~ Misplaced People ~
by Devize
© 2004
Disclaimer:
I would like to introduce you to two women who physically resemble two other women whom we know and love. However, their characters, and everyone else portrayed, are the product of my own sick and twisted imagination.
Warning: there is violence contained within; minor drug taking; and swearing. Lots and lots of swearing. I apologise for this, she wouldn't shut up. There is also sex (eventually) involving two adult and consenting women - if this is illegal where you are, if you are under 18? perhaps you should be reading something else.
Please note: Lleuadraeth doesn't exist. The East Metropolitan Borough Council doesn't exist. This St Vincent's Hospital doesn't exist. And I'm not entirely sure London exists, but might, in fact, be the product of someone else's sick and twisted imagination.
Also please note: I do not work in the medical profession and I don't speak Welsh. I've done a lot of research into the medical issues and procedures, and the Welsh language; however, I apologise profusely for any errors or mistranslations there might be. In fact, please let me know if you spot any and I'll do my best to change them.
The spelling isn't incorrect, it's just British.
If you're so inclined, explanations to the chapter titles, quote sources and translation of some of the Welsh can be found in endnotes at the foot of each part. You do not have to refer to them to follow the story.
I've read a lot of über alt fiction, but I've been incredibly lax in saying thank you to some truly wonderful bards. So this is my thank you to those who have made us laugh, cry and? well? get rather heated in some inappropriate locations. If there's anybody out there less lax than me in their feedback, my e-mail address is devize@supalife.com
Thanks go to Lynne and Christine for their enthusiasm; and to Boots who kept me thinking, kept me on my toes, and warned me of the dangers of scatter guns and groin-pooling. And especially to Steph for all her help.
For DG, my cariad.
I think that's it. There's 26 chapters ahead of you. Good luck?.
* * * * *
"Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards?
'Confusion, and illusion, and relation,
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion?'"
- Gareth & Lynette, The Idylls of the King, Tennyson
MISPLACED PEOPLE
by Devize
Chapter 1: The Princess had no occasion? 1
She opened her eyes, momentarily.
"She's awake"
"Hello, love, can you hear me? You're in hospital."
Blurred faces? blurred sound? very bright.
"Can you tell how deep that wound is?"
Pain. Big pain.
"We need a CT scan."
Her eyes screwed shut.
"Can you tell me your name, love?"
"Christ, she's going into seizure."
"Make sure she doesn't fall off."
She could feel her body moving, although she didn't want it to. Someone was holding her, the gentlest touch. Hands sure on her shoulders. It felt safe.
She opened her eyes again, although everything seemed so dark now. Except for the eyes. Two perfectly blue eyes, that reminded her of the sky over the bay.
Then her body jolted her into darkness.
* * * * *
She badly, badly wanted to tell this pompous sonofabitch to go fuck himself.
"You should have waited for the Security staff."
Badly. "He was so drunk he won't even remember," she said.
"That's not the point. You could have hurt him, if he wasn't hurt already."
"He wasn't hurt already, he'd come in to get out of the rain."
"Then you should have asked him politely to leave."
"Yeah, like that was going to work. He'd been verbally abusing half the genuine patients, waving his dick at the nurses and was about to piss up the reception desk."
"A member of the Accident & Emergency staff should not be seen to manhandle people in that manner?" Striker opened her mouth, about to protest again, but was interrupted, "..not to mention the fact that your language was completely inappropriate for a public waiting area...." Striker opened her mouth again. "St Vincent's Hospital is one of the biggest medical establishments in London and we have a reputation to uphold." That bit she could quote verbatim, and had to stop herself from doing so. "Now, this is not the first time we've had this conversation. You will take this as an official warning. You're a valuable member of this team, and I don't want to lose you, but right now you are walking on very thin ice. Please think about that."
"Go fuck yourself," Striker said as she turned and marched out of the office.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," she heard as she slammed the door.
Another day in the fun factory.
Okay, so maybe she had been a little rough on the drunk. Personally, she preferred to think she'd given him some assistance in the genitalia department - pulled him in the right direction, so to speak - he obviously didn't know what to do with it. Most of those present had been grateful - she'd even heard a spontaneous smatter of applause - but some little shit had complained. She knew it was that little rat-faced guy who had given Ria such a hard time. Maybe she should have just turned the drunk round and got him to piss in his lap.
Striker strode through the now quiet A&E, ignoring Ria's call. She was in a foul mood, she had a blinding headache, and she wanted to take it out on someone. But not Ria. Besides, she was in street clothes, she was off shift and she was going home.
But she stopped as soon as the cold, damp, February air hit her face.
It wasn't the rain that brought Striker to a halt, or the thought of the cramped and dreary journey home, or that Danny was out and there would be no one at the end of that journey.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and clearly saw the woman's face: deathly pale skin framed by bloodied auburn hair, and those eyes. Eyes as deep and wild green as the sea. That single moment seemed to have lasted forever. Striker had held her like a baby as she watched those eyes fade like the moon setting.
Oh dear God, I've got it bad.
Her hand went inside her jacket and brushed against the cigarette packet.
These facts were known. The woman had a head injury, she had been operated on, and now she was in the care of the ICU. Coma had been induced to stop her brain from swelling as a result of her injury and the subsequent surgery. But Striker did no know... no one knew... the woman's name.
She had been found, unconscious, in a dark and unsafe area of east London, presumably the victim of a mugging. She might have been hit from behind, she might have fallen and hit her head. Either way she was left with no identity, bar a police file. She was alone.
It was that that gnawed at Striker. This woman was alone with no one to support her, hold her hand, reassure her in the depths of her coma. This woman whose body she had held, and in whose frightened eyes she had drowned.
How many patients had she seen over her time at St Vincent's? How many patients had she supported, helped, talked to, genuinely felt for? Those who had been surrounded by families, friends, acolytes - and there had been that one guy with the goat; she shook her head at that memory.
And always those who had been alone.
But ultimately, looking back, through all of the life and death that passed through these doors, in the true spirit of professional detachment, no one meant a whole lot more to her than a drunk or a rat-faced guy.
Except this woman.
So, in a gentle revelation in the middle of a sleepless night, Striker had decided to be the one to support her, to hold her hand and reassure her. To be that friendly voice that would lead her back home.
The thought and the rain soothed her? slightly? until she saw, through the diminishing shower, the rusty car parked in the darkened lot. She smiled, feeling the reassuring gush of anger through her blood. She stalked towards the vehicle and knocked on the window.
Slowly, it was wound down, releasing air rancid with the stink of beer and the bittersweet reek of dope smoke. "Excuse me," she said sweetly to the four teenage inhabitants, "you can't stop here. This area is reserved for ambulances."
The response was what she had hoped for. They laughed. What's the point of rebelling against the society by becoming an asshole?
"You do realise that you could be endangering lives if you blocked an ambulance's ingress?"
A gruff voice came back to her from within the car, "Yeah, right. I don't see any ambulances around here, do you, Yank?" This was greeted with laughter.
"That's beside the point." Striker smiled. "Of course, the hospital is within its rights to call the police, should you continue to park here, and I'm sure they would be equally interested in that substance you're smoking."
"I'd like to see you try."
"We like it here, we're not moving."
And then the voice closest to her said, "Unless you want to get in 'ere and we'll really show you how to park," followed by more laughter. This last comment was also accompanied by a large bubble of saliva, which landed with a splat on her jacket.
This seemed to cause even more hilarity, until Striker reached in through the window and pulled the nearest teen halfway out of the car. Her hands gripping his collar, he dangled precariously over the tarmac.
She brought his face close to her own and stared him in the eyes. "Would you care to repeat that?"
Caught in the headlights of her gaze, he made a strangled, squeaking noise.
"I didn't think so. Now, I've had a shitty day and I don't need a little dick like you to make it worse, because then you'd be in serious trouble. So the first thing you're gonna do to make me feel better is clean my jacket."
The young man brought his arm up and wiped the spit away with his sleeve.
"And the second thing you're going to do is leave. Okay?"
He nodded.
"Good boy." She dropped him back through the window. She caught the shocked expressions of the faces of his friends. "Thank you. Now fuck off."
Striker watched as the car coughed to life and moved off as fast it could.
She felt so much better for that.
And, with her temper calmed, she turned on her heel and made her way to the ICU.
It wasn't strange to see Striker's tall, dark figure pacing halls of St Vincent's Hospital at any time of day or night, so no one gave her a second glance. It was late, past dinner time, past the normal lights out. Here and there were pockets of activity: little dramas that filled the evening with noise and light. But Striker ignored them and found herself at the churchlike corner that was Intensive Care.
The woman was in the last bed of the ward, discreetly separated by her room-mates by a half-pulled curtain. Machines, like gargoyles, watched her every breath and heartbeat, every movement of blood in her veins.
Striker stood for a moment, her own movement stilled by the sudden reality of what she was doing.
She was caring. And every single nerve-ending was screaming a warning.
But a look at the pale skin, the auburn lashes lying against white cheeks, lids hiding those eyes, and Striker knew she had no choice.
So she pulled a chair to the side of the bed, careful not to disturb any of the technology surrounding them, or the other patients in their own worlds. And again put her hand inside her jacket.
Her late night revelation had been followed by a decision. She would read to her. They were strangers, with no knowledge of each other's history - she couldn't talk about her life, she couldn't refer to memory. And her normal vocabulary seemed to scare children and hospital managers. Reading would give her something to say, and maybe focus the woman's mind. She thought long and hard about what she might read, but chose in the end something safe and familiar? maybe familiar enough for the woman as well.
Carefully, she slid the old book out of her jacket the cover brushing comfortably against the smooth, dark leather, and made immediately for the marked page. With one further glance down the ward towards the empty corridor outside, she leaned forward, and quietly started to read.
"'Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen, who lacked but one thing on earth to make them entirely happy. The King was young, handsome and wealthy; the Queen had a nature as good and gentle as her face was beautiful; and they adored one another, having married for love - which among kings and queens is not always the rule. Moreover, they reigned over a kingdom at peace, and their people were devoted to them. What more, then, could they possibly want?'"
As softly as a summer breeze, Striker's words breathed a different life into the clinical room, and, should anyone have been listening, they would have been carried away to another time where a princess can sleep for a hundred years and be wakened by a single, sweet kiss?.
But no one was listening, except the captive woman in the bed. And she was as still and unresponsive as the sanitised walls around them.
So Striker's secret was safe. As the princess and her prince lived happily ever after, she closed the book, placed it carefully back into her leather jacket and stood. Briefly, she grazed the woman's hand with her own. Then, at a loss for words, she left.
* * * * *
The second night she was caught. A soft step interrupted the two ugly sisters choosing their ballgowns and Striker jumped, dropped both the book and the woman's hand, and spun up from her seat.
"Jesus, you gave me a shock," she said, relieved at who she found behind her.
"And you never fail to surprise me," Kishen Mistry said.
"You're here late, aren't you?"
"And you're here. Shouldn't you be beating people up in A&E?"
Striker grinned. "We offer the full service down there: break 'n' mend."
"And what are you doing here?"
She ducked her head. "Reading."
"Thank you for stating the obvious." He picked the book up from the floor and raised an elegant eyebrow at the cover. Sleeping Beauty and Other Fairy Tales.
"She's alone," Striker said. "No one's got time to spend with her."
Kishen raised his other eyebrow and handed the book back to her. "You're a good person, Striker."
