The Deal (The Fallen Angel Series Book 1)

by S C Cunningham

  Commuters faced rush hour delays while services on the line were severely delayed. Some station display boards were showing no trains for up to two hours, while crowds of people were forced to wait outside stations.

  Two rescue crews from London Fire Brigade arrived first at the scene following reports a person had been struck by a train. A British Transport Police Officer reported: “Officers from BTP and London Ambulance Service arrived on the scene a short time after; however, regrettably, a female was pronounced dead at the scene. The female has been identified as Amy Fox, 32yrs, from Earls Court, London. The incident is being treated as non-suspicious and a file will be produced for the Coroner’s Office."

  A Transport for London spokesperson reported work had been done to restore a normal service to the Piccadilly Line, and that Brompton Court Station had resumed operations.

  Amy stared at the screen. Is that what her life had come down to—how quickly the trains could get up and running again, how quickly they could clean up her body from the tracks?

  The twitter messages that followed the incident were even more callous.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Delays AGAIN on the Piccadilly Line.”

  “Suicide, don’t be so bloody selfish, go kill urself somewhere else.”

  Non-suspicious circumstances—what did that mean? That she’d accidentally fallen onto the track in the commuter rush, or that she’d committed suicide?

  She didn’t feel comfortable with people thinking she’d taken her own life. It wasn’t her style, unless the day came when she couldn’t wipe her own bottom or became a burden. Then she would want to pop her clogs. Also, if she were going to commit suicide, it would be at a time and place where it would affect the least amount of people—no onlookers haunted by the image of a pulped body, no train driver guilt-scarred for life, no friends hearing it happen on a phone call, and no commuters late for work.

  She searched again, locating nothing of note with respect to her death. An only child, with her adoptive parents dead, she didn’t expect many would mourn her passing except her friends, a few work colleagues, and broken-hearted ex-boyfriends, but she shifted in her chair, pleasantly amazed. Her wake had a good turnout. A heartfelt emotion touched her in a way she didn’t expect.

  After her funeral, life had moved on. Her landlady re-let her apartment, her boss employed a new girl, and her cat had found a new owner. She seemed to have left the world with not much more than a blip…a commuter delay. Was that it?

  The only sign she even existed appeared on social media. Sally’s Facebook page had kindly celebrated her life. Sally had posted pictures of the two of them together with loving memories and quotes of the laughter they had shared. Tears streamed down her face as she scrolled through them. I love you, Sal.

  Her own Facebook and Twitter pages still memorialized her existence, frozen just where she’d posted her last entries, which felt a bit weird. She would ask Pyke about deleting them. Each page had numerous entries from well-wishers, some she barely knew. RIP, rest in peace, well she certainly wasn’t doing that. She’d never worked so hard in her life, certainly not in her previous life.

  She wanted to reply to all the generous, kind comments, to tell a few how wonderful they were, a few how she wished she’d spent more time with them, and others a few home truths; to stop the fake bullshit, that they’d never really liked each other so fuck off, hashtag crocodile tears. But she thought better of scaring people. A dead person speaking through social media…nah, Maggie would blow a gasket. There must be a rule against it, although no one has said anything…hmmm.

  Her search to elucidate how or why she’d died bore no fruit. Maybe it was just one of those things, an accident. Mara was being a jealous arse.

  Next, she wanted to search for Jack, but realised she didn’t know anything about him; his surname, date of birth, school, Army regiment, place of birth, any titbit to launch a search. A zillion Jacks existed in the UK.

  She sat staring at the screen. Well this is a waste of time.

  She forfeited her googling to stare out the window and let her mind rest. Just beyond the landscape, the sea danced wildly under a blustery day. People walked their dogs, trudging along the sandy beach controlling leashes, holding on to hats, scarves, and poo bags, leaning into the wind.

  She used to love the wind, the freeing feeling of blowing away cobwebs, of blasting through her hair and shaking life into her body. She sighed, and added it to the list of things she should have stopped and relished more, the many things she shouldn’t have taken for granted.

