‘He’s calling me every other day asking when we’re delivering. What am I supposed to tell him?’
‘I don’t know. Think of something. That’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it? If I get involved with him, there won’t be any way back. We’ve talked about this.’
‘I work for him. It’s not that bad.’
‘That’s your choice. This is mine. Tell him I’m sick or something.’
‘What do you think I’ve been doing? He keeps asking questions and, seriously, I’m running out of answers.’
‘OK. I’m working on it. I have a plan. I just… Look, please don’t tell him anything. If this works, I’ll be free tomorrow morning, OK?’
There was a long pause on the phone, long enough that she checked she hadn’t lost signal.
‘Tell me if you need anything,’ he urged.
‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Wish me luck.’
She hung up before he could reply, her heart leaping as the buzzer on the table began to burr.
The final flask was full.
There was the tell-tale creak and groan in the other room as Pearce levered himself to his feet. Draining her coffee, she tucked her phone into her back pocket.
This was going to work, she told herself. She didn’t need information from Jared. She’d planned for this to work without it. By the end of tonight, she’d be free.
Not knowing how to appear casual, she cast around the room and decided that standing by the window staring out was the best she could do. It gave her more time to compose herself, at least. Taking a deep breath, she tried to relax her features, wondering how she usually looked when they exchanged flasks.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘You finished?’
‘Yes.’ He stood in the doorway, already in his coat, looking for all the world like an office manager on his way home after a quick pint. ‘Fifteen minutes longer than yesterday. Check the runes and the tubes before you go. We can’t afford to get sloppy. I’ve left the flasks in the other room. Get them processed. This yesterday’s?’ He pointed to the three flasks sitting in the supermarket shopping bag.
‘That’s them. I’ll get started on these now.’
‘Good.’
He shoved his hands into his pockets and Michaela tried not to look like her heart had just stopped. Frowning at the sound of rustling paper, he pulled out a fistful of crushed receipts.
‘Where does it all come from?’ she blurted in an attempt to distract him. ‘The grief. What happened? It has to come from somewhere.’
He glared at her. ‘You lost your family,’ he replied, shoving the papers back in his pocket.
‘Yes.’
‘They were murdered.’
‘Yes.’
‘You loved them.’
‘Of course I did.’
Pearce nodded, doing the buttons up on his coat, letting her reply hang in the air. He picked up the shopping bag. ‘Get that processed.’
The door slammed.
Arms folded, Michaela squeezed at her biceps, trying to count under her breath. Reaching five, she picked up her coat. He always headed in the same direction, down the road she could see from the window, turning right at the boarded-up electronics shop.
All she needed him to do was not throw away those receipts on his way to the tube.
She waited until he was halfway down the road before she headed for the door, flinging her bag across her back.
Looking up and down the street, she shoved her hand into her pocket and almost yelped with pain and surprise.
The smooth river stone was hot to the touch, bad as a scalding tap. She had carefully carved it with runes identical to those written on the scrap of paper she’d hidden among the receipts in Pearce’s pocket. The closer the two sets of runes were to one another, the hotter the stone grew and the colder the receipt. It was a crude spell, but it had taken her days to get right.
She hurried after Pearce, shoulders to her ears. The stone in her fist was cooling as he pulled ahead of her.
Reaching the corner at the shuttered electronics shop, she paused and peeked. The street was full of people, hands in pockets and heads low. She counted three that could have been Pearce. Swallowing her fear, she began to stride, scanning the backs of those ahead for her mark.
The stone began to warm. It wasn’t an exact tracking device, barely more than a child’s playground trick, really. But it was the best thing she could figure for the job and so basic, so low-art, that she hoped Pearce wouldn’t even have considered it.
She spotted him just as he was ducking into the tube entrance. Following, she bit her tongue. This was the dangerous bit. She would have to get on the same tube or risk losing him.
From the top of the stairs, she could see there was already a Hammersmith train waiting on the platform. People were spilling out, clashing on the steps with those hurrying down to catch it, Pearce included.
Michaela found herself trapped behind a pair of women, happy to chat and take their time. She didn’t dare push past them, didn’t dare make a fuss that might draw attention.
Grinding her teeth, she watched Pearce run down the platform, spurred by the beeping doors. He leapt on just as they began to slide shut.
‘Fuck,’ she hissed, checking the board as the train pulled away. The next one was a minute behind.
Spotting her chance, she darted around the women to stand in the spot where Pearce had boarded. She could see the headlights of the next train waiting just outside the platform.
Bouncing on her heels, she urged it forward, the stone cooling in her hand. She cursed the driver a dozen times as the train moved forward at a glacial pace and was practically screaming for the driver to pull away when the doors finally closed behind her.
Standing by the exit, she leaned out onto every platform, begging for the stone to warm again. Three stops went by. Six. The stone was either cool because they were still the same distance apart, or she had missed him.
She’d fucked up. She knew it. Nothing left to do but go back to the office and come up with an excuse when he inevitably found the runed receipt.
Then – a glow of heat at Kings Cross.