"Yeah, well don't tell anybody. I've got a reputation."
"Oh, yeah, and a damn Yankee attitude."
She pulled herself up to her full height and looked down on him from her two inch advantage. "Hey, without that damn Yankee attitude half the crap wouldn't be done round here."
"Including reading fairy stories to patients."
"Kish?."
"Striker, what you're doing is a good thing. I'm not going to stop you from doing this because you're attached to a different department. I'll let the nurses know what you're doing. They'll leave you to it." He paused and smiled. "Of course, this could be valuable information: big, bad Striker reads fairy stories?."
"Get out of here, before I kick that cute ass of yours."
"You would as well, wouldn't you?" Kishen said, and got out of there.
Striker turned back to the woman and reached out for her hand again. Her voice lowered and softened. "Hey, sorry about that. But Mr Mistry's a good guy. You'll be okay with him. You'll be okay." She squeezed the hand. Despite its stillness it felt warm and soft. "Um? where were we?"
* * * * *
Always the busiest night of the week. It had started with a pitched battle between two gangs of rival soccer supporters. Then two separate road accidents had added to the usual late Saturday human detritus of drunken brawls and drunker teenagers. It had made Accident and Emergency a conveyor belt of blood, vomit and body parts, and Striker's shift had stretched into the early hours. The staff were always reassured by Striker's attendance on a night like this. Her height and strong, authoritative presence would often be enough to quell any confrontations, and if not? more than one would-be combatant had found their backside cooling on the pavement outside A&E, or being handed over, caught in an iron grip, to security guards.
Now it was quiet. Again Striker stood in the entrance of A&E and watched the rain fall - each drop spotlighted by the street lamp, before it fell into darkness. A soundtrack of dripping and the whoosh of tyres on the wet road ahead greeted her ears.
"Does it do anything but fucking rain in this goddamned country?" she muttered to herself.
She pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes, extracting one with her lips before lighting it. She huddled into the corner of the covered entrance - the last point of shelter before the wet night could claim her - so as not to block the doorway, so as not to be seen by the anti-smoking brigade.
She could just leave: catch the night bus, go home, see if Danny was back, just chill, talk, laugh, sink a few?. But she knew she wasn't going to.
This was a new kind of escape. It would take her far away from the cold rain, and the dismal apartment, and the unpaid rent, and her search?.
She flung her half-smoked cigarette into the night, turned and stole back into the hospital.
Striker nodded at the duty nurse at the ICU station and found her seat by the bed.
She took the woman's hand. "Hi," she said. "I'm sorry I'm a little late today. People like to kill each other on Saturday nights." And on Tuesday nights. The fourth night since she'd been brought in. Why did it feel like forever?
Normally, at this point she would have opened the book to start reading, but instead she simply sat there, gazing at the woman's still countenance. Who are you?
But did she want to know? The moment she found her identity, Striker knew she would lose her.
The woman was thin, but not painfully so. Striker thought she had caught a glimpse of gently-toned muscles on her arms. There was no sign of abuse: she had seen enough drug users and prostitutes pass through A&E to recognise the signs. Striker thought she must be a few years younger than herself, even early twenties. She had a young face. Perhaps that's why Striker felt so protective of her: it felt so wrong that she was here. She could picture her in the country, surrounded by green hills, or staring out to sea? not getting attacked in a dark, wet London street.
Her voice seemed to spill out of its own accord.
"I'm so sorry this has happened to you," she said. "You seem such a gentle person? so beautiful." She let her hand drift over the woman's cheek. "I don't know you? but I feel like I do. Is that crazy?" She rested her hand against the woman's still jaw. "I don't want you to be alone. You may have family out there, friends? a? boyfriend?" the word caught in her throat?. "and they're searching for them. The police are out there looking. But in the meantime, know that you're not alone, okay?" Without thinking, she lifted the small, soft hand and brought it to her lips, letting the kiss linger there for just a moment.
Then she laid it back on the bed, and lifted out the book. "I brought something different to read today. This is a book that my mom used? Oh God!"
Striker had lifted her eyes to the woman's face, and found sea-green looking back at her. She stilled her breathing.
"Can you understand me?"
There was no response, just the clear, green gaze. Striker got up, and called back to the nurse's station, "Maggie, could you call the duty doctor?" But she never stopped the fall into those eyes.
* * * * *
"Sir, you've come to the wrong entrance. This is the Accident and Emergency department."
"Can't you just?"
"You need to go to the main reception in the other building?."
"Please? could you just?."
"Sir?."
"Can I help at all?" Striker went up to the desk, addressing her question more to Ria than the man, but it was he who started talking again. His eyes closed in frustration at having to explain himself again.
He was speaking so fast, Striker could only make out a few words tinged with a strong, lilting accent that she didn't immediately recognise. "Sir, can you calm down a little. I can't understand what you're saying."
The man took a deep breath, turned and looked her straight in the eye.
And immediately, Striker knew why he was here as she looked deep into green.
He looked like a kid who'd grown up to fast? physically and emotionally. He spoke slowly, punctuating his speech with shaking breaths. "My sister's been missing? for almost a week. The police said a woman? was brought here a few days ago. She matches my sister's description. Please?"
Jesus Christ? that desperation.
"Come with me."
She led him down corridors, a labyrinthine maze that only she and a few prepared others could ever seem to penetrate. Just call me Theseus?. The young man kept up with her, long legs and anxiety drawing him on as well as any ball of string. She didn't say anything - it wasn't her place to. It was important to maintain the woman's confidentiality. What if this man wasn't her brother? What if this was a complete stranger who, by total coincidence, also had those impossible eyes?
Yeah, right.
The man didn't say anything. Already breathless with worry, he had nothing left to ask questions. Striker was grateful for that.
Intensive Care, already. And there she was, a few auburn wisps peeking out from under the bandage around her head; her eyes closed now, her skin as pale as the sheets. The only noise the electronic pulse of the cardiograph and the breath of three people.
And then a gasp. The young man went to the bed, moving slowly, as if the woman before him was a child paralysed by fright. He said something almost under his breath - a different language - Striker didn't catch it. He reached out and took the woman's hand and squeezed it; then turned and looked Striker in the eye? and nodded.
For one moment, Striker wondered if she wanted to know, or if she could walk out of there and keep her fantasy. But her mouth reacted before her brain decided: "What's her name?"
"Morien," he said, "Morien Llewelyn," turning back to his sister.
And Striker left, almost colliding with Kishen Mistry. "Striker, what's going on?"
"The mystery woman," Striker said, "she's not a mystery anymore."
Chapter 2: The first sight of the sea
"You don't look too good."
"I don't feel too good."
Striker was sitting on the bench on the strip of grass to the side of A&E. She lit her cigarette, then leant back, enjoying the sun on her face.
"What's wrong?" Kishen sat next to her, gingerly; the bench still damp from the night's passing shower.
"Nothin', just tired. Haven't been sleeping too well, that's all."
"Are you taking anything?"
"No. They make me sleep, but pills screw me up when I'm awake. Put me off my work." Not that she hadn't thought about it. Maybe she ought to get herself some, just so one night she could give into inclination and take the whole fucking bottle.
"I haven't seen you around so much."
"Been doing a lot of nights."
"Since Parker left?"
"Since he got his sick ass dismissed, yeah."
"Inquiry pending?"
"Inquiry pending."
The two of them sat in silence and watched the shift change. A few greeted the couple on the bench. Kishen acknowledged them with a nod of the head, Striker with a flick of cigarette ash. It was strange how those coming in for the nine-to-five looked more exhausted and more drawn than those who were now emerging from the hospital buildings, eyes-wide and wired in the June morning. Kishen looked at Striker.
"So, why aren't you sleeping?"
Inside Striker something malicious let loose a hollow laugh.
Because every time I close my eyes I see her. Because every time I fall asleep I dream I'm with her. Because when I'm supposed to be sleeping off the night shift, I'm standing at the corner of her street waiting for a glimpse of her.
God help me, I feel like I'm drowning.
Striker hadn't seen her face-to-face since that last day in the ICU, when her brother had come to claim her. She'd had a reason to be with the woman when she'd been alone and nameless. The woman could be what Striker wanted her to be. She could be the Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella and Artemis and Guinevere and Juliet and Branwen?.
But watching her, watching and learning, the terrible truth dawned: Striker realised that Morien Llewelyn was the Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella and Artemis and Guinevere and Juliet and Branwen and she was so much more. In Striker's eyes, she was perfect.
But Morien Llewelyn had family. A lot of family. When she had woken from her coma they were there to support her and comfort her and hold her hand, and it was as if the few nights Striker had spent with her had never existed.
Except in Striker's mind. She remembered every detail: the way her skin had felt under her hand, the colour of her short hair against the bandages, those eyes suddenly opening?. And each time they opened, in Striker's imagination, they held something different in the depths: gratitude, recognition, love, disinterest, outright rejection.
But even staring into that green rejection, Striker couldn't bring herself to break the connection.
So despite her self-exile from the ICU, it had been easy to check on the basic details of Morien's progress when she'd seen Kishen - it was a healthy interest in some one whom she'd looked after, Striker reasoned.
It had been easy to find out her home address from the hospital records - out of natural curiosity.
It had been easy to take the Tube to the area, stand a little way down the street as Morien was welcomed home with open arms - just to make sure she was safe and sound.
It had been easy to see her recovery, it had been a joy to see her recovery, watching the longer and longer trips into the outside world, accompanied by her brother, her father, the older couple Striker assumed were grandparents, others male and female - to ensure the wellbeing of a past patient.
It had been easy to follow her when she finally returned to her own apartment on Easthouses Terrace, to follow her when she went back to work. Just to see her.
Everything she did now was in reference to Morien. She saw Morien in the books she read, in the TV shows she watched. She heard Morien in the music that Danny played, in the snippets of sounds from passing car stereos, in the vacuous pop that seemed to saturate hospital radio. She would wander round shops, wondering what books she would choose, what food she would pick, what clothes she would wear - until she caught herself in the queue for the checkout, a pretty, flowered dress draped over her arm, in Morien's size.
Only then Striker did acknowledge that this was obsession.
Easy obsession, as comfortable as an old pair of slippers. Poised before her inevitable drop into horror.
Striker knew that it would have been easy just to walk up to her, introduce herself, ask her out for a coffee. Among the many people with whom Morien seemed to surround herself, Striker had seen no one special, no one as close to Morien as Striker wanted to be. There would be days when that thrill of courage would taunt her into taking the next step. Hi. My name is Striker West. I work at St Vincent's. I've seen you around and I think you're really beautiful. I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me some time? She'd repeated the words over and over in her head. But she never took that step. She was too terrified of that green-eyed rejection.
On days like that she'd leave her vigil and go home, tear into her bedroom, wrap herself in the bedcovers and cigarette smoke, and will sleep to come.
But sleep would elude her in the never-ending passageways of green-eyed thought.
She'd get up, search the cupboards for alcohol, try and drink herself into slumber. But her dreams would pick at her sanity, like birds pulling at worms.
Jerked out of unconsciousness she'd want to lose herself in other worlds. So she'd read. And read and read and read, but see her in every page and every narrative and every word. She had never needed her mother as much as she did now.
Then she would pick up the latest phone book with a flutter of hope and dread, and find where she'd left off. "Hello, is that Mr Lawrence J. Bailey? Hello, Mr Bailey, I'm sorry to bother you, sir. I was wondering if you had any connection with?."
