Chapter 5: If we shadows have offended...¹


Striker was aware of the door-slam still bouncing off the walls of the hallway as she slowly made her way downstairs. She was aware of the grey eyes of Mrs Kantorowicz peering at her through the door of the ground floor flat. She was aware of a little flutter of net curtains as she started walking down the street in the direction of the nearest Tube station.

But she was too caught up in the red heat of emotion to really take any of it in.

It was happening again: the hurt, the misunderstanding, the pain ripping her in two … Morien, I just want to love you…. The phrase sobbed and sobbed inside her. But worst of all the certain knowledge that she had caused pain to Morien.

She broke into a run, making for the nearest Tube station, not allowing herself to think, not allowing her mind to settle on anything except the route home. Everything seemed blurred, even her own front door as she crashed through it.

Danny was in the sitting room with a woman. The blur encompassed the woman's Asian prettiness and the pair's startled expressions. Striker reached her room and slammed the door.


* * * * *


Morien was stunned by the noise: of the door, of her own angry voice, and of the confusion in her mind. She found herself reeling backwards, as if she'd had the door slammed in her face, then found herself falling.

She landed heavily on the carpet, barely acknowledging the pain in her backside until she found the bruises later. She sat there, shaking, allowing the tears that had been burning her eyes to stream down her cheeks.

Idiot. Idiot. How could I be taken in like that?

She felt angry, sad, incredibly stupid. She'd always thought she was a better judge of character.

But there had been something… something about Striker that had seemed… right.

Had she been so desperate for a friend that she'd fallen headfirst into a trap?

The remembrance of their lunch, now, was painful.

So right.

No, not right. She had stalked her, followed her, scared her - an act that felt so cruel considering her natural fear after the mugging. She felt betrayed, confused… How could she feel this deeply about someone she'd known for less than twenty-four hours?

Gwyrionyn². And this brought forth fresh tears.

She felt violated. She had let this woman in - why she didn't know - but she felt as if Striker had buried deep inside her, become a part of her, then abused her.

But you let her in, gwyrionyn. It takes two to be a victim.

She needed to shower. Again.


* * * * *


Striker stripped off her clothes. They smelt of cigarettes and alcohol, sweat and tree sap and underneath it all the unmistakable odour of remorse. And remorse smelt a little of dog pee. She wanted to shower, but didn't want to leave the bedroom. She didn't want to move from where she was sitting on the bed.

So, she'd done it all over again. Every single time she got close to someone she'd fuck it up. She'd sworn it wouldn't happen again. That's why she'd never approached Morien in the hospital, or after she left. She had just wanted to make sure she was all right. She had just wanted to make sure she was happy. She had just… wanted her.

With every fibre of her being. She had never felt this way about anybody in her life, and she had known from the start that if her relationship with Morien became more than fantasy she would end up hurting her. And the thought of hurting Morien was more than she could bear. The image of Morien's tearful face so close to hers… she felt her heart rip in two.

I've done it again. I've pushed someone else away.


* * * * *


The phone rang.

Morien flung a towel around herself and ran from the bathroom. She was about to pick up when she realised what she was doing.

Striker.

She rested her hand on the receiver, feeling the vibration of the ringing on her skin. It might be.

It might not be.

Why had she given this stranger her number?

Had she pushed Striker too far? Would she come after her? She remembered seeing the blood on her hand just a short time before; her wild appearance.

That thought made Morien as frightened as she had been for months.

And what if it wasn't Striker and she was dripping water on the phone while some innocent well-wisher was wondering if she was all right?

She could just push the button and let the machine take it….

Oh, for Christ's sake…

She picked up. "Hello?"

Her voice sounded high up and breathless.

"Mo, you okay?"

She let out a breath that she hadn't quite realised she'd been holding. "Hi, Drake…." A myriad of thoughts on the back of a nano-second rode through her mind. She could tell him what had happened. He would support her. He would comfort her. He would take care of her. He was her brother. He would encourage her to call the police. "…no, I'm fine… reit, dda. A chdi?"³


* * * * *


There was a gentle tap on the bedroom door.