She squinted around the seething concourse as the train pulled in.
There he was. There he was! Her heart almost burst. He was at the bottom of the stairs, caught with everyone else behind tourists hefting their massive bags.
She stepped off relieved, feeling calmer, more sure of herself.
Keeping her distance, she followed him to the Victoria Line and from there to Highbury, where Pearce got off. She’d been lucky. If there hadn’t been a track closure on the Overground, she’d surely have lost him at Aldgate.
She gave him a bit more line, watching as he strode away under the street lamps and around another corner. It was quieter out here. He’d notice more easily that he was being followed. But it made things easier for her too.
It was an upmarket little place, Highbury, the feel of a small village folded away in the big city. There were few people up so late, those winding their way home from the pubs.
A few swings of the stone, a little trial and error and she soon found his house.
It was a leafy little detached. Quaint, pre-World War, or meant to look it at least. Detached was good, more entrances and exits.
From across the street, she could see into his front room. The lights were on and she caught a glimpse of him heading deeper into the house.
To avoid looking suspicious, she walked the block a few times. People might notice if she hung around.
Pearce’s lights went off at midnight. She gave it another hour after that.
There was no sign of technological security measures, but it didn’t take her long to discover a few magical ones. Small, smooth sigils adorned the underside of the front door handle, covered in a thin layer of laminate to disguise the feel of the ridges. It was the same for the high gate leading to the back garden. They weren’t dangerous, just discreet emotional trigg
ers that would induce nausea in unwanted guests. Nothing flashy and nothing a layperson would immediately identify as magic.
But, no, the front was too exposed, she decided. No tall bushes or anything to hide her approach. Good thing she’d already done her recce.
Walking the length of the street, she turned left and left again to the street behind Pearce’s. She knew which house she was looking for, had mentally marked the crooked tree reaching out from the front of the garden hiding it from view.
The garden gate was locked, but not for long. She’d known how to pick a lock for years now, practising with her mother’s tools when she’d been away.
The garden beyond was dark and silent, lit only by the occasional back-room light from the houses on either side.
There was a shed at the far end. Uncared-for lawn chairs helped her up onto the roof. From there, she could see over the back fence and into Pearce’s garden.
Sitting on the roof, she slipped off her backpack, unzipping one of the side pockets. She kept movement to a minimum, small, slow and hopefully invisible in the dark.
She found the Ziplock bag by feel alone, and pulled it out. The bottom was filled with Dini dust.
Taking a careful pinch, she let it warm between her fingertips, then tossed it out across the fence in a wide arc.
The powder fell with barely a sound.
Perfect. Produced to react with wards, the dust would have released a sharp smell if it encountered any security. Pearce hadn’t foreseen anyone coming from this direction. Just as she’d hoped: the man was security-conscious but not an expert.
The backpack landed in his garden with a muffled thud shortly before she followed. She made sure to roll when she landed but still managed to skin her shoulder. Fuck. But after tonight she’d never let something like this happen to her again.
The garden was long and wide, grass bordered with bushes and easy-to-ignore plants. Her crossing was methodical, three more pinches of Dini dust letting her know that the path was clear.
Michaela remembered the old black-and-white photos they were shown at school. World War Two, one man with the metal detector, the other scattering his satchel of Dini dust. The first searching for landmines, the other for buried wards.
Still nothing.
There was an old security light mounted above the door. The trick there was to move slowly, inch by measured inch. Muscles groaning with the effort, her nerves buzzing and jaw clenched, she was still convinced that she had moved too fast. But that must have been her anxiety because the light never woke.
The back door was easy, she’d come prepared and a bump key had it open in thirty seconds. More dust and she was inside.
The light from outside was enough to see by – rough wood tops and chest-height shelves laden with preserves gave the kitchen a rustic look.
She checked under the kitchen mat, peered up at the ceiling and at the walls, before creeping deeper into the house.
The whole place seemed empty, unlived in. Dust fuzzed the surfaces, silver in the moonlight.
The front room where she’d seen him was empty, the curtains open onto the street.
A neat little desk stood under the window. Her fingers had only started to probe at the drawers when the lamp switched on.
She let out an involuntary little scream that she regretted immediately, hating that the sound made her seem like a little child.
Pearce was sitting in an armchair in the corner, legs crossed. ‘I’d expected you a half-hour earlier.’
‘What?’ She was shaking from head to toe like a kicked dog. She could run, every fibre of her being wanted to run. But where would she go? He’d have his evidence against her in the hands of the police before she reached Zone Six. ‘Look… I just…’ she sought frantically for an excuse for her presence.
Sitting back, he watched her stutter and splutter. Just when she was on the verge of breaking down, he reached down the side of his chair. Picking up a file, he threw it at her feet. Photos of her spilled out, coming to a stop at her toe.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he said to her astonished look. ‘It’s all there. I didn’t even bother making copies. It’s served its purpose. Your equipment is by the door. Though why you’d want the junk back, I don’t know. You’d be better off destroying it.’
‘You’re just giving me this?’ she asked.
