Stephen didn’t really have a great sense of humour, but he had a great body and could do amazing things with his mouth. Again, his mood brightened momentarily. Little glimmers of hope in an otherwise shitty day that lay ahead of him. But if it all ended with him, Graham and Stephen; kissing, tugging, sucking and fucking or being fucked; well, it would be a damn good day.
‘One latte full fat, and one skinny’ he handed them to the hands extended, ‘Jeanne darling, here’s your latte’. He ignored the tuts from the two women in their fifties that were in the queue in front of Jeanne, as she reached over for her free drink. He caught the eye of one of the older ladies, scowling at him and treated her to a Bryan Cairns “give-a-fuck” shrug. He didn’t, as it happened. She clearly did and showed him so with an even louder ‘tut’.
‘Call me later, sweetie, I need to talk to you’ Jeanne said as she grabbed her drink, oblivious to the political issues surrounding her early drink.
‘Darling, if tonight goes to plan, there’ll be no talking’ and he blew her a kiss, and swung round to make the next order waiting for him on the spike. He couldn’t help but notice the look from the vanilla-dimples guy, though. He didn’t look impressed at all.
‘He’ll be even less impressed in a minute’ he thought as he started the drinks for the tutting ladies and the free ones for Graham and Stephen in the queue behind him.
‘Fuck him’, he whispered under his breathe, ‘he’ll just have to wait’. He could feel the furious eyes behind him, watching him reproachfully as he prepared the drinks for his Bears. Bryan’s Bears always come first. Screw anyone that wanted him to change his ways. He’d die before he changed his ways just to bow to any boring bastards orders.
Chapter 43
Lentus sat in a nearly empty station. Just the late shifters were out in the offices outside his booth, working on the stuff that they could get done when it wasn’t all kicking off. At this late hour the overhead lights were off and just desk lights were used, creating sporadic islands of light in an otherwise darkened sea. It was a more soothing environment, and lent itself to the elements of the role that required a little bit of meditation. Thinking. Musing. The stuff that couldn’t necessarily be done during daylight hours, or any hours at the weekend.
Of course, it was a 24 hours a day job, but there were peaks and troughs like any working environment. Tuesday nights were pretty quiet, even in London; so there were less bums in seats now so that there were more Thursday night onwards.
With less light outside of his booth, and more within, the three walls of glass that surrounded Lentus effectively became half-mirrors. He looked at his reflection, the overhead light creating darkened hollow eye sockets and sunken cheeks under cheekbones. His raggedy hair still looked like he’d just stepped out of bed, but not in the way that people styled it these days. His was just a bit shit. If he had any family they probably would have expressed their concern by now, in the way families do, managing to ignore the fact that a person may have actually grown up and is holding down a trying job.
Yes. He looked tired. He looked stressed.
He looked haunted.
Polly spat the fingers out, and he heard them hit the floor. He brought her ghost
(not a ghost)
from his peripheral vision to his direct eye line by just looking slightly over to the chair she was (wasn’t) sat in. His head, as always, remained in the same place so as not to arouse suspicion. His team revered him, but with that came scrutiny. People in his position shouldn’t make it common knowledge that they converse with dead people. He couldn’t imagine it would go down very well. The last thing Lentus wanted was to jeopardise this….THIS thing he had built up. He was in charge. He was the Guvnor and they were going to catch the bastard that had killed his pretty Polly.
It was all he could think about, day and night. It was his obsession, and he carried it around with him wherever he went, like an angry monster clinging to his back. Or a ghost. Yes, a ghost.
‘What do you think he looks like, Lenny?’ Polly asked him with her dead, blood encrusted mouth that definitely wasn’t there.
She had asked him this many, many times. Or rather, his subconscious had posed the question to him, thusly feeding the fire of speculation. He held up some papers in his right hand, and rested his chin in the palm of his left, screening his mouth. As always.
‘Oh Polly, you know I just don’t bloody know that. I have nothing as a point of reference. The bastard seems to know where there either aren’t any cameras, or where they aren’t working.’ This was true. In an age where CCTV was becoming increasingly common, they had yet to get a single image of him.
Digits were spat on the floor; ‘Hazard a guess, Lenny. Again. What do you think he looks like? One more time.’
He sighed. He removed his hand from cradling his chin and tapped the desk twice, then replaced it.
Round and round it goes, where it stops nobody knows.
‘OK. Well, the irrational part of me has built him up to be some kind of madman, someone people would run screaming from in the street. However, for him to have never been noticed or remembered, to never cause alarm or concern; then he has to be normal looking’.
Polly went through the fingers routine once more, Lentus rolling his eyes at this tic that his mind had decided to go through each time her ghost
(his subconscious)
Started to speak. ‘OK, what if he was something more than a person that blended in’
Lentus nodded his approval to go on.