"Sis, you okay?" Danny's voice squeezed its way through the crack.

"No." Striker's voice was muffled by the duvet.

"You want to talk 'bout it?"

"No."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No. Wait…" the voice seemed slightly less muffed. "Some cigarettes..." She almost asked for a bottle of whisky, but decided that alcohol had got her in enough trouble for the day. She would smoke herself to death instead.

"Sure, sis…" There was a pause. From underneath her bedclothes, Striker could sense that Danny hadn't moved away from the door. "Sis…," the voice came again… "…you got any money?"

Striker mouthed expletives into her pillow and pushed herself up. Her head was swimming, her blood felt as if it was melting the lining of her veins, her tongue seemed to be coated in something thick and toxic, and in the background to every thought was the loud and final sound of a door slamming. She found her wallet buried in her jacket on the floor, and fed a £10 note under the door.

"Thanks, sis," came the voice and soon after she heard the front door shut.

Striker fell back onto the bed, gazing up at the ceiling, watching forgotten cobwebs and dust threads dancing in the breeze from the open window. She felt she couldn't move after a night of alcoholic excesses and sleeping in the street, but her mind wouldn't rest. Eventually, she managed to flip over onto her stomach and reached under the bed for a diversion. Anything. A little work on catches and lids and she pulled out a book. And had to laugh at what fate had put into her hand.

It had to be The fucking Mabinogion, didn't it?


* * * * *


"Are you all right, sis?" Drake asked again. His sister glared at him.

Morien had chosen to immerse herself in an afternoon of chaotic domesticity. Her brother's house was always full of life: mostly pre-school and baby life… noisy, irritating, messy and hopelessly endearing.

She reminded herself of the hopelessly endearing as eight-month-old Toby joyfully threw up his mashed banana as they were mid-way through lunch. And as two-year-old Macsen insisted on playing with his toy tool-set, hammering make-believe nails into furniture, doors, knees, hands, and his little brother's head, with a happy and continuous accompaniment of "Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…!"

"Who in heaven's name gave him that?" Morien asked.

"My well-meaning father," her sister-in-law Kerensa said apologetically. "And it doesn't even have batteries to take out."

Morien rubbed a hand over her forehead, aware that the insistent banging of her nephew was beginning to sound a little like a door slamming.

"Are you sure you're all right, sis?" Drake asked for the hundredth time.

"Dw i'n iawn!⁴" Morien insisted in an angry undertone. It was rare they spoke Welsh in front of Kerensa, but she knew that her use of the language would emphasise her point. Her little brother was concerned. She loved him for that, and she hated his fussing. All she had wanted was a little normality with her family and to get the painful echo of Striker out of her head. "I didn't sleep too well last night, that's all."

"Is there something…?"

A child's cry interrupted the moment of tension and they turned to find that Macsen had finally managed to miss his target and hammer his own fingers. Kerensa gathered him up in her arms. "Come on, my love," she said, kissing his round cheek, "you're getting tired, aren't you? Time for your nap."

"Let me take him." Morien got up reaching her arms out to her nephew. She didn't miss the glance that Kerensa gave Drake, but found the little boy in her arms despite it. Adult and child headed towards the stairs.

They were pussy-footing around her again. Treating her like an invalid. As if she couldn't do anything. As if a blow to the head had rendered her stupid… incapable… "Ow, Mo…" Her nephew wriggled in her arms.

"Sorry, bach," she said, putting him down carefully at the top of the stairs, and holding his hand as he tried to race down the hallway and into his bedroom. She lifted him onto his little toddler bed, but he seemed disinclined to lie down and just go to sleep.

"Can I ava story?" he asked.

"Story? Course you can have a story. Which one do you want?" She looked over at the little bookshelf, and in amongst the Thomas the Tank Engine and Teletubbies covers she spotted a Beatrix Potter. "How about this?"

"Peewabbi!" the little boy shouted. "Peewabbi, Peewabbi, Peewabbi…!" Morien put out a hand to make sure he didn't bounce himself off the bed.

