Miss No One

by Mark Ayre

  Abbie had been walking through the park for a little over 90 seconds when she spotted someone.

  She had been thinking about Christine. The younger woman who had fled when Abbie told her to run and who, so far as Abbie knew, had escaped.

  Abbie expected to see the woman again, though she didn't know where or when their next meeting would take place. Whenever and wherever it was, Abbie had questions for the blonde when they reunited.

  For example, she needed to know more about the recently deceased Davesh. Christine spoke of cut and shuts and stolen cars imported from Europe, but Abbie guessed there was more to it than that. Smoker and the gang had arrived bearing guns and with business on the mind. Someone else had murdered the dealership owner. Why was he so important? What had he been up to?

  And what had driven Christine to become involved in the first place?

  These thoughts were jumbled in her head, jostling for space with other considerations. For one, what would Smoker do next? Would he return to HQ to face his boss's wrath? Would he flee the town of his crime and never return? That would be ideal.

  Or would he stay close, sit and stew over what had happened at the dealership? Would he hole up somewhere and spend his time thinking about Abbie?

  Over the past few years, many men and women had spent significant quantities of time thinking about Abbie. Sadly, most of them had been plotting her murder, relatively few considering how pretty she was and wondering how they might pluck up the courage to ask her on a date.

  Finally, there was the boss himself. Baldie had mentioned him. The whole gang had lived in the shadow of fear for their paymaster.

  Orion. An unusual name, but no doubt multiple dangerous criminals in the country went by that moniker.

  Abbie only knew of one.

  Could it be him...?

  Only time would tell. Something else to ask Christine, though Abbie didn't expect the vigilante to know anything about this particular crook.

  Abbie was trying to untangle these thoughts. Each one went in a different box and was assigned a priority. She was trying to put them in some kind of order when she saw a brick block some twenty metres from the path she walked.

  The park, as a whole, was an attractive, peaceful place. The block was ugly. Squat, with one door in Abbie's view. Black. On the other side would be a second door. The door Abbie could see had stuck to it or stencilled on it a white stick man. The door on the other side, Abbie had no doubt, would have upon it a stick woman. Same colour.

  Employees working on behalf of the local council had stuck the stick people to the toilet doors. Surrounding the stick man were numerous pieces of graffiti. Some of it artistic, most of it vile. The scribes had a preoccupation with their acquaintances' mothers and sexuality. The council had not commissioned these scrawls and diagrams. Helpful citizens had added them, completely pro-bono.

  Leaning against the brick wall around the corner from the black door in Abbie's sight was a hooded person in grubby jeans and falling apart white trainers. One hand was in his pocket. The other held a cigarette or a joint. Abbie would have to get closer to find out which.

  Luckily, get closer was precisely what she intended to do.

  A tingle of anticipation ran down Abbie’s spine. There was nothing about the hooded man to indicate he had anything interesting to say, or that he was involved in anything of note. Quite the opposite.

  But Abbie knew this would not turn out to be the case.

  The battle at the dealership had marked phase one of Abbie’s mission to save the innocent child she had described to Christine.

  That battle was behind her, and here was a hooded man with a cigarette or a joint.

  Which to Abbie meant one thing.

  Phase two was about to begin.

  Seven

  Abbie hesitated a moment, then left the path along which she’d been weaving, stepping onto the grass. The uneven surface was not good for her ankle, which still ached, but she put the pain from her mind. Not easy, but she’d had plenty of practice, so doable. And once it was done, she focused on the focal point of phase two. The target.

  Bowed as the guy's head was, with his hood pulled right down, his peripheral was close to 0%. In fact, he likely wouldn't notice any suspicious behaviour in his vicinity unless his grubby trainers started playing pranks on his tatty jeans.