And when the negative responses, the apologies, the dial tone became too much, she'd stare at the ceiling until Danny came home.
She'd been doing that a lot lately, creeping into Danny's bed just to feel a pair of arms around her. Sometimes they would just lie there, and Striker would find sleep simply by being held. Sometimes it would develop into something more, and there would be a different kind of release against Danny's hard, smooth body. But afterwards Striker would slip out from under the covers to return to her own room and lie awake hating herself and the way her body tingled for someone other than Danny's hands.
But at least with Danny there were no strings. He didn't judge, he didn't expect anything of her, just as much as she didn't expect anything of him - except his share of the bills each month. She didn't even expect him to offer his bed: there had been times when she'd thought to go to him and found someone else taking up 'her' side. It didn't bother her, in fact the sight was often a relief. Danny offered friendship and comfort, whether emotional, physical or occasionally 'medicinal'. And Danny knew not to ask awkward questions.
Striker was aware that Kishen was waiting for an answer. She shrugged. "Don't know why I'm not sleeping," she said.
"Anything wrong at work?"
"No, work's fine."
And it was. Her work had been the one aspect of her life that had given her some balance. She walked through the door of A&E and she could lose herself in her duties and in the lives of the patients and the staff, and in emotional detachment. Ironic that so many people found the Accident and Emergency department stressful. Right now, Striker was doting on its turmoil. She was clinging to it as if it was the only thing keeping her alive.
It was the outside that was so stressful. That's why Striker was sitting here, putting off that evil moment when she had to launch herself back into reality. The bench had become a look-out point between the cognizable world of the hospital and the uncharted lands of life. She could sit on this bench and watch the traffic on the road, the people scurrying to and fro, the buildings dirty from pollution and age, the pigeons picking and worrying the gutters and flying into the unknown, and see the large copperplate letters that branded it all: Here Be Dragons.
Kishen watched her as Striker put her head back on the bench, her long dark hair escaping its braid and flowing out behind her. She blew out a stream of smoke, and stretched her endless, jean-encased legs in front of her. If he hadn't been happily married? if he'd been into six foot women?.
"Look," he said, "if you ever want to talk?."
"I know where you are," Striker replied, turning her sky blue gaze onto him and smiling. "You're going to be late."
Kishen glanced at his watch and stood, wincing at the dampness of his trousers.
"Don't worry, there's some nice dry scrubs waiting for you indoors."
"You don't have that option," he smiled.
"I haven't got a wet ass." At which point, Kishen noticed that neatly folded under her was her leather jacket.
"Thanks for sharing."
"Anytime."
"Oh, go home and get some sleep," said Kishen with a mock scowl and made his way into the building as comfortably as his pants would allow.
Go home and get some sleep. Unlikely.
Striker looked at the world in front of her. Two days. This was the first weekend she'd had off in weeks. This was the first forty-eight hour period she'd had off in weeks. This was why she was still sitting on the bench in front of A&E.
She didn't want to do this anymore, it was tearing her apart. But the thought of not seeing her?. Striker let out a breath.
She flicked the remains of her cigarette at a pigeon and watched it toy with the stub until it quickly realised it wasn't food.
Comes to something when I'm not as smart as a stupid pigeon.
She watched it fly away and made a decision. She got her feet, shook out her jacket and tossed it over her shoulder. She'd go to the nearest Underground station and, whether it was the gutter or the stars, she'd see which way her wings took her.
* * * * *
"I'm sorry, Morien," he said. "It's orders from on high," he said, "we've got to concentrate on our most immediate concerns," he said. "There isn't the budget," he said. "There isn't the manpower."
Go womanpower, she thought
"Keith, I've done a lot of work on this," she said in one last valiant attempt to keep the project, "I don't want to just drop it."
"I know," Keith said, his messy hair quivering slightly with his earnestness, "I do understand, really. But I need you on the Woodhall Estate project. This is a huge project for us and we've got a tight deadline on that and I need as many people as possible."
And she knew she couldn't compare the regeneration of an entire estate with a single, forgotten street. He'd taken her proposal and dropped it into his pending tray.
Keith's Pending Tray, the black hole of paperwork.
She couldn't let him lose it.
She'd almost given her life for it.
She'd lost three and a half months of work, her car, most of her hair, her peace of mind, her memory of four days? and something else? something that also tapped at the corner of her mind. Something strangely reassuring that made her sleep soundly at night, that made her smile without realising it. Something small amidst all the towering fears and pain of the last few months. Something small that was at risk of being... not lost, but... misplaced.
Which is why she was now heading through the doors of the empty council building.
"It's Saturday, you're not supposed to be here," a voice said in her ear. And she jumped at the heavy breath at her ear and turned round. For a glaring second she left the light, airy foyer and was back on a darkened Tumblety Street.
Her heart was pounding. "Wayne, you gave me such a fright," she said to the grinning security guard. His teeth were crooked and there was sweat on his top lip. "I've just got to nip up to the office. I left my mobile there last night. I'll only be a couple of minutes."
"Go on then, gorgeous. I'll be waiting for you." Wayne winked.
Morien smiled sweetly. Lecherous yob.
She made her way up to the Regeneration Unit and thanked God that no one was diligent enough to be working this weekend. It was easy to spot Keith's desk. It was the one that couldn't be seen for paper. Somewhere, buried beneath the paperwork for the Woodhall Estate project, and the Larkhall Street project, and the Paradise Towers project, and more for the Woodhall Estate project, were three treasured photos of his family. His wife, affectionately known as Councillor Mrs Keith, his two little girls - whose names always escaped Morien - and a dog called Buttons. Keith was a good boss, he was a nice man, he was harried man, and Morien often wondered how he functioned in this mountain, how he ever kept track of anything, including his family. Today she hoped to goodness that he didn't, and managed to extract the easily-recognisable blue folder of the Tumblety Street proposal from the pending tray without causing an avalanche.
She checked through the few sheets inside, ensuring that nothing was missing, and found herself stopping at the sight of a large photograph. A single building, achingly familiar. Morien had felt drawn to the little building that seemed so incongruous secreted between the giant walls of the disused warehouses on Tumblety Street. The chapel reminded her of home.
So, she'd done a little research, found out as much about the building's history, and the street's history, as she could, even discovered a list of possible councillors they could approach for go-ahead, and started to put together a proposal for its restoration.
And one afternoon in February she'd wandered down Tumblety Street - its row of tumbling houses, its towering warehouses - again to gaze at the old Salem Chapel; again to open the creaking, rusty gate into the little yard, weeds peering out from between the paving stones; and again to rattle the front door in the vain hope that maybe, this time, it would open. The building was owned by the council, but over the dark, dank pool of time, someone had lost the key. This didn't surprise her.
Morien had meant to leave: the afternoon was fading fast to evening, and the shadows around the chapel were darkening. But she had thought to walk up the little path between the chapel and its neighbouring warehouse to try and spot another way in. She had checked around her, she had made certain that no one lurked in those shadows. She had reminded herself that the Whitechapel horrors were miles south and a century ago.
And then she'd woken up in hospital.
Morien brushed her hand over the scarf that covered her head and closed the folder. Strange how she didn't feel scared at seeing the chapel again. If anything, she felt more determined: she was not going to let the last few months be for nothing.
She'd work on the Woodhall Estate project, continue her research into Tumblety Street, and bide her time.
Resolved, she slipped the folder into her bag and locked the office door behind her.
Downstairs, Wayne was sitting with his feet up on the security desk, watching the sports news on television. Morien fished her mobile phone out of her bag and waved it at him. "Gimme your number and I'll give you a call tonight, all right, darlin'?" he shouted.
She laughed politely and got the hell out.
The Underground station was close to the council offices and she dived down into its entrance, determined to spend the rest of the day at her leisure: a little window shopping, a little browsing, maybe a trip to Charing Cross Road. A feeling like sunrise inside her made her revel in the freedom. For the first time in four months she could do what she wanted. Her brother wasn't pushing her to a family get-together. There was no kindly, avuncular invitation. No hurried, better-include-Morien calls from cousins. There was no one there to fuss, no one there to check up on her, no one reminding her for the tenth time that day that she had to take those damn pills.
Yes, thank you. I know. I've damn well taken them. I'll take the whole damn lot if it'll make you happy.
Bless them. Her family were wonderful, and she wouldn't be without them, but sometimes she felt like she couldn't breathe.
It had been glorious moving back to the flat - despite the provisos. It had been glorious having nothing but herself and her books for company. It had been glorious hearing nothing but her own breathing - until the phone would ring and it would be her brother asking the inexorable question. "Yes, Drake, I've taken my pills, thanks." I love you, bach. She never thought she'd get frustrated at the sound of the telephone. She'd never appreciated being alone before - almost felt guilty in the enjoyment. Was that why she hadn't opened her letter from Peru? It was still in her bag, hidden somewhere under the blue folder.
But despite her solitude, she'd never felt lonely, as if someone was watching over her. And sometimes there would be that strange, uneasy feeling of being followed.
It had been growing of late.
She glanced down the carriage of the train as she sat down. It wasn't too busy for this time on a Saturday morning, at the beginning of the line. A couple of men who looked as if they were going to a business meeting had just stepped on. Morien wanted to remind them it was Saturday. They stood at the end of the carriage: obviously too virile to sit down. A scratching beat, as annoying as a mosquito in the dark, came from a young man too cool to wear his cap the right way round and too cool to notice the two teenage girls opposite flirting with him. Further down, there was a woman with big boots and a black leather jacket. She had shockingly pink hair.
Morien reached for her bag, bypassed the folder and the letter, pulled out a book and began to read.
Our first sight of the sea
is the nearest we ever get
to discovering a marvel.
Like voice, a temple of the head,
she stands, to divide heaven
and earth, welkin and waters. 2
A voice. Just a voice.
She could hear it in her head, above the clatter of the train and the insect rhythm of the young man's personal stereo. But she couldn't catch the words; couldn't quite catch the tone, the accent even. But the voice was calming and gentle and kind and reminded her of her childhood and her mother reading to her. Over the last few months Morien had often caught herself listening out for the voice when she needed reassurance or to know she was not alone. When she thought she was being followed?. There'd be a movement in the corner of her eye, in the shadow of her mind; or the rhythmic beats of footsteps that would stop as she stopped, leaving only the sound of her heart pounding. She would turn, convinced she would see an attacker, hand raised ready to strike and frozen in time. And she would be confronted by nothing: a frightening, echoing void of not-knowing and confusion.
And she'd find herself running, not knowing what she was running from.
And underneath the hammering of her own footsteps and her heartbeat, she'd hear the voice and she wouldn't feel scared any more.
Morien became aware that she'd been staring at the same stanza of poetry for the last three stops, while people came and went around her. She had to change trains at the next station, but unwilling to lose the poem she searched for a bookmark. Nothing.
Strangely hesitant to touch the letter, she reached again for the folder and drew a random piece of notepaper from the back of it, folding it carefully, and placing it in the book.
The train squeaked to a halt.
* * * * *
Take your partners for the Saturday Lunchtime Crush. People flocked from the suburbs and beyond to enjoy the experience. Morien found herself waltzing with a tall, dark-haired woman wearing a daisy-covered dress. She was tempted to ask where the woman had bought it, but the tide through the ticket hall swept her on.
