enough of these people fast enough. All this permission-seeking takes up too much time.” She gave him a long side look. “Besides, people like him are my reason.”
“I know, I know…but rules are rules, Ames. You have to do this right or they’ll get rid of us.”
“Me, not us,” she said, correcting him, staring up at his face.
Jack subconsciously ran a hand across his forehead, his fingers following the ugly scars that dragged around his eye socket and across his cheek. He turned away from her glare, frightened of seeing the distaste in her eyes.
“You’re my partner. I am responsible for you. I’ll get chucked out, too,” he muttered.
With a frustrated sigh, she blew hair out of her ey
es, the blonde strands momentarily lifted, then settled back down framing her face. He watched out of the corner of his eyes, he loved it when she did that.
“You need a haircut,” he teased.
She ignored him, sulking, kicking at the corner of the man’s desk.
Jack softened; he knew what Dick Parker had done to her, and understood her revenge more than anyone. He stepped closer and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders.
“We have so much more work to do before our time is up. If we don’t follow the rules, we’re out, and I’m not ready to stop just yet. Are you?”
She shook her head. Not until she got to Dick Parker.
The man shuffled back into the room, clutching a steaming mug of coffee. Newly composed, the spluttering subsided; he sat back down at his computer and carried on surfing images of children. Jack and Amy watched him.
Unable to bear her revulsion, Amy pulled out of Jack’s arms and rushed forward, reaching for the man’s neck.
“The bastard,” she spat. “Just let me…”
“No,” snapped Jack, clicking his fingers over her hands. Her arms flailed up and out, swinging into a wide circle, as if warming up for a workout.
“OK, OK, grrrrrr…so many rules.” She stamped her foot in anger. He also loved it when she did that; he loved everything about her.
“They don’t play by the rules, so why the hell should we?” Amy sulked.
“Because if we don’t, we’re as bad as they are,” he reminded her shrugging. “Karma sorts it, eventually.”
She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, and gave him a jaded look.
“We are karma, Jack. We are the ones that sort it. We’ve got to crack on with it. All this waiting for authorisation is getting on my tits. Do you know how many children get abused every day? Fear and shame keep them from speaking out. We have to do something.”
He nodded. He understood her frustration, but she had to learn to look at the bigger picture.
“I know it grates. I don’t like it either, but they have their reasons. Everything has a time, a place. Having said that, on my last shift the gloves will be off and I’ll have a field day, but for now…come on. Let’s get out of here. Maggie’s authorised the next job. Pyke’s waiting.” Jack moved towards the door.
The Deal (The Fallen Angel Series Book 1) Page 4