  This made approach simpler, but Abbie believed, as ever, in caution. She put herself at an angle whereby the lanky guy would need to twist his head round almost as far as could an owl to see her. And the closer she got to the building, the harder it would be. Soon enough, he'd have to turn the corner of the block to spot her. As long as she was quiet, there was no reason for him to notice her until she was practically at his side.

  If he was smoking weed rather than a cigarette, he might not even notice then.

  Abbie had cut the distance in half before the guy shouted. By this point, the toilet block shielded half of him from her, as it would have shielded half of her from him, even if he turned her way. In fact, as the lanky guy shouted, he turned in the other direction. A second later, Lanky started to move away from the block, and a second after that, the building stole him from view.

  Abbie didn't stop. She sped up a little and worried less about the sound of her boots in the damp grass. It probably would have been inaudible, even if she'd ran, and if the guy had stayed leaning against the toilet block. Now he was moving away and calling to someone; there was almost no chance he'd hear her coming.

  "Hey man.”

  This was his opening gambit. The toilet block prevented Abbie seeing whoever was approaching Lanky. This was good news in that it meant the approacher had almost certainly not seen Abbie either. Bad news in that it meant she had no idea with who she was dealing. It was even plausible she was dealing with multiple newcomers, although she doubted it. Unless they were walking in single file, they would soon have shown around the edges of the toilet block as Abbie approached.

  "Let's talk about this."

  Lanky's words were indicative. He knew whoever approached. More, he knew he'd done something wrong—at least in the eyes of the person to whom he spoke. He was in danger. And he was afraid.

  That was interesting.

  "Man, why ain't you talking? If I can just—“

  Abbie reached the toilet block as the newcomer cut Lanky's sentence off with a fist to the face.

  With a cry of pain, shock, embarrassment, Lanky spun, went to the ground. He must have fallen onto his front. Abbie could hear his knees and palms dragging in the grass as he pushed onto all fours, preparing to rise.

  "Hey, dude, you don't have to—“

  Another attack ended another sentence. This one sounded like a well-aimed boot to the gut.

  Lanky rolled over. He was lying in the grass, clutching his stomach, panting. He was shaking his head; his eyes were watering. Abbie didn't need to see the unfortunate soul to know this. There were only a handful of ways people responded to being kicked in the stomach.

  Though Abbie knew nothing about Lanky—he might well have been a serial arsonist and child molester—the fear he had displayed upon approaching his attacker made her want to intercede on his behalf. Besides, she believed, to a degree, in innocent until proven guilty. She had no way of knowing if Lanky was guilty of anything, so he was innocent, and the innocent needed protecting.

  Regardless, cold calculation and judgement overruled emotion. Abbie stayed put, hidden by the toilet block, as the attacker landed another brutal kick. This time to what sounded like the hip.

  Lanky screamed.

  Still, Abbie waited. She waited as Lanky suffered another kick to the side, though she wanted to rush around the block and offer her assistance.

  Why? Because her random wanderings had led her here from the altercation at the dealership. In Abbie's experience, that meant the conflict between Lanky and his attacker, taking place on the other side of this block, would prove to be essential to her mission to save an innocent little girl.r />
  Lanky cried out again.

  Though she hated to do so, Abbie was waiting to hear the attacker talk. In a perfect world, he'd go all Bond villain about now. Standing over his felled enemy, he would explain exactly why he was attacking Lanky, as well as unveiling his nefarious plot to take over the world or make a bunch of money or steal all the kittens in a six-mile area.

  Or whatever.

  Once he had unfurled his plan, he would draw a knife or a gun or a lightsaber and prepare to kill Lanky.

  At this point, Abbie would intercede, save the day, and revel in her added knowledge as she proceeded onto whatever disaster she stumbled upon next.

  Then she heard the attacker drop to his knees. Heard them squelch into the damp grass and the dirt. And Lanky found the strength to speak again.

  "No, man, please. Please, I'm sorry, I—“

  Some people just hadn't watched enough movies. Hadn't let it seep into their consciousness and allowed it to affect their day to day lives.