"Yeah, Peter Rabbit! But, Macs, you've got to lie down, all right?" For a moment, a toddler cloud of disobedience crossed Macsen's half-baby face, but he could see his aunt wasn't going to give in, so he lay down and together they pulled the covers over him. Morien sat at the head of the bed, the little boy's head resting against her side, so he could see the pictures.

"'Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy…'"

"Cottail…," Macsen said around a huge yawn.

"That's right, well done… 'Cotton-tail and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree.'" His eyes were already drooping. She paused in her reading, watching his face begin to relax, and was stilled by a strange feeling of recognition that she couldn't place: as if she was lying there, her eyes closed, hearing a voice reading….

She shifted slightly, and his head slid onto the pillow. Worn yourself out, haven't you, cariad? She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, stroking his hair as she stood up. Glancing into the cot in the corner to check on a slumbering Toby, she made her way back downstairs.

It was quiet in the sitting room now. Drake sat at the corner desk, a pile of exercise books to one side, a red pen in his hand. Kerensa almost lay in an armchair. She opened her eyes as Morien came into the room and nodded her head to a freshly brewed cup of tea sitting in front of the sofa.

Morien smiled her thanks and sat down herself. "Out like a light," she said, "both of them." She took a sip of tea and regarded her brother's bent head. Sometimes it was if nothing had changed. They could be back in Lleuadraeth on a Sunday afternoon, Drake pouring over his homework, her curled up in a chair reading, and their father stretched out in the armchair, lost in the newspaper. But it was Kerensa on the armchair, there were two new additions to the family asleep upstairs, and the light that slanted through the window from the tiny courtyard garden was London sun. But it was as if nothing had changed. She and Drake were still looking after each other. However frustrating he got sometimes, she would never forget what he had done for her, or what he had gone through in those few days in February.

It had been Drake who had led the hunt for her. They hadn't realised she was missing immediately - she wasn't in the habit of speaking with family every day - but when Drake had tried to phone her… and phone again… and phone again… it had been he who had gone to her flat to find his own messages still blinking on her answerphone. It had been he who had contacted her work-mates to discover they had thought she was off sick. It had been Drake who'd gone to the police, rallied the family, phoned the hospitals again and again. It was Drake's face she had seen when she'd first come out of the coma. Or she thought she remembered….

"Drake…," she said."

"Mmmm…," he said, not looking up from the exercise books.

"When I was in hospital, when I was in the coma, did you read to me?"

Drake turned, a puzzled expression on his face. "No, why?"

"Do you know if anybody did? Dad or anyone?"

She had his full attention now. "I don't think so. You came out of the coma just after we found you anyway. You didn't give us the time to read to you! Why, Mo?"

She took another sip of tea, and thought about her answer. "I've been remembering… something. I could have sworn someone read to me. I just remember a voice…."

"Maybe it was one of the nurses. Have you thought about asking Mr Mistry or Mr Haywood? Or that other doctor…."

"Other doctor?"

"Yeah, the American woman in A&E."

"No," Morien replied with a wave of her hand. "No… it's not important."


* * * * *


She hadn't really read, just looked at the pictures in the book, running her fingers over the old, familiar words as if they were Braille. Eventually, a weight different to guilt had settled over her, and Striker had fallen into a deep sleep.

She dreamed about being chased.

Something horrific was chasing her down long, featureless corridors. She had thought it was St Vincent's but nowhere seemed to lead where it should.

She could hear footsteps around her, getting closer.

There was a voice, but she couldn't make out what it was saying.

There was laughter. Threatening laughter.

She found a stairway, her legs pumping under her as she ran downwards, but unsure of whether she was still being chased or rushing headlong into a trap.

The stairs seemed to be never ending.

She crashed against a door, sending her bouncing back into a darkened corridor.

Her lungs smashing into her chest, she rounded a corner and fell straight into the grasp of… herself.

Striker woke up in a cold sweat, her duvet sticking to her skin.

It was early afternoon. The light at the dirty window was different, cooler, as if it had lost interest in her bedroom.

No music. Danny must be out.