She had had enough of the multitude and now just needed to change trains to get home.
Morien made her way down the platform, snaking through the clusters of people who had placed themselves in such strategically awkward positions that she wondered if this was some new reality game. She could see it now. The host with the cheesy grin and expensive suit: Morien Llewelyn, let's see how long it takes you to get from one end of the platform to the other, but remember (twinkle, twinkle) you can't move anybody's luggage, ask anybody to move (because they won't understand English or they'll simply ignore you) or invade anybody's personal space. Although, of course, they can invade yours. Starting from?.
What the hell was that?
Morien had just reached a clearing in the human jungle when she stopped in her tracks. She was being watched again. But it was more than that; it was like something was summoning her, like the pull of a log fire on a winter's day. Yes, that was it. It was like a fire bursting into life behind her.
She turned round, almost scared of what she would find.
And no one was watching.
Not again.
People were talking, reading their papers, rifling through their bags, staring at the advertisements covering the walls, gazing down the tunnel, willing the train to come. A small flurry of suits moving further down the platform, behind them one woman, looking intently down at her feet.
What was it about her??
She was taller than average, with long, dark hair. Something about her??
She was dressed as so many other people on the crowded platform: jeans, a long, faded t-shirt, what looked like a leather jacket thrown over one shoulder, and apparently fascinating old, black boots.
There was something?.
The woman nibbled a full bottom lip and glanced up, and Morien's breath caught as she was lost in the bluest gaze she'd ever seen.
For her part, Striker felt like she was a squid staring down a tidal wave.
Last time I ever leave anything to fucking Fate. She'd sensed rather than seen Morien weaving her way down the platform, and had come very, very close to running away screaming. Until she realised that would draw attention to herself. What was the likelihood that Morien would see her, much less recognise her?
"Do I know you?" Morien asked. Her voice was soft,
Striker was at a loss for words. How was she going to explain herself to this woman? This woman, who had featured in her dreams from the first moment she'd stared into those helpless eyes. This woman, whom she'd cared for and watched over and followed for long hours like some stalker. Exactly like a stalker. This woman, for whom she'd created a whole fantasy life, and who was now standing in front of her in all her solid reality waiting for her to say something. What in the hell could she say?
"Um? yeah? hi." Oooh, Ms Eloquence.
Morien waited, wondering if anything else was coming, but all the woman did was break into an almost sheepish grin. The woman was beautiful. Very beautiful. Though she looked as if she didn't know it, or didn't care. Her hair was carelessly tied back into a loose braid. She looked as if she'd had bangs once, but they'd grown out and feathered, become wispy tresses escaping from the plait. Her face look sculptured: high cheekbones, determined chin? those eyes. She would not have forgotten this woman. Ever.
"Where do I know you from?" she pressed.
"Um?." I'm the woman who fell in love with the colour of your eyes, whispered sweet nothings to you for hours and now wants to lick chocolate cookie dough ice cream out of your belly button. She said, "I work at Vinnie's - St Vincent's Hospital."
"Oh," Morien said, and paused. There was more, she knew that, but she went for the obvious. "You're American."
Suddenly, it felt like safer ground. "And that's not a London accent."
Morien found the woman's grin infectious. "Well, I'm Welsh. God?," she said as Striker launched herself at her.
"Fucking assholes!" Striker exclaimed at the group of asking-for-it young men who'd pushed past her. They ignored her, save for a few sniggers. "Sorry," she said extracting herself from Morien's grip as quickly as possible, hoping that she couldn't feel her heart jack-hammering against her chest. She resisted the urge to dust the Welsh woman down; she wanted her heart to stay in her body. "You okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, I'm fine."
"And since you left Vinnie's?"
Morien smiled at the genuine concern in the woman's eyes. "Yes, I've been fine." She unconsciously touched a hand to the scarf that covered her head. "Really."
"You look fantastic," Striker said; then bit her tongue, knowing it was too much to say. But fantastic, she knew, was an understatement. Morien looked beautiful to her. She wore a loose-fitting white blouse, the laces at the neck were teasingly unfastened. Tiny flowers were embossed around the collar. Her blue jeans clung to her slim legs, embroidered pink daisies blossoming around the denim ankle. And tiny vines of multi-coloured petals entwined themselves around the blue headscarf.
She even carried a bag covered in blue, tapestry flowers.
Blodeuwedd, maiden of flowers 3 twined itself round Striker's mind, but this Blodeuwedd had her heart shining from her beautiful, green eyes.
"Have the police??"
"No, nothing. But then, I'm not being particularly helpful. I can't remember anything?." They were pushed forward as a crush of people struggled to see the approaching train.
"It's a damn train? big mettle thing? you can't miss it, specially if you're on the fucking track." Morien grinned at Striker's muttering, and at the protective hand that clutched her shoulder.
"You coming my way?" she asked.
"I'm not sure I have a choice," Striker replied as they were carried through the doors.
The carriage was packed. Sardine room only. All the contestants in the reality game show now forced together for a mobile endurance test. By virtue of her height, Striker was able to reach the metal pole attached to the ceiling. Morien wasn't so lucky, and clutched the nearest object for support as the train lurched forward. It happened to be Striker. Morien glanced up with an apologetic half-smile, that made Striker look away for fear of betraying herself.
This was hell.
The woman she had idolised from afar was now pressed up against her in a way that, had they been horizontal, would have had Striker flushed, panting and galloping towards orgasm. Their current situation might not, normally, have stopped Striker. She didn't give a shit what people thought. She certainly wouldn't have given a shit about any potential gropée.
But this was Morien Llewelyn, and she couldn't have endured the pain of distrust and disgust in those green eyes - she'd seen it enough in her nightmares. So she suffered Morien's steadying touch on her arm, to stop her from falling in the swaying carriage, and wondered what the fuck happened now.
They caught each other's glance again. A nervous smile, then lost in the embarrassing silence of the newly-acquainted, looking anywhere but at each other.
Striker stared in fascination at the tube map over the door. Not taking in the slightest detail of the coloured lines that snaked across the surface and London.
Morien looked down. And something caught her eye. Something between her feet.
Striker couldn't help but tremble as her companion suddenly shimmied down, her small, lithe body seeming to find gaps where there were none, and Striker's temperature rose several degrees at the brush of the small woman against her. Morien wiggled back up again with something in her hand. A wallet. Shiny black leather with gold initialling in one corner: N. C. T.
She glanced at Striker. "Is this yours?"
Striker shook her head. Damn, it would have been easy to say yes and pocket what was inside. Another time, another place, and definitely not with Morien.
She's too good for me.
Morien looked round for a possible owner.
They were surrounded by the sniggering young men from the platform: jeaned, t-shirted, and baseball capped. Somehow, Striker sensed that Morien felt intimidated by the boys. She seemed to shrink from them, as far as she was able, edging back against Striker. Dark thoughts taunted, for a moment. Was Morien any safer with her?
But the Welsh woman had guessed at the wallet's owner.
"Excuse me, sir...."
A large, suited businessman peeled his attention back from the fleeting shadows in the black and speeding tunnel outside. They could barely see him for the press of bodies around them. Nothing but the suit and a shock of blond hair. He didn't speak, but glanced at Morien as if the small woman scared him. "I'm sorry, is this yours? I think you might've dropped it."
He glanced down at her hand, pushed between two of the youths, the wallet offered as an oblation to honesty. "Thank you," he said, barely acknowledging her, his voice hardly lifting above the rattle of the train. He took the wallet and his image disappeared behind the broad shoulders and unwashed odours of male youth.
Bastard, Striker thought, wondering why Morien had bothered, but her thoughts were interrupted as the train tilted her forward and she found herself trying to avoid squashing Morien altogether. "Sorry," she said.
"It's okay," Morien said. "I've spent too much of the morning with my face pressed into someone's armpit. At least you smell nice." Striker felt her stomach somersault at the compliment, and thanked whoever was listening for hospital showers. "I'm Morien Llewelyn, by the way."
Oh dear God. Striker had been reciting that name over and over and over until her blood was singing it, but the way it had resonated inside her sounded nothing like the words from Morien's own mouth. It was a honeyed siren call. It was a voice from all the stories and all the myths and all the histories she'd ever read. She knew that this was the voice that would call her for the rest of her life, and she had no choice but to follow.
And then she realised that her mouth was hanging open.
"I just thought you'd like to know who'd taken up residence in your armpit," Morien said.
That brought Striker out of her reverie and she grinned. "I'm Striker."
"Striker?" Oh yeah, roll those 'r's, baby!
"Yeah, Striker? Striker West."
"Striker?"
"Long story." And then, at last, the thrill of courage pushed her over the edge. "Look? are you in a hurry? I was just wondering, once we get off this cattle truck, we could go for a coffee or something?"
Chapter 3: Fiction weaving4
Okay, I can do this.
Striker knew she was visibly shaking as they emerged from the rainforest atmosphere of the Underground. The fresh air helped, and she took a few deep breaths, closing her mouth hurriedly as Morien looked up at her and smiled.
"I think there's a good place round the corner," she said, taking the lead, much to Striker's relief.
The street was crowded: a typical summer Saturday in London. Around them could be heard every accent from every corner of Britain, embellished with voices from further afield. No one thought twice about an American and a Welsh woman talking quietly together as they found a single empty table on the street in front of a café.
"Damn...," Morien said, as she glanced at the menu. "There's a minimum charge at this time of day. Are you hungry? We could have some lunch."
The thought of lunch made Striker's stomach rumble. She had last eaten about six hours before: half a chocolate bar.
But the thought of lunch with Morien... now that made her stomach lurch. The thought of drinking coffee with this woman was terrifying enough in itself.
And the panic was apparently obvious on her face. "It's okay," Morien said, half-rising from the chair, her voice low and understanding. "We can go somewhere else. Maybe just get something to drink and find somewhere...."
"No... no... lunch would be good...." Striker smiled, hoping she didn't look too scared. "If you'd like?"
Morien sat back down again, placing her bag under her seat. "That would be nice."
They ordered drinks. A simple mineral water for Morien. Striker wanted a beer. A good, strong, cold beer. Followed closely by a second. But decided that alcohol at this point might not give the right impression and stuck with a cola, while hoping she wasn't talking gibberish in the field of small talk.
The ice and the bubbles seemed to settle her a little. As did the forest warmth of her companion's eyes. She wanted to spend time with Morien. Hadn't that been her desire for months now?
Stop being such a fucking jerk and behave like a human being.
She sat back, feeling more comfortable, and breathed a little easier.
"So, where do you come from?" Morien asked.
"Originally? Philadelphia. You know, Liberty Bell, city of Brotherly Love...." Striker's voice trailed off, leaving a note in the air. It wasn't quite bitterness, but there was something, Morien thought: sadness, regret - disguised by a smile and a sip of cola. Morien half thought about commenting, but Striker swallowed and continued. "Lived in New York a while after that, then here."
Morien paused for a moment, digesting the information. "And you're obviously not here on holiday. Unless it's a busman's holiday."
"Not exactly. I...." Striker looked across the table, considering, aware that she'd already gone too far and Morien was expecting more. "I came over here to see my mother." Kind of.
"Oh, I see. And she lives here in London?"
"Yes." Another sip. "When I saw the job at Vinnie's I thought I'd apply. I like it here..." a new start, "...despite the weather."