‘I just said that, didn’t I?’ he snapped. ‘You’re already late. Don’t make it worse by being stupid. Of course I’m giving it back to you. Haven’t you figured it out yet? I don’t need it any more. I have something much better.’ His attention was already on his phone, his finger tapping away at the screen. Turning it around, he revealed a video playing.
It took her a couple of moments to recognise she was looking at a prison canteen. The camera shook as it panned across a room full of women, anxiety levels high. They were all focused in one direction, the screen filled with shoulders and backs of heads as the camera pushed closer to the disturbance. Shouts and calls overwhelmed the microphone, but Michaela knew the sounds of a fight kicking off when she heard them.
There was more jostling, no one seemed to have noticed that the whole incident was being recorded. There was no sign of any guards as one woman in the centre began to charge towards another…
‘Is that my mum?’
Pearce didn’t reply except to smirk and she kept watching, amazed as she watched her mum weaving a spell between her hands. She let out a gasp as the lights above her mother’s head surged and flickered. The flare almost blinded the camera, but the sight of her mother blasting her opponent off her feet was unmistakable.
Pearce closed the video.
Michaela blinked, unsure of what she had just seen.
‘Your mother is in Coldwater,’ said Pearce, ‘on my orders. Thanks to your help, you aren’t the only Coleman I’ve had working for me.’ He laughed. ‘You’d have realised if you’d kept up with the news.’
‘I was busy,’ Michaela replied, her voice small, her mind reeling and trying to catch up with what was going on. ‘You got my mother sent to Coldwater?’
‘I have a job for her there, and if you don’t do as I say, then she will never get out.’
‘You can do that?’
‘I just said so, didn’t I?’
She wasn’t going to cry. God, she was feeling frightened and helpless, but she was not going to cry in front of this man. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What is any of this for? What do you want from us?’
‘What I want,’ Pearce sat forward, ‘doesn’t concern you. You do as I ask and you consider what will happen should you fail me or try something like this again. Disobey me and your mother will hang.’
‘You can’t do this. We’ve done nothing to you—’
‘Do I make myself clear?’
Michaela looked down to the floor, feeling stunned and light-headed, like she was falling. He’d beaten her so thoroughly that she was numb from it, the hurt yet to start. ‘Yes. I… Yes.’
‘Good.’ He stood. They were the same height, but now he seemed to tower over her. She took a step back as he approached, but all he did was sweep past her out into the hallway. ‘You showed yourself in. Show yourself out. Be on time tomorrow.’
Chapter Eleven
‘This is it,’ said Zoe. ‘The last bedroom you’ll ever have.’
It was bigger than the other cells Amanda had seen. Brighter too. Electric lights did most of the hard work, helped by two small narrow windows up by the ceiling. Ocean-grey light filtered in, the sun having sunk beneath the ring of storm clouds that surrounded the island.
The bed was wider than any she’d seen in years, a good half-size again bigger than her old one at Blue Meadow. The bundle of towel and duvet she’d so preciously guarded on her arrival sat neatly in the middle of the bare mattress. The towel on the top now bore a neat muddy boot print where Mallory had stood on it.
‘Wardrobe,’ Zoe pointed. ‘Bedside cabinet. There’s a lock on the door. That’s
for you. They don’t lock us in, you get to lock people out.’
‘Am I going to need it?’
‘Probably not, to be honest. For the most part, Mallory knows not to shit where he lives and the other three behave themselves. I wouldn’t worry. You saw the kitchen. We get stuff from the mainland. There’s a list on the fridge, you want anything picked up just add to it. Watch Bohdan though, he likes to play pranks when he’s bored. You saw the meeting room, that’s down the stairs there to the sub-basement, where we usually hang out. There’s a door out the back too. That’s just for us and the warden. Fence is only around the main entrance, so we don’t have to worry about that. Most people know something’s up around here, but we try not to make it too blatant by wandering out through the front. Far as most people are concerned, we live in this great big blind spot and they know not to talk about it. Just this thing with Mallory and Karina. Some things are a bit too big to ignore, you know?’
Amanda was wandering the room, silently marvelling at the amount of space she had. She longed to stretch out her arms for the novelty of being unable to touch a wall or piece of furniture, but didn’t want to do it when someone else was watching.
‘You like it?’ Zoe asked.
‘I do.’ She looked to the window again, trying to gauge by the dying light how long she had until sunset. She longed for a few moments to sink into the mattress. It had been a long, trying day and she was bone-weary, but her brain itched with everything she still had to do. ‘We haven’t searched her room,’ she said, bringing them back to the topic of Karina.
All day she had spent with Harry’s crew, watching them cut a swathe through the prison population. But all of their ‘investigations’ had boiled down to little more than the men throwing their weight around. Any suggestions she’d made had been met with indifference or derision. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought that they didn’t want to find the woman.
She’d started to get the sinking feeling that they weren’t serious in their search because they already knew where to find her body. Only Mallory’s anger had dissuaded her from that theory. No man held onto that amount of rage if he’d made a corpse of the woman who had humiliated him.
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