She eased herself off the bed, and poked her nose out of the door. No sign of life. She crept into the bathroom, and stood under the shower for what seemed like an age, welcoming the warm water on her skin, and the sound of it washing through her head.

But she couldn't seem to get clean. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink and raw. She scoured her hair until it squeaked.

She still didn't feel clean.

She finally gave up and turned the water off, feeling dirtier than before.

Wrapping her big, comfortable, towelling robe around her, she ventured out into the living room and looked at the phone.

What would Morien say if she called her?

She picked up the book, she picked up the receiver, and dialled the number. "Hello, am I speaking to Mrs Bailey? Mrs S. L. Bailey? Hello, Mrs Bailey, I'm sorry to disturb you... No, ma'am, I'm afraid you haven't won anything." Please don't let me be related to her. "I was wondering if…."

There was a scribbled note on the table.

Hey, sis, hope you're feeling better. Don't smoke them all at once.

Not only was there an unopened packet of cigarettes underneath the note, but he'd left her the change from the ten pounds as well.

She extricated a cigarette from the packet with one hand, as she listened to Mrs Bailey mumble apologies, then lit it as she dialled a new number.


* * * * *


The answer machine was flashing. Without thinking she pressed the button.

"Hi, cariad, it's Dad. Just phoned to say hello. Hope you're out having fun. Give me a call when you can."

Dear Dad. Morien suddenly felt very, very homesick. Later she'd give him a call.

The machine beeped to indicate the start of a new message.

And there was silence.

Nothing.

Was that… the sound… of someone… exhaling?

Morien imagined smoke coming from the machine.

Then the sound of the line being disconnected and a mechanical voice announced when the call had been made: 1.33 p.m.

Followed by another beep.

Silence.

Again.

A long, breath-filled silence.

And the line went dead.

2.42 p.m.

Another beep.

Silence.

A click as the line died.

3.27 p.m.

Beep.

Silence.

Click.

4.34 p.m.

Beep.

Silence.

Click.

5.30 p.m.

Five minutes ago.

No more messages.

Morien grabbed the receiver and dialled 1471. A polite cut-glass woman's voice said, "Sorry, the caller's number was withheld."


* * * * *


Morien joined the Monday morning dirge on the Tube, feeling about as sick as she ever had after a weekend. The carriage was thick with sweat and humidity as people shook themselves free of the warm rain outside and the weekend of sun and relaxation. Morien felt too tired to stand up, but was unable to move from between the two large, be-suited gentlemen that had come in behind her. She hadn't slept. She felt too ill to go to work. But she was too scared to stay at home.

There had been one phone call last night. It hadn't even lasted five seconds.

The phone had rung.

She had picked it up.

The line had gone dead.

Every single one of those five seconds had felt like a lifetime.

She could have gone to her brother.

She could have talked to her father.

She could have gone to the police.

But she couldn't prove it was Her.

She had spent the evening flinching at every sound: the sound of a neighbour's phone ringing through the wall, the sound of creaking on the staircase, the sound of a footstep in the street, the sound of the rain.

And through the night, in those few moments of jumping sleep between the raindrops drumming on the window, she kept hearing that voice.

It was calm, quiet and immeasurably reassuring, like a cool hand on her fevered brow, and she knew now… in a growing, slow-burning realisation that made her cry with the pain and confusion of it… that that still, small voice was Striker's.

She couldn't escape.

Morien disentangled herself from her fellow passengers, fell out of the crush of the station, and headed down the wet street to work.


* * * * *


And into a scene from Grease.

It happened regularly on a Monday morning. Morien would walk into an office of giggling, gossiping work-mates - carefully segregated like a junior disco: women at one side of the room, men at the other - and be unwillingly regaled by tales of dancefloor wooing and sexual conquests.

Sally was holding court at the window end, her voice in a falsetto whisper as she let loose another juicy titbit of information. Her tightly-styled hair jiggled in response to a roar of bawdy laughter coming from the men, upset at being interrupted, and the women around her drew closer as she opened her mouth….

Tell me more, tell me more….

Morien dropped into her seat, swinging her bag under her desk. She turned her computer on and reached for the nearest file to hide in.