‘What if he actually stands out, but is the antithesis of what people would expect him to be? He could be someone that would never register as a person that would do such a thing when people were questioned and thinking back. Maybe, the reason he seems to be able to go unhindered and everyone has a Teflon memory of him, as that he’s….’
‘Nice’, Lentus finished for her, the hairs standing to attention all over his body; ‘bugger me, Polly. I think we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.’
Polly didn’t spit anything out. She sat back in the chair and smiled a hideous smile. It was 21:17 on a Tuesday night. DI Lentus tapped his desk four times and dialled the first call of many that night as he went back to the proverbial drawing board.
Chapter 44
Hand written diary entry
May 2001
Greetings again, dear diary.
Well, my life is weird now. You know it, I know it, we all know it.
Positives first. Work is amazing in the IT Sales world (so glad I left pharma!), especially since you-know-who killed herself. Now it’s just great people and a great team. I even got some of her clients! I have serious money coming in now. The kudos and the clients I gained after the millennium bug thing didn’t happen means I’m top performer without really doing anything on repeat orders. Every month. Well, that’s pretty darn cool. I’m getting close to being loaded. Not buying-cars-on-a-whim loaded, but definitely buying an awesome car loaded.
And then there’s my new flat in the Docklands. Holy shit, it’s like something from a film. I never, ever thought I’d have a wall of glass through which I can look down on the Thames. Yeah, the boy done good.
Been going to quite a few Fervour Parties! Lucy still comes with me, and boy do we have some fun. I don’t like it when men touch her, but she never actually lets them fully fuck her when we’re at the orgies. I still don’t like it. When she’s with girls though, especially when I get to join in, now that will be in my wank bank forever. The few special friends we’ve made to play away from the parties are lots of fun, too. We’ve had some fun in my Jacuzzi bath.
Lucy would be girlfriend material if we hadn’t pushed sexual boundaries so far now. Plus, she’s kind’ve seeing someone. I couldn’t have a girlfriend, anyway. I’ve proven that.
I still think of Elektra. Stupid name, amazing girl. I still haven’t spoken to her, but I’ve stopped driving by her place and don’t try to contact her any more. In fact, I’ve heard she’s moved to Gatw
ick now. She WAS so fine. It seems I will never know what I did though.
Which brings me to the reason for this. The diary for The Doc.
Yes. More blackouts. Sometimes when I’ve been partying hard, sometimes not. Some are short and I black out for a few seconds and realise something’s happened when I look at the concerned faces round me. Then there’s the ones that must last a few hours before I regain consciousness.
I’ve come-to in some strange states as well. There’s been mud. I’ve been drenched. Even coffee stains and coffee grounds on my clothes. Beer and wine as well. There’s nearly always marks on my right hand, like I’ve rubbed a newspaper or something too. It’s fucking crazy, and it scares the shit out of me.
The last one, my hands smelt of food. Like fruit or veg or both. Plus the inky marks.
Dr. Barrett is now thinking it may be something neurological, possibly psychological. I think I’m confusing him, but at least he’s trying. Thanks for that, Doc!
He doesn’t know that I drive. I’ve blagged that one. For now. Otherwise, I’d have my license taken away in no time. Nope, as far as he’s aware, I get the train and tubes everywhere. It’s not an outrageous proposition, not in London.
Anyway. If it’s the drugs, then I’ll have to stop them. Booze, the same.
It could be stress, who knows? As long as I’m not crazy, then I’ll deal with it. Whatever it is, it needs to be sorted before someone gets hurt.
I may have my faults, but I am not a bastard!
Watch this space, Dear Diary. Watch this space.
Chapter 45
Jeanne could feel the start of the shakiness in her jaw, the headiness and the throb of her pulse as it increased. They were all signs that the ecstasy tablet she’d swallowed twenty minutes earlier was kicking in, and that meant it was kicking in way too soon.
To be fair, her heartbeat had already been way up, from the speed that she’d dabbed on her tongue earlier when she’d been with a few of the Bitch Bunch. She’d dabbed that because she had been in a bit of a fug from the solid she’d smoked and wanted to be a bit livelier in the bar before going off clubbing.
They had all arranged to meet for drinks the early part of the evening and to talk about what had happened to Bryan. That was the excuse, anyway.
Outwardly, she was mortified about what had happened to Bryan. They all were, it was horrendous, they couldn’t believe it, OH THE HORROR! He’d been choked, burnt, and finally stabbed with that spike that he used for his coffee orders. Just terrible. Poor B.
Secretly, though, she was enjoying the infamy attached to being the last to see him alive. The last recipient of one of the Costa Queen’s final freebies. She was in demand for gossip, at least for now, she was, and she was riding that wave for all it was worth. She’d never been overly popular, and chose to be mercurial with her affiliations because of it. She would follow the group that were OK with her at any given time.