  Abbie blamed the schools.

  Having dropped on top of Lanky, the attacker didn't say a word. Not even to make a quip. He punched Lanky in the face once. Then again. Then again. Then again.

  Abbie closed her eyes, took a breath. If she could hold on, there was still a chance the attacker would reveal something pertinent.

  But Abbie couldn't hold on, and she knew it. Unable to keep still her legs, she made her way around the block's side and came out next to the women's toilet.

  Lanky was a couple of metres away. His hood had fallen down, revealing a young, frightened face. He might have been out of his teens; if so, it could only have been by months. Maybe days. On his chin was a pathetic patch of hair. His head was shaved. His eyes were wide and blue and reminiscent of a child who has watched a monster burst from his closest.

  His nose was bloody and misshapen. His face would be bruised all over by morning. If he lived long enough for the marks to develop.

  "Okay," said Abbie. "I think that’s enough."

  Two faces turned. Abbie focused on the higher head, the attacker, rather than the cowering, whimpering victim.

  The attacker's eyes expressed shock at the sight of Abbie. Then they narrowed. The man was perhaps forty and dressed in a pressed, expensive suit. It was nice. Abbie was surprised he'd risked ruining the trousers by dropping into the grass atop Lanky.

  The man had short black hair and dark brown eyes. His features were soft, and he was lean. Beneath the suit, it was impossible to tell if he was well-muscled or just skinny.

  "I don't know you," said the attacker, "but this is not your business. Please leave."

  The man's voice was soft like his features. It did not fit his stance or the blood on his knuckles, the injured man between his knees.

  "Afraid I can't do that," said Abbie. "You should let the guy up. He's had enough."

  The way Lanky had spoken told Abbie plenty about the attacker, but the attacker’s strikes and attire told her more. As did his reaction to her demands.

  Abbie had interrupted with a warning the assaults of many criminals and bad guys. She was a woman; most of those she faced were men. Usually, they laughed her off. Occasionally they said something inappropriate or offered to take her on a date once they'd killed their victim. Sometimes they rushed straight for the attack.

  That was how cruel criminals behaved.

  Lanky's attacker did none of this. Remaining on top of his victim, he stared at Abbie, caught in indecision. That he didn't insult Abbie or swear or attack indicated he was not your everyday wrongun. Assault was not something to which he had become accustomed. Lanky was a special case.

  "You don't understand," he said. "This man is a lowlife. He's scum."

  "Is he even a man?" asked Abbie. "Looks more like a boy to me. You're the man. You should know better. It’s time to get up; come on.”

  "He deserves this."

  "You may be right. Doesn't matter. I've made my decision, and I've told you what to do. This is your final warning: get off the kid, or I'll drag you off. Please feel free to test me on that promise."

  The attacker's fists clenched. If he tried to strike Lanky again, Abbie would attack. Her speed would surprise him. He'd still be surprised when she took him to the ground in one sharp, painful blow. No chance he’d notice she wasn’t at her peak. The throbbing ankle would not impede her.

  But Abbie could see the attacker was not preparing another strike. The clenched fists were not formed in preparation to attack but were a sign of the attacker's frustration. Indecision still plagued him.

  "Do I need to instigate a count down?" Abbie asked. "I'll do it, you know, don't think I won't."

  The attacker's jaw clenched like his fists. Anger swept over him, but he was sufficiently afraid of Abbie not to strike with reckless abandon.

  Jabbing a finger into Lanky's chest, he said, "Don't move." Then he rose.

  Abbie looked at the attacker’s trousers. As she'd expected, the knees were ruined.

  "A pity," she noted. "Maybe you should have stuck to kicking. Or wasn't that personal enough for you?"

  "This is no joke," said Dirty Knees. "I've stood so we can talk. I've no intention of hurting you—“

  "Nor the capability."

  Dirty Knees took a calming breath and closed his eyes. Opened them again and continued.