  A face appeared in her line of view through the window—a beautiful young woman in her twenties, wearing a black dress, with pale skin and long red flowing hair waving about her shoulders. The woman’s gaze directly targeted her.

  Amy glanced behind her; in case the woman had her sights on someone else, but no one else had entered the room. The two oblivious students and she had no other company. Can she see me?

  Just as quickly as the woman came into view, she suddenly vanished from sight. Amy watched for a while, in case she came back.

  A muffled sniffing noise caught her attention. She looked across at the students. One of them was sobbing, but she couldn’t work out which one, as they huddled over their desks with hoodies covering their heads and headphones plugged in their ears.

  She rose and walked over to the nearest desk. A young teenage boy was bent over his science books with heavy metal blasting from his headphones. Rocking in rhythm to the music, his eyes scanned images on the computer, checked chemical structures in his books, and made scratchy diagrams in his notebook. His eyes showed no signs of sadness.

  She turned to the next desk. What initially looked like a young lad in a hoody, oversized jeans, and trainers wasn’t a boy at all but a girl with short hair and geeky glasses. She yanked earplugs out of her ears and pushed study books aside. Tears rolled down her cheeks as her sad eyes stared at text on the computer. Amy stood behind her and read the screen.

  Someone trolled her on her Twitter account. For once, normally a tomboy, she’d courageously posted a picture of herself in a fashionable dress. She hardly ever braved wearing a dress and thought she’d looked good, well, better than she normally did.

  She had a crush on a college boy and wanted him to see her feminine side, trying to attract his attention. But it had gone terribly wrong.

  Vanity and beauty were not her strong points. Short and overweight, she had no skills in applying makeup, styling her hair, or showing her pretty features, like other girls her age. A caretaker for her sick, single mother and five younger siblings, she could barely afford College, never mind a beauty salon. With money so tight, she based her life around her and her family’s survival, not on how good she looked.

  Her name was Oonagh, and the cruel trolls were having a field day with cheap digs at her appearance. She didn’t want to read the messages, but couldn’t tear her eyes away from vicious comment after vicious comment, each one a knife in her heart.

  As Oonagh clumsily flicked through pages, tears blurred her vision as she desperately tried to delete the image and stop the bullying. Amy surmised this was not the first time she had been attacked. The girl had been bullied for months.

  Amy memorised Oonagh’s Twitter name and returned to her desk. She pulled up the girl’s account on Twitter, and using her own account, followed the troll conversation. Once she understood the gist of the situation, who commented what, who acted as the vilest culprits, she joined in the conversation, giving Oonagh compliments galore. Maggie’s not going to like this.

  Praising her, empowering her, complimenting her on how wonderful she looked, how beautifully the dress enhanced her eyes, asking where she’d found such a lovely design, she claimed her friend Jack also whistled, saying she was a stunner. Amy watched Oonagh’s face light up as the tweets came through.

  It amazed her how just a few kind words could have such power, change a person’s mood, and give confid
ence. Oonagh smiled at the screen and typed back saying ‘thank you.’

  Amy sensed a presence beside her and twisted around to behold the red-headed woman who had lingered outside the window, solemn faced, hands on her hips, staring right at her.

  “You can see me, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hi. I’m Amy, UK Unit,” Amy offered her hand.

  “Yep.” The woman didn’t take it.

  “I guess you’re with an Irish Unit.” Amy dropped her hand and shrugged.

  “Yep.”

  “Sorry to be on your patch, but I’m playing hooky. I just needed to get away for a bit, sort my head out.”

  “Yep.”

  “You don’t say much do you.”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you mind if I just help this girl out a little?”

  The woman scrutinized Amy, taking her in, reading her energy. After a few seconds, her body language softened, as if she had come to a decision. She dropped her hands from her hips and stepped nearer.

  “Nope, not at all,” she smiled.

  Her clever green eyes twinkled as her beautiful face lit up.

  “Actually, I could do with some help,” Amy said, apologetically.

  “What kind of help.”

  “Dishing out a little karma.”

  The woman smiled, flicked her long red mane over her shoulder, sat down beside Amy, put out her hand, and said. “I’m Maeve. Good to meet you.”