Morien smiled. "How long have you been here now?"
"Almost a year." She could see Morien's forehead crease slightly in puzzlement, trying to work it out. She answered the question that was trying to be posed. "My mother's English. I have dual-nationality. I may sound like a Yank, but I hold a British passport as well, so I'm all good and legal." Her blue eyes twinkled over the rim of her glass, and her voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Don't tell the authorities, though, I still don't understand cricket. Gimme baseball any time."
Morien laughed, and Striker melted at the sound, grinning with the victory of eliciting that sweet music.
Their meals arrived, and they started them in silence: Morien neat and tidy with a salad and knife and fork, Striker with a bite that caused blue cheese and burger to slop onto her plate.
Smooth. She coloured slightly.
Morien smiled. She liked this woman. Extraordinary that she should be so drawn to someone she'd met barely an hour ago on a crowded station platform. She watched Striker's attempts at putting her burger back together, taking advantage of the American's diverted concentration.
She couldn't put her finger on it... but.... there was something about her that was familiar...
...and different...
...and reassuring...
...and....
Striker was interesting.
She had shucked off the leather jacket, and Morien absorbed the broad shoulders, the dark hair attempting to escape from its braid and cascade down her shoulders - Striker would push it back behind her ears when she was nervous, Morien had noticed. Her bare forearms were solid, strong-looking; her fingers, currently covered in a thin sheen of grease, seemed able but graceful at the same time. She seemed at once completely at home in this urban street, and at the same time as if she belonged to another time... another world.
Morien tried to imagine any other circumstances in which she would accept an invitation from a stranger, but couldn't. Then again she couldn't remember the last time she'd been invited anywhere, by anyone. At least, by anyone who wasn't a blood relative; who knew her and knew her circumstances. Maybe that was why she had accepted the spontaneous invitation: its rarity.
And the fact that this woman, if she worked at St Vincent's, understood.
And the possibility of... friendship.
Friendship had become scarce since....
Striker successfully reconstructed her burger and looked up to find Morien staring at her, her salad-laden fork halfway to her mouth. The Welsh woman blushed and sought cover with a mouthful of greenery, and Striker found beautiful attraction warming her like an internal stove.
She smiled dreamily, allowing a brief study of the faint rhythm of freckles on Morien's cheeks, then asked, "How about you?" Morien, her mouth still occupied by chicken and lettuce, frowned a little and Striker glorified in the little creases on her forehead. "I mean, what's a nice Welsh girl like you doing in a big scary place like London?"
Morien swallowed, and rested the fork on her plate. A little half-smile crept onto her face. "Sometimes I wonder," she said. Then the smile blossomed. "I came to university here, to study art. Then kept finding reasons to stay."
Striker nodded, fully understanding. "What do you do?" It was a question to which she knew the answer. Partly. She had followed Morien enough times to the council building, but the inner workings that swallowed her remained a mystery.
"I work for the regeneration unit at the East Metropolitan Borough Council."
Striker paused in her mouthful. Then said, a mystified twinkle in her eyes, "What the hell is a regeneration unit?"
Morien grinned, somehow liking Striker's reaction. Loving her attention. "It's all very worthy," she said. "It's the council's attempt to make their locality a nicer place in which to live. It's a given for any council, you would have thought, but not the way we do it. We go into housing estates, which have been run down since they were originally designed, and redevelop them. It might be something as basic as ensuring boarded-up windows are replaced, making sure that the streets are all properly lit, that people have adequate security in their homes and feel safe. It's acknowledging that tweaking or even reforming architectural design can make huge differences to the social environment and the community."
"And that's where your art training comes in?"
"It certainly helps." A little spark of pleasure ignited inside Morien: this stranger was taking an interest. In her life. In her. Her smile became still brighter. "We're working on an estate at the moment that has awful problems with drug crime and gang warfare. We haven't come close to finishing there yet, but already there's been a fall in reported crime there. We're just setting up a new community centre... you know, a simple meeting place for the community which encourages them to come together, discuss the problems that face them, or simply somewhere for them to go to have a cup of tea and a chat."
Striker smiled. "And it's incredible what a cup of tea and a chat can do."
Or a coffee. Or lunch.
Striker had listened to the speech, exalting in Morien's enthusiasm. Her eyes sparkled like sun on a river. She leaned forward on her seat, punctuating each point with a little bounce of excitement. And Striker was transfixed. This was the woman she'd fallen in love with. This was the woman she'd fantasized about day and night for months. But this woman - this living, breathing, beautiful, passionate, caring woman, whose lyrical voice made her glad she was sitting, because she knew her knees would give way - was better than she'd ever dreamed possible.
And she fell in love all over again.
Trying to calm her own ardour, she said, quietly, "The nice Welsh girl comes to the big, scary city to chase the monsters away."
Morien looked up from spearing her salad, a little startled by Striker's choice of words. Startled but charmed. She regarded her, a half smile and her head slightly to one side. This woman wasn't making fun of her, either. There was understanding in those amazingly blue eyes. And admiration. Again she felt that thrill. "Something like that," she finally said, around a slice of cucumber.
"And what do you do, in this process?" Striker asked.
Morien shrugged. "Fact is, I'm just a drone. I help organise and carry out other people's ideas."
"You're not a drone." Striker blinked. Avoided Morien's glance by picking a tomato slice from her otherwise neglected garnish. "At least, you don't strike me as a drone. Aren't you allowed to have your own ideas?"
"Oh, yes. We're encouraged to put forward our proposals."
"And?" White teeth bit into the tomato's red skin.
"Sorry?" Morien asked, suddenly entranced.
"What happens with your proposals?"
Morien shrugged. "They generally get rejected."
"Spoken like a woman who's been there, done that...."
"And the t-shirt's being printed as we speak." They both chuckled and ate for a moment in silence.
"I'd like to know...," Striker finally said, wiping her mouth. "What was your proposal?"
Morien glanced up. Was the question genuine or was she being polite?
"There's some derelict buildings in the south of the borough on a road called Tumblety Street...."
Recognition crept through Striker's mind like an old London fog. A mention in the darkest of places, amongst the hurried explanations of medics and police. It had been the only place with which Morien had been connected.
"Isn't that where you were? found?"
She saw a deep forest green pain bend in the Welsh woman's eyes. Morien nodded. Looked down. Covered her hurt with a sip of water.
"So these derelict buildings??"
The relief and gratitude that washed across the table were tangible. Another sip, more confident, and the glass went down.
"There's houses in the area, many of which aren't even habitable, some of which are used as squats. A few are still legally lived in, but it's a grim neighbourhood."
"There's a few grim neighbourhoods in east London. Why there?"
Morien liked this woman.
"The street's all boarded-up houses on one side and neglected warehouses on the other. The architecture's wonderful though: classic Victorian? worth looking after just for that, and there's so much residential potential there."
"But?"
This woman was bright.
Morien smiled. She almost seemed sheepish. "There's a chapel in the middle of it all?."
"A chapel?" Hey, relax, she ain't no Bible-basher. You watched her on plenty of Sundays. She never went near a church.
"It's so strange. There's all this dark, heavy-looking Victorian architecture and in the middle of it all is this tiny Welsh-style chapel. At the very least it was designed by someone who knew the architectural style that's famous in North Wales."
"A taste of home, huh?"
Morien nodded. "It's as if it's being starved of light. Do you know what I mean?"
Striker understood totally. Starved of light, starved of love? neglected?. "Yet your proposal was rejected."
"For the time being." Morien pushed her plate away, determinedly, her salad finished.
"You live in hope?"
"Always." She smiled. "In the meantime, it's all Woodhall Estate. There seems to be a lot staked on this project. A lot of reputations are on the line. A lot of political careers could be at risk?."
"The drones do all the work and the politicians get the payoff."
Morien lifted an eyebrow and Striker melted.
They ordered dessert and talked of the weather until it arrived.
"Do you know Wales at all?" Morien asked, plunging a spoon into raspberry frozen yoghurt.
"Only what I've read."
"And what have you read?"
"Dragons, King Arthur and burning cottages."
Morien chuckled. "Yes, that's about right." She licked yoghurt off her spoon. Striker suddenly felt her entire body flame at the sight of her pink tongue flicking over the soft, wet mess of ice. Her skin buzzed, her mind was full of humming? until she realised Morien was asking her a question.
"Sorry?"
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, yeah, just a little warm, that's all."
"We could move."
"No, this is good."
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" And Morien was surprised just how much she was enjoying herself. When she'd first accepted Striker's invitation, she'd suddenly felt a glimmer of fear. For all their dull familiarity, there was safety in family. Strangers meant rejection and potential danger.
But this woman? this woman knew her background but had not dwelt on it, instead seeming genuinely interested in what she had to say. This woman had been suddenly so scared by the prospect of a cup of coffee, let alone a meal, and it had felt amazing to be able to take charge for once.
It had been a long time.
She smiled into the beautiful blue eyes. "It's been a long time since I've done anything like this," she admitted.
"Not too many crazy Americans propositioning you, huh?"
"Not too many, no." She watched Striker scrape chocolate gateau off her plate and relish the taste. She imagined it sweet in her mouth. "How about you?" she asked, surprised at how interested she was in the answer. "All that healing the sick...," Striker snorted into her chocolate, "...you can't have had the time to meet many people."
"Not too many, no," the American smiled. "But? I met someone early on and he's helped with that. I live with him now."
Morien noted the softening of Striker's face as she talked about this man. She noted that her eyes changed to a sea blue with the mention of him, and were fixed tenderly on the disappearing chocolate gateau.
And she noted that somewhere deep, deep inside herself, there was the tiniest, nonsensical, inexplicable? disappointment.
"What does he do?" she asked, politely.
Striker grinned. "Lives off me. He calls himself a musician. The government calls him unemployed. There's a lot of people who call him the best damn DJ south of the river. Take your pick."
"And what do you call him?"
"Danny." She pushed her plate away, and pulled the battered cigarette packet from her jacket. "Oh," she said, almost as an afterthought, "do you mind if I smoke?"
Morien made a face. "Well I guess we're outside. I'm surprised you smoke though."
"Why?" Striker gratefully placed the cigarette in her mouth and lighting it in the shelter of her hands.
"Considering what you do for a living."
Striker lifted an eyebrow. "Do you know how many doctors smoke?"
Morien opened her mouth to speak and then said, a twinkle in her eye, "I probably don't want to know."
Striker grinned and shook her head, and Morien watched, strangely fascinated, as smoke trickled between her lips. Her eyes narrowed. They had been skirting round the subject, both were aware. But after a pause in the conversation Morien asked, "How did you know me at St Vincent's?"
"What do you mean?" Striker immediately felt on her guard.
"I don't remember seeing you there. I remember the consultants: Mr Mistry and Mr Haywood, and lots of the nurses, and the man that brought dinner round." Striker grimaced. "But I don't remember you."
"I'm based in A&E."
"You were there when I was first admitted?"
Striker nodded.
"God... you probably saved my life."
"No... I...."
"Hang on... I remember my brother saying... when he first came in, it was an American in Accident and Emergency that showed him up to Intensive Care."
"Well, I...."
"Drake wanted to thank you."
Striker smiled. "He was scaring the receptionist, I had to do something."
"He can get a little intense."
"He was scared for his sister, I can understand that."
There was another pause. Morien drew circles with her spoon in the last puddle of frozen yoghurt.