  "I'm going to handle this scumbag as I see fit. I suggest you stay out of my way. That's my strong recommendation."

  “And walking away, it’s not in my nature,” said Abbie. “What can I say, I’m an interfering cow. Now I’ve seen you two, my oar is well and truly in. Better do as I say before I start swinging it. It packs a hell of a whack.”

  Abbie paused.

  “It’s clear I was extending the metaphor there and still talking about the oar, right?”

  A little stunned, the attacker met Abbie's eyes. He was misreading her babble as fear, and assumed he was getting to her. His stare was designed to further unnerve Abbie, make her think twice about her decisions.

  He waited for his point to sink in, for Abbie to back down. Clearly, he saw what he wanted to see because he turned away before Abbie showed any sign of acquiescence.

  "You're about to make a serious mistake," she said.

  "You think?"

  "I've warned you not to attack him. You go against my wishes, and I'll respond in the strongest terms. I don't like bullies. Victim's dress sense and propensity to slouch notwithstanding."

  Lanky stared at her, wounded emotionally as well as hurting physically. Abbie shrugged.

  Ignoring these latest comments, the attacker decided Abbie wasn’t dangerous. That she didn't have the courage of her convictions.

  Big mistake.

  Reaching Lanky, Dirty Knees nudged the still grounded victim with a toe, then lifted his leg to stand over the guy or possibly to stomp on him.

  Abbie moved. Her ankle was killing but she crossed the grass between her and the attacker as though she were a short distance sprinter in top condition.

  As expected, her speed shocked Dirty Knees. She saw his mouth widen with his eyes, then her fist was in his stomach.

  Lanky's attacker crumpled, went back to those dirtied trousers coughing and spluttering. As he slid down, Abbie brought her knee to the guy's temple, which sent him sprawling to his back.

  "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  Struggling for breath, the guy didn't respond. He was out of action for at least the next half-minute. After that, Abbie might have to teach the guy another lesson. Keen not to waste the interlude, Abbie turned to help the lanky guy to his feet.

  Which was when she spotted two uniformed police officers jogging across the field. They must have been on patrol. While on the road which ran alongside the park, they had spied the altercation and deemed it necessary to intervene. Abbie could see their vehicle, parked in haste on the pavement beside the fence and gate through which they must have entered the council land.

  Abbie considered running, but only
for a second. What was the point? Rather than flee, she offered her hand to Lanky. He gratefully accepted, allowing Abbie to pull him to his feet. Staggering, he felt his stomach and face, where lumps and bruises were already emerging. He was covered in blood, mostly from his nose.

  "My hoody," he said, clutching it. "It's ruined."

  He looked as though he were about to cry.

  "Yeah," said Abbie, looking at the grubby, worn item of clothing. "And now it's bloodstained, too."

  Lanky glared, then the officers arrived. By this point, Lanky's attacker was back on his knees, and here he seemed content to stay. After all, all the damage the grass and dirt were going to do to that section of his trousers had already been done. Clutching his stomach as had Lanky, he gave Abbie a victorious smile, which seemed misplaced.

  "Glad you're here, officers," Abbie said, smiling at the man-woman duo. "I was about to perform a citizen’s arrest. Now I don't have to. Can stand back and watch the real thing. Don't know what you saw, but the man on his knees was beating the holy hell out of my lanky friend here. No explanation, but I'm sure you can worm the reasoning out of them down at the station. Before you go, though, could you tell me the name of a decent local hotel? Money's no object, but it must still be open. I'm not precious, as a rule, but I don't fancy sleeping on the doorstep. Follow up question, why are you looking at me like that?"

  In truth, Abbie was used to people giving her strange looks after she went on one of her rambles. People didn't like them, for the most part. But that was okay because Abbie did.

  These looks were different. The cops looked unfazed but determined. The guy withdrew his cuffs while the gal smirked at Abbie.