  Amy shook it with glee, immediately liking this girl. She had a cheeky sparkle in her eye and a soft Irish accent to die for. It felt all the more fun working with a secret collaborator. They snuggled together at the computer, new partners in crime.

  “Am happy to help,” Maeve looked over at Oonagh. “That’s Oonagh. She’s on suicide watch. I like to keep a special eye on her. She’s a good girl, a kind girl, but too soft for her own good,” she informed Amy, shaking her head. “Oonagh’s been bullied for years and has now had enough. She wants to go. She spends a lot of time in here, googling how to commit suicide. I’ve done all I can to help her.”

  “Well…” Amy leaned in close and whispered. “How do you feel about a little dirt digging? You know, the kind of stuff people don’t want others to know about. It’s easy for them to hide behind social media…‘Look at me. I’m so wonderful’ persona. I think these guys need a lesson or two, to be frightened off. I’m not sure if it’s legal for us to do, but hey, they deserve it. I’ll do it all on my Twitter account so the blame goes on me.”

  “Oh, I don’t care. Hey, I’m dead already, whatta they gonna do?”

  “Exactly, you and me both.”

  “I like it. What do you need?” Maeve grinned and rubbed her hands together with glee. “I love a good karma session.”

  “Well, I’ve just given Oonagh a load of compliments,” Amy whispered, “which is gonna piss this lot off big time. They’ll come back with a torrent of abuse. I need you to contact one of your intel boys at your Unit and get any juicy info you can on each of the viler offenders for me.”

  “Yep, easy,” whispered Maeve. “Gabe in the office will love it. He lost his sister through this sort of bullying shite. He’ll link us up on a call, and I’ll pop out and visit their homes, be your eyes and ears on the ground. I’m guessing most will be from Ireland, so it won’t take long.”

  “Why are we whispering?” questioned Amy, scrunching up her nose.

  “Jeysus, I don’t know. You started it.” Maeve giggled. “No one can feckin hear us,” she shouted.

  They both laughed.

  Oonagh’s soft cry interrupted the merriment.

  They glimpsed at Oonagh to find her head bowed, tears welling her eyes again. As expected, the exchange upset the trolls. They’d spent the day slagging her off, and here was someone building her up again. They came back with a vengeance, with a new onslaught of insults.

  Maeve and Amy looked at each other. They were going to enjoy this. Maeve stood up, walked over behind Oonagh, and whispered closely into her ear.

  “Don’t worry little one. There are a few Angels here to dish out a little karma.”

  She gave Amy a wink and walked out the door, tapping her ear.

  “Gabe, darlin’, I’ve a little favour to ask ya…”

  Amy smiled, watching her leave. This is where the fun starts.

  Bent over the computer, Amy read the round of troll messages as they came in. Gabe connected her and Maeve up on a call. Amy recited the name and username of the targeted troll. Gabe searched a few databases and gave the name and address to Maeve. In a whirlwind dash, Maeve attended the troll’s home, bedroom, schoolroom, and workplace; then reported each of her findings back to Amy. Amy then replied to the troll’s message with uncomfortable snippets of information to unnerve the evilest of bullies.

  The messaging went on for four hours. Every now and then, Amy checked up on Oonagh, who sat rigidly in her chair, aghast, staring at the screen. Sometimes she laughed out loud, other times cringed with embarrassment, and occasionally slammed her hand across her mouth in shock. But she’d stopped crying. She was growing in stature with every slaying of the dragon.

  At first the trolls would fight right back and start slagging off, Amy revelling in the new kill. But Amy would gather the intel from Gabe and Maeve, edit the information to a short sharp deadly line of text, go in for the kill, and send it flying out there for all to see.

  ‘Masturbating with a pink rubber glove is just silly, Patrick. Stop it, now #wanker.’

  ‘Mark, sniffing ur finger after poking ur bum hole is gross. Just stop it #WashHands.’

  ‘If ur gonna pull hair from ur butt crack, Christine, don’t chew it… yuck!’

  ‘Tim, peeing in the shower, watchin it swirl the plug hole isn’t nice in Sonia’s house.’