"What happens when you're in a coma?" she asked suddenly.
"Well, it's like the brain closing down...," Striker said.
"No, I mean, hospital procedure." Striker watched Morien's face. She was still concentrating on the patterns in her yoghurt, creating dunes like sea's edge in the pink substance. But then she looked up catching Striker's gaze, and their eyes locked. Morien held her breath. "I remember...," she said.
"Have you finished?" the waitress said.
"Yes, I think so. Thank you," Morien broke the connection and smiled at the waitress.
"Would you like anything else?"
Morien looked at Striker again, and Striker paused. There were so many ways to answer that. "No," she said, "I'm fine. Thanks."
Striker paid for the meal, despite Morien's protestations. Guilt appeasement, Striker knew. Then they stood, a little awkwardly, wondering what was supposed to happen next.
"Thank you," Morien said, "for everything."
"Don't thank me," Striker said. She was suddenly aware of how very tired she was, and despite the yearning to spend more time with Morien, her entire body felt heavy with food and exhaustion. "Look, I suppose I'd better get going. I ought to get some sleep at some stage."
Morien looked startled at the comment but then said, "Don't tell me you were working last night?" Striker nodded. "I'm so sorry, you must be exhausted. Please, don't let me keep you. And thank you again."
"No I'm fine, really," but Morien was already turning to go. Moving away. Striker wanted to go after her, to grab her arm - to kiss her goodbye - but the heaviness in her limbs rooted her to the pavement.
Morien took a few steps, was almost at the corner. She could see the nearest entrance to the Underground only a few heartbeats away. And then she looked back, and caught a glimpse of Striker between the crowds, still standing where she'd left her. She made a decision and reached into her bag.
Striker felt numb as she watched the scarfed head disappear among the throngs of passers-by. She felt bereft. And then suddenly, she felt a hand in her own, and a voice reaching up to her ear. "I'm going," Morien said, "I promise, but I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed lunch." And she was gone again, disappeared elf-like into the forest of people.
Striker opened her hand and unfolded the little slip of paper. A phone number.
Her fucking phone number. YES!
Chapter 4: A walk in someone else's skin5
A phone number. Her fucking phone number.
Like she was going to be able to sleep now.
What the hell have I done?
It was starting. The horror was coming. Her fingers were itching. She'd already memorised the number. She'd memorised it weeks ago, after she'd first extracted it from the hospital computer, but she still stared at the piece of paper in front of her. In Morien's neat, flourishing handwriting: her phone number.
So what was she supposed to do now?
The itching in her fingers told her. The buzzing in her head told her. The pounding in her heart told her. PHONE HER.
But Striker knew that if her fingers made that path across the phone, she wouldn't be able to stop the return journey again and again and again.
It had happened too often before. There had been that misunderstanding with Jeff that time. There was that thing at NYU: that nastiness with Tammy. Tammy should never have got the police involved. She had only wanted to reassure herself that Tammy was still at the other end of the phone those times. But nothing had come of it.
She had never, ever meant to scare anyone.
Yeah, right.
Who the fuck are you kidding? You had every intention of scaring the shit out of them. When Tammy had called the police Striker had been devastated by what she saw as betrayal. And she'd wanted to beat Tammy's sweet, pretty face in. She'd wanted Tammy to live with the scars of betraying Striker West for the rest of her life.
Jesus Christ? she'd come so close.
Yes, she'd meant to scare people.
But she had scared herself more.
So when she got to England she kept her distance. Some... a lot... of careful one night stands, but nothing serious. Just sex. She didn't get close to anyone? at least to anyone available. Well, there was Danny who was very available. But he was available to everyone - everyone female - and didn't commit to anyone or anything. And Kishen was safely married, and theirs was an acquaintance confined within the hospital walls.
And she didn't want to scare Morien. She was terrified of repeating what had happened back there.
She could have phoned Morien before, just to hear her voice before she replaced the receiver. No harm in that. But she hadn't, she'd managed to stop herself. And she couldn't now.
Except she had no choice, because Morien sure as hell didn't have her number.
She took a swig of beer.
And what did it mean? This piece of paper suggested Morien wanted to be friends. Did she want more than that?
And that's all it took for images to come swarming into her head. Naked flesh, sweat-slicked bodies, a gentle breeze lifting the ends of Morien's auburn hair, the sunset turning her skin golden.
It had been two hours and forty five minutes since they'd said goodbye.
Striker thought of the moment she'd seen her pushing her way down the platform. After she'd quashed the thought of running, she'd almost fallen to her knees, simultaneously cursing and blessing heaven. Instead, she'd stared at her boots.
What had been the chances of Morien recognising her?
Fucking Fate.
Striker took another swig of beer.
So, they'd met. And Morien had been sweet and charming and great company and beautiful and Striker was so in love with her she couldn't think straight. Which was the problem. Was Morien interested? She didn't know which she feared more right now: rejection or open-armed acceptance.
The door opened and a fresh packet of cigarettes landed in her lap. Less one. "You could have bought your own," she said, as Danny wandered in front of the television, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.
"I could, but this way we both cut down," he replied. "You making some kind of style statement?" he added pointing towards the fresh-cut daisies that now graced the coffee table.
Striker had bought them on the way home at a stall just outside her local station. Now they stood in a large jug - she couldn't find a vase - as a constant reminder. She ignored Danny's question, knowing that he didn't really expect an answer.
"What you watching?" he said, parking himself on the couch next to her. His long legs stretched onto the coffee table, vying for space with the clutter of magazines, last night's pizza box, the jug of flowers and Striker's own feet.
Striker glanced at the television. She had automatically flicked on the box when she'd sat down, but hadn't looked at it since. It had been white noise behind the clamour in her head. Now she saw that two men were discussing baseball. Thank God for cable.
"Replay of the Phillies-Mets game."
"Roll on the new footy season."
"Soccer's a wuss's game."
"Only because Americans play it like wusses."
This is why she liked Danny. They could get lost in meaningless, good-natured arguments and there would never be any comeback or bad feeling.
Most of the time.
"How much have you drunk?" he asked suddenly.
Hiding under Striker's legs was a six-pack. Half a six-pack.
"You can count, can't you?"
"Give us one, then." Striker bent down and threw him a can. "Shit day?"
Striker smiled. "Would you believe, no?" Although she was beginning to feel cold and hot at the same time.
"With you I'd believe anything, sis." Danny opened the can, lager sloshing over his t-shirt. He shrugged and took a long drink. "So why aren't you yelling at me to shut the fuck up cos you've been working all night and you're trying to sleep?"
"Cos I'm watching TV."
"What's the score?"
"What?"
"You heard."
"Bastard."
"So, what's going on, Strike?"
Striker let her head fall back onto the couch. Her stomach was beginning to lurch with panic. "I think I've met someone."
Danny looked at her. "Male, female or somewhere in between?"
"You always have to bring that one up, don't you?"
"Diane?"
"Bastard. Besides everybody's slept with Diane."
"So?"
"Female."
"She like you?"
"Fuck knows." Striker broke out into a cold sweat. Her hand was shaking round the beer can.
"What's the situation?"
"I had lunch with her today."
"And?"
"She gave me her phone number."
"And?"
"I have no idea." Striker threw herself across the room and dived into the bathroom. Danny could hear her retching and followed her. Pulling on the light, he reached out to hold back her hair as she knelt over the toilet bowl.
Striker breathed heavily, the pungent smell of bile bouncing off the porcelain, the residue of her burger taunting her.
She had wanted to repeat lunch, but not quite like this.
Slowly, she straightened, then crawled up to the basin and rinsed her face and mouth, slumping backwards against the bath.
"Was that the lunch, the beer, or are you coming down with something?" Danny asked as he flushed.
"None of them. That's me being a complete fuck-up."
She looked up into the dark, concerned eyes of her friend. Her face was still wet, her hair sticking to her skin. "I'm scared, Dan. I really like this woman. I think I love this woman. She's beautiful, you know, really beautiful. But I'm scared."
"Why's my big, bad sister scared?" His eyes smiled, but they weren't mocking.
Striker leant back on the bath again, her eyes closing. "Why the hell would anybody want to be with me?"
She could hear Danny bending his large body in the small bathroom. She could feel his presence in front of her. She felt his big hands cup her cheeks. She opened her eyes to his. "Hey, sis," he said, "the reason anybody would want to be with you is that you're a good person and a great friend."
"You're only saying that cos I pay the phone bill," Striker said.
"Nah, cos you pay the phone bill and you've got a great body," Danny countered, giving her a peck on the lips. "That and you scare the shit out of the landlord when the rent's late."
Striker smiled. "God, I'm tired. I could sleep for a year."
"Com'on, sis, let's get you into bed." He took her hand and pulled her up. "You know," he said, as he switched the light off, "this bathroom ain't big enough for the two of us."
* * * * *
She had been lying on the sofa for some time now, half-dozing. Half-dreaming.
She felt so tired nowadays.
People moved in front of her. Some black and white oldie flickered on the TV set. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Some problem ensues that might be Romeo and Juliet or Much Ado About Nothing but ultimately they walk into the sunset together and the TV audience collectively give a deep, contented sigh and go and make a cup of tea.
But for some time, these black and white figures had become lost somewhere in a lazy Saturday afternoon dreamworld of chapels and pending trays and crazy Americans.
She had been breathing slowly and evenly for some time now, but unaware of the slow in... slow out, as she concentrated on Striker's voice.
Her mind had her sitting across from her. She had talked to her in that low, confident, reassuring tone. She had simply talked about London, America, St Vincent's and Morien had imagined her there, sitting on the floor, her back against the armchair, a cigarette in her hand. She had imagined the little quirk of her smile and the light in her eyes.
She had been painting when a wave of dizziness washed over her and she'd had to lie down. Things like that frightened her nowadays. And for a moment, Morien had wondered about phoning someone - but lying there, running through her options, she realised she didn't want someone to fuss over her: to worry, to panic. Drake would have fussed. Anyone else would have panicked. She had thought about calling her father, just to hear his voice. She was supposed to call downstairs to Mrs Kantorowicz.
Instead she'd lain their quietly for almost an hour thinking about her family, her life, her work, Sophie, friends... and Striker. More and more, despite herself, her mind had been lured back to the tall American. Mental chocolate.
She'd known her for less than a day, but somehow Morien knew that, if Striker had been there, she would have sat her down and talked her through her fears.
But then, she's a doctor, isn't she?
Now she could hear her own breathing, the slow in and out. And then, just behind it, her heartbeat no longer hammering as it had been.
The slight breeze rattled the open window. There was a blackbird singing outside. Mrs Kantorowicz was playing the piano, her old, passionate fingers creating an impromptu duet with the birdsong. A car passed. Little gusts of air brought a burst of muted conversation into the room.
"?Uncle Gil says? got to go back to ?."
"?about here??"
"?coming out?. check back tomorr?."
A car door slammed and an engine started. The car moved off down the road.
Morien wished the phone would ring.
* * * * *
She had slept for six hours.
When she woke up she found herself drooling onto an open page of Idylls of the King. Fuck. She hurriedly swiped at the damp paper with the duvet and carefully placed the book down by the bed.
She was feeling a little better. Her sleep had been undisturbed and deep, although she had dreamed. She felt an echo of it in her mind, like the sound of a distant conversation - but she couldn't catch the details. And then it was gone as if a door had shut.