"Are you all right?"

She half-wondered if her brother had wandered into the office, but looking up she found herself staring into the dark eyes of Asha, the only other person in the room who seemed uninterested in taking part in the chorus.

"Didn't sleep too well," Morien smiled weakly.

"Would you like a coffee?"

Maybe we could go for a coffee or something….

"Yes, thank you."

She liked Asha. She was quiet, bright, friendly, kept herself to herself and didn't ask difficult questions. From time to time the two of them would have lunch together and not exchange information about their private lives.

That wasn't true… completely. Morien knew that Asha still lived with her parents, spent much of her time with her family, and had an interest in music and reading. Asha knew that Morien enjoyed reading and art, spent much of her time with her family, and was gay… and didn't bat an eyelid. What they chose to do with the rest of their free time was their own business.

To the rest of the office, Asha was too respectable to be interesting, Morien was too weird to be interesting. That was fine by them.

Of course, Morien had had her own song a little while ago. Her colleagues had flocked round her when she had returned to work after the attack - concern, kindness and interest etched into their every word. Tell us more, Morien, tell us more…. Then Donna had met a new man and her song was over.

A mug of coffee arrived in front of her. She sipped at it gratefully and regarded Asha through the steam. "Good weekend?"

Asha smiled and nodded, a surprisingly big grin on her face. "You?"

Morien made a face. "So what's happening with the Community Centre on the Woodhall Estate?"


* * * * *


At around lunchtime, Striker finally threw back the duvet. She hadn't slept, just listened to the sound of the rain. She felt grey.

Her life was a mess.

Her bedroom was a mess.

She picked up the clothes from the floor, and stumbling into the kitchen, flung them into the washing machine, and as an afterthought, squeezed her bedding in on top. Then she stood under the shower for a while, hoping it would make a difference. Throwing some clothes on, she started picking up rubbish from the living room: the pizza box, cigarette ends, empty beer cans…

Oh fuck, Dan… there was a used condom under the couch.

At least I know he practices safe sex with everyone.

She looked at the daisies in their jug. They still looked fresh. She couldn't bring herself to throw them away.

She flung the trash bag into the kitchen.

Then she took her jacket to the dry cleaners.


* * * * *


Monday bled into Tuesday.

The time had wrung Morien like a sponge, each beep of the answerphone twisting her tighter. There had been four messages, two at each end of the day, and another phone call just after she'd returned from work. She'd simply picked the receiver up, her mouth freezing round a greeting. The click as the call was ended made her throat constrict. The phone had rung again later. She had turned the volume down.

She flicked on television at some point, but the pictures were meaningless. Eventually, if only in a bid to move, to do something, she'd pulled the cover off the easel. She'd forgotten that she'd be confronted by Striker.

Watching.

Morien had found herself mixing paint, and sweeping it over the whole picture. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she covered Striker's skin in heavy black oil. It didn't make her feel any better.

The time had danced with Striker. She had worked six 'til six in a constant pull of activity. Not busy, just constant, but the time had flown. She had surfaced into the early morning rain, the timid sun peeping from behind a grey cloud, turning the drops to rainbows and the air heavy.

She had drifted from sleep island to sleep island throughout the day, her mind whirring round eddies of thought with the snarl of Danny's music battering her through the wall.

Once Danny left, she crept out of bed and into the living room. And picked up the phone.

Eventually, she made a decision. And the seas calmed.


* * * * *


Morien had sipped at some soup for lunch. Sitting on her own in the staff canteen she watched the clouds, grey and heavy with gloom, inch their way across the sky.

Please leave me alone. I don't understand what you're doing to me. Please let me work this out.

She felt so saturated with emotion that she felt too heavy to move, but eventually her feet took her back to the office.

"Keith's looking for you," Asha said as Morien sat at her desk. With a deep sigh, Morien made to get up again. "Hey…" She looked at Asha. "You look awful. Why don't you ask Keith if you can go home?"

"No… no… I don't want… need… to go home."

Morien crossed to the end of the room and found Keith behind his paper mountain. "Asha said you wanted to see me?"