  ‘Not sure ur co-worker Paul Hunter will like knowing u net-stalk him, Eva #crush.’

  ‘Pls pop those blackheads in privacy of ur own home. A traffic jam is not the place.’

  ‘U can grab thoz #LoveHandles all u want. They r not goin anywhere. #DietExercise’

  ‘Those purple leggings u’ve got on don’t do ur cellulite any favours, hon.’

  ‘sorry u have to use a cock expander, Dick. Never mind. #ButtonMushroom.’

  ‘Rick, does ur mum know about the bestiality porno mag under ur bedside rug?’

  ‘Pete, does Sam know ur sexting his gf? #DodgyFriend.’

  ‘Hilary, no worry. It’s ok 2 fart in ur Gynaecologist’s face. #GoesWithTheTerritory.’

  ‘Oonagh may be an XXL, but Trisha, ur an XXXL. What’s with u? #GlassHouses.’

  ‘Stop picking ur nose n’eating it, Sheila. It’s SO not a good look. #NastyHabit.”

  ‘Have u got the result of your HIV test back yet, Colin?’

  ‘Sorry about the bankruptcy, Malcolm, such a nuisance when starting a nu company.’

  ‘Does Harry no u’ve pinpricked holes in ur dutch cap, Anna? #UnwantedPregnancy.’

  This is fun.

  Oonagh sat transfixed as the verbal beatings assaulted each of her trolls. She punched the air when one of her more vehement enemies was hit with a bull’s eye. Her following numbers grew by the second.

  Finally, the trolls started to back off. The more they wrote, the more uncomfortable facts came out about them. One by one, they crawled back under their stones, hopefully to stay there.

  They couldn’t understand how Amy knew such private information. Some covered the cameras in their laptops. Some turned their phones off with fright. They particularly fretted when they realised the messages had been posted from a dead person’s account.

  Since the hour was late and the trolls had retreated and Oonagh had attracted thousands of new followers, Maeve popped back into the café for a rest. She and Amy high-fived as Amy chatted with Gabe.

  “Thank you, Gabe. I’d better go. I’ve been AWOL a while now and I’m in serious trouble.”

  “No, it’s my pleasure. I enjoyed it, and don’t worry about the of
fice. I had a quick word with Pyke. He and I have helped each other out in the past. He’s cool with today’s work.”

  Oonagh packed up her things and left the café. She carried a beaming smile on her face. Someone had stood up for her. She wasn’t a worthless piece of shit. Amy and Maeve watched her as she walked down the street.

  As she passed a hairdressing salon, she stopped to check the window for prices. She would come back tomorrow and book a hair appointment and maybe get her nails done. It was time she treated herself. She looked up and saw two white feathers float gently to the ground in front of her. She grabbed at them, giggling, caught them, and placed them in her pocket.

  Today was the first day of the new Oonagh.

  Amy stood on the street corner with her hands tucked in her pockets, watching the spirited girl continue down the street with a skip in her step. I love my job. That was fun.

  She had come to Oonagh’s aid, but in fact Oonagh had helped her. Bullies like Mara were not going to get to her. She possessed a newfound gumption to fight for what she wanted, and she wanted Jack.

  Maeve gave her a heartfelt hug goodbye.

  “See you around, Maeve. Thanks for helping me. We did good, changing that girl’s life. If they come back again later, can you and Gabe continue the fight?”

  “Course, it’ll be my pleasure.”

  “Good. She deserves better. She’s a nice girl.”

  “Of course, she is. She’s my sister.”

  Amy stood open mouthed. “What?”

  “Yep, I owe you, Amy. You need me anytime, let me know.”

  They hugged again and walked their separate ways. The sea wind blew through Amy’s hair, tingling her body alive. She closed her eyes and cherished every single second of it.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Cloud 9

  Amy wandered into the office to find Pyke leaning over his desk fiddling with wiring encased in a large black box.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve been hacked, but I’m sorting it. I hear from Gabe you’ve been a busy bee helping our Irish friends. Sorry I haven’t been much help, but I’ve been tied up with this all day. Is it sorted?”