Striker sat up. The flat was quiet. Danny was definitely out. There'd be music pounding through the walls if he was in. She was sorry, she would have liked to have spent the evening with him - found something crappy to watch on TV, got Indian food, enjoyed a couple of beers and annoyed the neighbours. She felt too alive to sleep. She felt like she had caffeine flowing through her veins and it was bubbling the name Morien.
Heaven help me, I'm in love.
She bounced out of bed, making her way into the sitting room to find a note scrawled over the discarded pizza box.
Gone to the Boom. See you there?
Yeah, the Boom. Maybe that's what she needed: to get out and about, talk to people, watch Dan. In what seemed a matter of minutes she dived into the shower, dressed and was out, her hair still damp at the roots.
* * * * *
Morien woke with a start to the sound of sirens.
She blinked with some bemusement at the collage of flashing lights on the television screen. It had been dark where she had been, and damp and frightening.
Her head ached and she eased herself up, feeling the weight of her body in her arms. All she wanted to do was sleep. She closed the curtains, switched the television off and was about to make her way to bed when she felt her eye drawn to the canvas she'd been playing with earlier. The clutter of images. Splashes of red and blue oil paint mirrored what had been on the television screen, fading darker and darker into the grimy brickwork of Tumblety Street. The painting scared her, and she would wonder why she'd started it.
Therapy, she thought with a mordant chuckle.
She had had comments recently, albeit well-meaning, of just how dark her work was becoming. "Damn, Mo," her brother would say in one of his less diplomatic moments, "I'm glad I'm not in your head."
"And I wish I wasn't, Drake," Morien said aloud. She didn't want to finish the painting... she didn't want to arrive at that same conclusion, as if finishing would mean hospital and loss.
But....
Her mind immediately leapt to blue eyes and the way the sun had freed colours from long, brunette hair.
And she so wanted not to be in the dark any more.
With a burst of determination, Morien took the canvas down, replacing it with a blank one, and picked up a charcoal pencil.
* * * * *
The noise from The Boom Shack reverberated down the street, rattling the windows and causing passers-by to catch the beat and tap their shoes on the pavement. Above, clouds moved in the darkening sky, swinging across the moon which was bright as it rose. Its light joined the streetlamps and followed the rhythm. It seemed for just a moment that the whole world was dancing.
Patrons were drawn to The Boom Shack by sound, not by sight. It was found in a small, unremarkable pedestrian mews off a busy street lined with shops - now carefully locked and barred for the night - and restaurants and pubs heaving with their own noise and customers. But each rhythm bowed to the Boom.
And the night had barely started.
Striker slipped into the alley and found the single pulsing neon light above the door. Some letters had gone out, so the light throbbed OOM SHA OOM SHA into the night.
She could tell there was a bouncer at the door from the glow of his smoke. It didn't smell legal. "Hey, Thomas," she said. "You got no Paully, tonight?"
He appeared like the Cheshire Cat above her, teeth first, followed by six foot ten inches of West Indies male. "Nah, Paully's just taking a leak before we get busy. I'm looking after his ganja for him."
"Course you are." She took the joint from his lips and put it between her own. "The Man in there?" she asked and inhaled.
"Yeah, Dan's in there, Strike," Thomas said. "Get in there quick, or he'll take all the nice bodies."
"I'm not after bodies tonight, Thomas. Just here to watch." She reached up and put the joint back in his mouth.
"If you change your mind, sis...."
"Don't tempt me, bro...." she said with a wink, and walked through the club doors and into a wall of sound.
The Boom Shack was by no means full, and wouldn't be for a while longer: not until the pubs had been drunk dry and the restaurants had closed. But already the dance floor was in use, the twisting and gyrating of glistening bodies obvious in the opaque, half-light. Below the smell of tobacco and alcohol, below the smell of heat and sweat, and below the all-invasive electric sense of dub music, already the smell of raw sex was lingering.
And in the gloom, Striker made out the shape of Danny, a girl on either side of him, a blonde and an Asian, his arms draped over both, hearing sweet nothings in gentle stereo. She made her way over and as he looked up his mouth broke into an even bigger grin.
"Hey, my big sis is here," he said. He unhooked an arm from the blonde, drew Striker's chin forward and touched his lips to her own. "You feeling better?" he said in the sotto voce tone that she could feel rather than hear above the beat.
She nodded and smiled. "Wanna come play?" he asked more loudly, slipping his arm back around the second girl.
"Nah, I'm just here for you, my friend. You on tonight?"
"Midnight, sis, stick around," Danny replied, with a wink and a grin, and had his attention drawn away by a wandering Asian tongue.
Tonight was going to be Danny's night. Obviously.
But that was okay, Striker figured. It had been her day today. Her mind wandered yet again to Morien, as her feet took her for a drink. She ordered a beer and sat back against the bar, regarding the swaggering DJ on stage and the filling dance floor.
Strange though, that in these dark, warm surroundings, all she could feel was the way the sun had felt on her face as she sat with Morien in the street café, and the way it had emphasised the little cluster of freckles on Morien's cheek. Her imagination traced the curve of Morien's smile.
* * * * *
Morien found herself smoothing a finger over a cheekbone, softening it. The lips were too hard as well. She traced a thumb over them, then snatched a charcoal pencil and started playing again.
She thought of her sitting across the table, then sun shining on her face, but she couldn't help but see her in darkness: her brunette hair fading into black, the planes of her face emphasised by shadow. On the canvas her eyes were dark. Strange considering how light they were, how they shone like a summer sky inside her.
But was the darkness coming from herself or Striker?
Morien had been sketching for over an hour - planning how to paint Striker's face, the colours she could use. Behind her now was the vague representation of a wheel - a cord pulled down from it, away from it, connecting the wheel to a bobbin? How could anyone prick their finger on a spinning wheel? she had thought as she sketched.
* * * * *
Striker put a cigarette to her mouth and found a lighter in front of her. "I'll get that," said a deep, sweet voice.
"Thank you."
"My name's Patrick," he said, settling down on the bar stool next to her.
"Thank you, Patrick."
"What's your name?"
Striker smiled and let the smoke drift out of her mouth. She turned to look at him and found hazel eyes staring back at her. He was cute: tall, with an ruffle of red hair, and dressed a little like herself - casual, the 'I don't give shit' look.
But there was an air of innocence about him that Striker liked. He reminded her of a young teenager out on the pull for the first time. He reminded her of? Morien's brother. And there again was the image of Morien in her head eclipsing everything and everyone else. A month ago? a week ago... last night... she might have welcomed Patrick's advances, danced with him, played with him, taken him home. The thought now left her cold. It would be like sleeping with her brother, if she'd had one. It would be like sleeping with Morien's brother.
"Patrick?" she started, smiling gently into his hopeful eyes, "..I have to tell you, I'm with someone else."
"Oh."
Shit. Now she felt like she'd kicked a puppy.
"He's a lucky man," he said, trying to salvage a degree of sophistication.
"Woman," she said, and found herself enjoying the expressions vying for attention on his face.
* * * * *
Once upon a time....
Sophie had always tried to define Morien's painting style, and to Morien's secret delight, she never could. Now, she stood back and wondered what Sophie would make of this. Morien wasn't sure what Morien made of it. She looked at the script at the bottom of the canvas. She would paint over that, of course, highlight it in a different colour, smarten the calligraphy.
Once upon a time there was a princess and a princess...
* * * * *
Sisters and brothers, please welcome to the Boom Shack the Banton of the Beat, the Master of Dub, our own Grindsman of the Tables? Danny Giboyeaux.
The white noise of music started to seem familiar. Striker looked up and saw Danny on stage. His music was eclectic - he fused dub with hip hop, r&b, jazz, big beat, there was a recent interest in bhangra, even classical themes that he could sample and re-sample - any sound that caught his ear. There was no posturing with Danny, no hyped-up cool image. The fusion gelled with his passion and enthusiasm and that was infectious. The crowd had bayed at his appearance.
As Danny launched himself into an anthemic floor-filler, Striker imagined taking Morien onto the dance floor: feeling her body pressed close. She could imagine the sway of her hips under her hands, the smell of her skin. She tore her gaze from the dancers and turned back to the bar.
"You okay, Strike? You're looking a little peaky," the barman asked.
"Fine, just need a drink"
* * * * *
She was rocking on her feet, so tired her eyes stung. It was fully dark outside now, and quiet in the street outside, with just the hum of distant traffic to show she was not completely alone in the world.
The phone had rung earlier, but she'd let the machine pick it up, glad for it when she heard her brother's voice. Except he'd worry when she didn't answer. She sighed. She'd call him in the morning.
She wanted a little peace this evening. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and her creation.
Her new friend. Painting or person? The two were beginning to merge in her tired mind, and she found herself talking to the woman in front of her. Little things. Hopes and fears. Concerns. Items she needed to put on her shopping list.
This painted Striker remained quiet but interested. Listening, constantly listening to her... listening out for something. As if she was waiting for something to happen.
* * * * *
Striker watched as two men danced across the floor together, almost colliding with a man and woman, who were so bound up in each other they barely noticed.
That's what she liked about the Boom Shack: it accepted everyone, whether black, white, straight, gay, fuckup, loser?. She ordered another beer.
And what the fuck would Morien be doing in a place like this, anyway? She tried to picture Morien in her flowered clothes standing, let alone moving, on the packed dance floor. She was a creature of light, who didn't? couldn't? belong to this world.
However good the beer was.
* * * * *
It was time for bed, but Morien found herself back on the sofa, too tired even to lie down. Just sitting.
She could be proud of herself... she'd remembered to take her pills.
She had covered the picture for the time being. The charcoal-shaded gaze had suddenly become too much. But when she closed her eyes she saw blue.
She liked that. It was soothing. It was a friendly, peaceful colour.
She hoped...
...she hoped Striker would call tomorrow.
* * * * *
"I'll fucking skin you like an animal, you black bastard."
Where the hell had that come from?
No one else had noticed. Danny had moved on to one of his known crowd-pleasers: an anthemic sampling of his grandmother's church choir with jazz and dub, and the throng were caught up in its feelgood rhythm. Striker had heard the abuse purely by chance. Through the wash of sliding bodies, she saw the shadows of men in the entrance and the glint of steel pulsing under the neon light.
She began to push her way through the curtain of people, pushing aside flesh as if it was gauze. From this distance she could see the scene through the deserted outer lobby: there were men, white men with big boots and skinheads. Their faces were so pale it was as if the gaudy light slid off their skin without leaving a trace. But Striker could see the colour reflected in the polished knife blade that seemed almost suspended in front of Thomas.
The man holding it wore a long, black coat and a sneer. His eyes seemed locked with Thomas's, as if there was nothing in the world other than their battle of wills and the blade. Behind them, his three companions held back Paully's short, wiry form, his usually pale skin flushed pink with anger and fear.
They couldn't see Striker, and Striker knew it. She put her head down and charged, as if aiming for a quintain. The skinhead crashed against the opposite wall of the mews, Striker's full weight crushing him to the brickwork. She heard the clink of metal as the knife fell from his hand, and was hazily aware of a large shape moving to pick it up.
But her concentration was solely on the nasty, pasty-faced individual who was currently quivering under her hands. She gripped his coat collar and hoisted him against the wall. With wry amusement, she noticed she was taller than him.
"Go fight with someone your own size, shithead, or you'll get hurt."