She didn’t feel she really had any true friends, but she had her cliques. The Bitch Bunch were great for that. Bitching. Laughing. Being dramatic. Thinking themselves exclusive, but no more exclusive than any of her other groups of loners. She definitely didn’t fancy going clubbing with them, though. Fuck that.
They’d all caught up over drinks, and pretended to care about Bryan whilst still managing to make it all about themselves. Jeanne had then parted from them so that she could party.
So here she was, heading for Home Club on Leicester Square; weaving in and out of the tourists in her way. Gurning here. Jaw juddering there. She really needed some music to channel the drug, to dance.
Soon, Jeanne, soon. She assured herself. She was really thirsty, too.
She felt very exposed coming up on the ecstasy and really needed to be in the club until around 6am.
Wrapped very well in cling film and currently residing in her vagina were 3 more ecstasy tablets, a nearly full wrap of speed and half a gram of coke. That should keep her going until 6am, and then see where she ends up. Hopefully an after party to take her well into Sunday. She knew a few people who were meant to be going to Home tonight, but she didn’t have a mobile to track them down. Hopefully, luck would be on her side and she’d see them in there. If she was really lucky, she would see them in the queue and save herself a massive wait. If she lost her buzz queuing for an hour, she’d have to try to surreptitiously extricate another pill from her quim in public and swallow it dry. That wouldn’t be ideal at all. That would mean she’d have to start all over again with her buzz and no one wanted that!
As she crossed Leicester Square in as straight a line as possible she realised that the next phase was coming in. Her eyesight was vibrating. She always found that if she could dance, it held the strange aspects of a pill at bay. It was like there was a certain amount of energy created by it that needed to be expended, and to not dance left a surplus. She needed to get in there quickly so that surplus could be dealt with efficiently and she wouldn’t subsequently ‘go into one’.
‘I hate going into one’ she thought as her teeth began to chatter. Nothing to do with the temperature, just the ecstasy surplus.
She could see the queue snaking away from the entrance of Home, impatient and mostly glamorous people popping in and out of her pulsing view, glimpses through the milling crowds as she headed through. And then she was by the line of people, and walking along, looking for anyone that she knew in the clouds of cigarette smoke, aftershave, perfume and drug fuelled urgent chit chat.
She saw a friend of a friend ahead, stepping away from the queue to try and get some reception on their mobile phone. A bouncer had noticed the person dare to step away from the herd and was approaching to deal with this tiny uprising. Jeanne sped up and waved to Joe, the guy she recognised. He saw her, and waved back. He looked high as a kite and happy as hell.
‘Perfect’ Jeanne muttered through her chattering teeth and gurning jaw.
In spite of the drugs fuelling her, or possibly due to rising paranoia as a result; she caught the reproachful looks and tuts of the assembled masses as she hurried by them toward Joe, only a few feet from the actual entrance.
She knew they had no doubt all been queuing for ages. Jeanne Young didn’t have the limited circles of friends that she had through worrying about trivial matters like that. Besides, this was Great Britain. They would queue, they would tut; but no one would say a fucking word.
Little did she know that this time, there was a wolf amongst the herd of sheep, and it had much to say on the matter.
Chapter 46
Detective Inspector Lentus sighed and carefully placed his mug of decaffeinated tea on the coaster.
The coaster was one of four, all exactly the same, and all placed at each corner of the coffee table in front of him. Perfectly positioned to overlap the coffee table lengthways was a plain leather sofa, each end an extra 12 inches further than where the table ended.
On the side that Lentus sat were two leather armchairs that matched the sofa perfectly. The outer side of each of the armchairs was in direct line with each of the ends of the sofa. This was his little oasis of calm, of symmetry. It was rare for him to be sat here so early in the evening; but he had decided that stepping away from the office would be a good thing. Step back and think a bit. That’s all he would have been doing anyway, only in his little glass cage.
Only months earlier, at the turn of the year and the turn of the new millennium; he had resolved to work less and try to live a life more. This he had pledged to Polly’s ghost (not a ghost), as she had always known, and he knew, that he worked too hard. Since her death though, work was really all he had. It was his obsession, his love. It was also the rod for his back and the shackles that held him.
He sighed again, sat in his otherwise silent flat. The pools of light from the two floor lamps, equidistant from the sofa in each corner of the room behind it reached him, but were not harsh.
He looked around the room. It was tastefully decorated with items and materials that were neither chea
p nor overly expensive. There was very little technology, as he rarely committed time to music, or film anymore. Any TV he watched was factual and straightforward.
Pictures on the wall were minimal and in a straight line all framed in the same size frame. There were an even number of them. Polly. The house they grew up in in Easingwold in Yorkshire. More Polly, at her graduation. Their Aunty’s farm. Another of him and Polly, laughing and showing their matching pendants to the camera a lifetime ago when things were so different. The same one that he had in his office.
‘Oh Polly, love.’ He said allowed, reflectively, not even knowing he had done so. He didn’t register the sound of fingers being spat out and falling on the floor behind him, either.
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