Somehow the man squeezed out the words: "I don't fight girls."
Striker chuckled. "That's true. You can't do much fighting now, can you?" She emphasised her argument by banging his head backwards on the alley wall.
She saw the helpless rage in his eyes as his mouth exploded with "Fucking dyke!" and a gob of saliva landed on her face.
Striker glared at him, banging his head back again and again to emphasise her words. "I am... not... a fucking... dyke!" She continued to hold his gaze as she kneed him in the groin. His knees buckled. "I'm all woman, asshole, though it seems I've got more between my legs than you have."
"That's not fair," he gasped.
"Fair?" Striker laughed in his face. "Threatening an unarmed man with a knife is fair? This is fair. This is skin to skin, man." She let go of him and to his credit, he stayed on his feet, albeit with a bent gait and knock knees. "Okay," she continued, "go on. Let's make this 'fair'. Take a shot at me."
And he did.
He punched her, remarkably hard, and she reeled back with her chest smarting, but her leathers protected her from the worst of the hit, and his sneer had barely had time to redevelop before her own fist smashed into his face. This time he hit the ground, spattering blood and teeth.
Striker looked at his prone form, where he seemed unsure of whether to nurse his broken mouth or battered groin. She was so tempted to kick him in the stomach that her foot tingled in its boot. But no.
Noblesse oblige.
She turned round and was stunned and rather amused by the scene that confronted her. The knife was again suspended in air, but this time it was held by Paully, who'd shaken himself free of the skinheads' grasp at Striker's diversion. Thomas meanwhile, held two of the skinheads under his oak-tree arms, in what looked like a death-grip.
Striker looked at the skinheads. "You want some of that?"
"Look, we don't want no trouble, right?" one of them said, eyeing the knife.
"Bit late for that, isn't it?" Paully said. "Go on, fuck off? or we'll set She-Woman on you."
"And take your no-dick friend with you," Striker added.
Torn between machismo and fear, for a moment their waxen faces looked strangely stretched. Then struggling free from Thomas's grasp and heaving their fallen leader up, they left. Discretion, it appeared, really was the better part of valour.
Striker looked at the two of them. "You know," she said, "if it ever gets out that the security here is in the hands of a giant teddy bear and his white mini-me, this club is fucked."
"Fucked already, Strike," Paully said. "Those guys'll be back."
There was no sign of Paully's usual carefree attitude. He was not joking.
"What do you mean?" Striker asked.
"They been here before, sis," Thomas picked up. "They work for some dogheart mafia guy who's moved into town. They've been hackling a lot of the clubs round here. Some boss man came and tried to deal with Ray and Fabio. Wanted one of his dealers to be based at the Boom, selling hard junk to the brothers and sisters, you know?"
"Course they refused," Paully continued. "You know what Ray and Fabio are like about drugs." He pulled out a joint and Striker lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, you know, sis. A little recreational ganja is different. I'm discreet."
Striker snorted.
"Not the hard stuff, though, sis," Thomas said. "Ray and Fabio. They're uphill guys, everything legal, you know? They threatened to call the police on this dog, and these guys been trying it on ever since."
"We've caught them inside before now, trying to sell. Me and Thomas, or the boss men, or one of the others, we always chucked 'em out." Paully lit his joint. "But they're comin' back in groups, now."
"Ray and Fabio, they don't want to bring the feds in, you know?" Thomas said, shaking his head. "But they're gonna have to do something, sis. Have to soon."
Paully offered Striker the joint. "Thanks for tonight, Strike," he said.
She took a long drag. "Any time, you know that."
Thomas slapped her on the shoulder. "We'll always be all right when you're around," he smiled that Cheshire cat smile. "Drinks on us tonight, okay?"
Yeah, and what about when I'm not around?
Striker went to get drunk.
* * * * *
She liked Easthouses Terrace. It was leafy, neat. It looked polite, even in a London East End night. It was lined with elegant Victorian houses, mostly apartment conversions she assumed. She wondered what it would be like to live here, instead of a 1970s concrete hellhole. She wondered what it would be like to live here with Morien.
Striker plumped down onto the pavement, her boots in the gutter. It was good spot: not directly opposite, but not too far down, hidden by a verdant horse chestnut tree, that seemed to be growing out of the paving stones. From here she could see the windows of Morien's flat. There was light coming from one. She glanced at her watch: 2:27 a.m. Why was Morien awake at 2:27 a.m.?
Half of her wanted to go and find out if anything was wrong.
The other half of her found that she couldn't get up.
So she lit a cigarette instead. At least, she tried to light a cigarette, but she didn't seem able to marry the lighter flame with the end of the little stick. Somehow, in the end, with a deft feint, there was a satisfying hiss of ignited lighter fluid and a comforting flush appeared. Striker inhaled and felt the joy of her throat burning.
She leant against the tree, trying to focus her eyes on the other glow at the window.
Hey, Morien, she thought, if you need anything, I'm right here. She smiled to herself. "Morien, Morien, let down your auburn hair."
And she felt her eyes closing.
* * * * *
There was a sharp pain in her shoulder.
She steadied her sword and faced the Dark Knight in front of her. He was saying something she didn't understand. She heard herself saying "I have vowed to protect her, give her to me."
"Hey, homeless person, you have to move," the Dark Knight said and again there was a sharp pain in her shoulder.
Striker opened her eyes a crack and was blinded by the face of the old lady who was busy jabbing her with a long, sharp finger.
"Wah?" she said.
"You not stay here. You go or I telephone police." Polis. She had a heavy eastern European accent.
Striker was finding her bearings in the glaring light of Sunday morning. She was still slumped against the tree on Morien's road, her feet in the gutter. A small, chattering group of people were gathering.
The old woman poked her again.
"Hey, stop doing that," she said, wincing at the noise of her own voice echoing around her head.
"You go away, homeless person."
"I'm not?" she stopped herself from swearing "?homeless."
"Then what you doing here? Go home."
Striker got to her feet, reeling slightly as her knees almost gave out. "All right, all right?."
"You pisshead?" the old woman said.
Striker blinked at her. "Yeah," she said. "I'm a pisshead." She glanced at the gaggle of residents all looking at her as if she was something they'd scraped off a collective shoe.
The analogy was a good one. That was exactly how she felt.
She shouldn't be here. She wanted to get out of here before Morien saw her. She took a quick look down the street. There was no sign of life at the windows of her apartment. Then a movement at the corner of her eye: a moving figure coming down from the other end of the street, a Sunday newspaper under her arm.
Oh, fuck! Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!
As the look of recognition settled on Morien's approaching face, Striker suddenly felt very sick indeed. She couldn't look her in the face. She settled on her feet instead. She was wearing sandals, sensible, comfortable-looking blue sandals. She had cute toes.
"Striker?"
"Hi."
"You know this person?" the old lady said.
"Um? yes, Mrs Kantorowicz, she's a friend of mine." She took Striker by the arm and guided her towards home.
"Are you okay?" she asked, keeping her voice down.
"Kind of." Striker looked round. Mrs Kantorowicz was following them, at a safe distance.
"You've got blood on your hand!" Morien paused for a moment. "Are you hurt?" The concern in her eyes made Striker feel even more ashamed.
She glanced down at the stains on her knuckles. "No, no, I was just helping? someone?." She trailed off, unsure of what to say.
"What are you doing here?" Morien looked up at Striker as she reached the front door of the house.
"I was just? in the neighbourhood."
"Oh." She unlocked the door and hustled Striker up two flights of stairs. Striker was aware of the door opening again behind them. She sensed rather than saw Mrs Kantorowicz in the hallway below.
Morien opened her own front door then pushed Striker into her flat.
Striker stood there, taking in her surroundings.
Morien's flat was neat, cosy and filled with Morien. It was small, with the bedroom and kitchen separated from the main room merely by partition walls. Only the bathroom betrayed its presence by its closed door. It was plainly decorated, white walls adorned with a few colourful, fine art posters; a houseplant dotted here and there; photographs; a glimpse at the double bed showed a clean white coverlet embroidered with roses. Very Morien. And then there were books and books and books on shelves, piled carefully on the floor, on tables, on desks. An easel stood to one side, the canvas it supported covered with a long cloth.
"You have a lovely home," Striker said.
"Thank you. I'm sorry about Mrs Kantorowicz, she can be a little abrupt, but she's a nice lady. She plays the piano beautifully?." Morien was absent-mindedly arranging the sections of the Sunday paper on the coffee table.
She had her back to Striker when she asked the question, and she asked it casually. "How did you know where I lived?"
Striker's heart sunk.
"Did you get my address from the hospital?" Morien turned round, her forehead creased slightly.
Striker nodded.
The creases on Morien's forehead deepened slightly. She was looking somewhere over Striker's shoulder. "I thought you weren't working this weekend."
Striker didn't say anything.
Morien looked at her. Striker was staring at her boots again; she could almost imagine her standing on the platform, waiting for the train to come. Except this morning she was more dishevelled. Her dark hair was wild over her shoulders. She smelt of stale alcohol and smoke. And there was blood on her hands. Morien was beginning to understand the look of abject guilt that plastered Striker's downturned face.
"You knew my address before we met yesterday, didn't you?"
Striker didn't say anything, but her jaw tightened.
"Look at me." Morien's words were commanding. They seemed to echo in the small room. They echoed in Striker's ears. She looked up.
Morien was almost startled by the look of defiance on Striker's face. It almost masked her features. Her jaw was set, her hands formed half-fists at her side. But her red-rimmed eyes were deep pools of guilt. "Why?" she asked.
Striker hadn't been expecting that. She'd been expecting rejection. She'd readied herself for the usual anger, recrimination, abuse - not this quiet question.
"I... I... wanted... to check... on you."
"To check on me? I don't think that's your job, is it?" Her voice was still quiet, but Striker could sense the growing anger: a storm coming in from the sea.
"No," she said.
There was a pause filled with tremoring tension. Morien's hands were shaking. There were tears in her eyes. Striker retained her posture of defiance, but looked as if she was about to bolt.
Morien's voice shook. "Did you follow me?"
Striker hesitated. She knew she'd already dug a deep enough hole, now it was just a question of whether Morien was going to bury her alive. "I... I...." She never finished whatever it is she was going to say.
"You were following me?"
"Well? I was?."
"It was you following me?!" Morien moved so fast, Striker was surprised to see her tearful face so close. She took a step back, then another, afraid that Morien was going to hit her - and afraid how she herself would react if Morien did.
"I?."
"How could you do that? Do you know how scared I was?"
"I'm sor?."
"I don't believe it. I trusted you, and you're just some sick pervert who gets her kicks out of stalking someone."
"I wa?." She backed up a little more.
"How do I know you didn't mug me in the first place?"
"No, I'd?!"
"Get the hell out of my flat and get the hell out of my life."
Striker's reply was lost in the crash of the front door slamming in her face.
Continued in Chapter 5?
1 From The Sleeping Beauty and Other Fairy Tales by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, admittedly from the final paragraph not the first. All the tales can be found online at www.bartleby.com
2 From Menna Elfyn's poem Our First Sight of the Sea.
3 Blodeuwedd is a character in The Mabinogion - a woman created from flowers, but who has no heart.
4 Sappho used the Greek word muqor¢kos meaning "fiction weaving" to describe love.
5 A reference to the wisdom of Atticus Finch in Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird:
"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view?"
"Sir?"
"..until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."
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