Keith seemed to look more messy than ever. He looked on edge and pale. His eyes fluttered over the piles of paper on his desk and landed unsteadily on her. "Oh, yes. Morien, could you organise a new agenda for next week's meeting between the police and the community leaders on the Woodhall."

Morien blinked, trying to concentrate. "A new agenda? I thought the meeting was supposed to discuss drug dealing...."

"That's less of a priority now that the crime figures are down. I know the police are keen to follow up the general crime prevention discussion. Could you check that everyone concerned is happy with that?"

"Yes," said Morien, dully, "no problem." She turned to go.

"Oh, and Morien...."

"Mmm?"

"Your Tumblety Street proposal…" The words roused her more strongly then any pep pill.

"Yes?"

"…have you seen it?"

"Sorry?"

How could this happen? It had been officially consigned to his Pending Tray. Keith never went after anything in his Pending Tray. It was a standing joke in the unit. Why, in heaven's name, did he want it?

"Have you seen your proposal?"

"Er… I gave it to you on Friday." She hoped she looked suitable puzzled at his question.

"Yes, I know." His gaze wandered over the paperwork again, his brow creasing. "I just wondered if you'd moved it."

"Keith, does this mean that you've changed your mind about it?"

Again his glance flickered up at her. "No… no… I think there's something in it that might help us with another project… that's all."

"Oh… well, can I help at all?"

"No… thanks, Morien. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Okay…." She backed away, wondering if he'd stop her. He didn't. He flicked through a pile of folders, absent-mindedly, apparently forgetting that she had even been there.

Morien went back to her desk, her heart beating in her throat.


* * * * *


Striker was glad for a few minutes break. The decision had been playing with her, her mind and hand toying with the number. She slipped into the staffroom and was relieved that she found herself alone. She approached the phone as if it was going to bite her. Dare she do this?

She had been thinking about calling all day. Hell, she'd been thinking about calling since Sunday morning. But she hadn't. And damn she was proud of herself.

But now she felt as if she wanted to say something… even if it was goodbye.

She checked the time. 5.57 p.m. She wasn't sure whether Morien would be home from work or not. Pot luck and the vagaries of the Tube would dictate whether she talked to a machine or had the phone slammed down on her.

With shaking fingers, she dialled the number. Her heart seemed to pound in time to the ringtone. And she heard the machine click on. "I'm sorry. No one's available to take your call right now, but please leave a message." Brief, to the point, and with that wonderful Welsh accent. For a moment she was tempted to put the phone down and call again, just to hear Morien's voice caressing the r's in 'sorry'. But then she became aware that she was supposed to be leaving a message.

And the words deserted her.

"Um… hi… Morien. It's… Striker. I… I know I'm the last person you want to hear from right now, but… I wanted to apologise… properly. What I did was… I'm pretty ashamed of myself. I know I don't deserve it but if you'd be willing to hear an abject and pathetic apology, please give me a call. I'm home tomorrow, my number is 555 7852…."

Ria's head appeared round the door. "Striker, there's a helicopter coming. They need you upstairs."

Striker nodded. "I gotta go, looks like it's gonna be a busy night. If I don't hear from you… I will understand. But please know, Morien, I'll always… wish you well."

She put the phone down, and ran upstairs to join the crash team and a busy night.


* * * * *


Morien opened her front door with trepidation.

She had deliberately dawdled: taking time to finish her work, turn off the computer, make sure her desk was tidy. She had walked slowly to the Tube, letting eager commuters push past her. She had sat on the platform, watching trains come and go. As the crowds seem to thin, she got to her feet and stepped through the open doors of a carriage, confining herself in a corner.

She had almost missed her stop.

Deliberately.

And now she opened the front door.

She could see from the where she stood that the light on the answerphone was flashing.

She closed the door behind her, set down her bag, shook off her jacket and sat on the sofa. She stared at the phone.

The light blinked back at her.

With a shaking finger she pressed the button.

There was a beep.

Then silence.

"NO!" I can't go through another night of this. I can't.

Click. 8.09 a.m. Just after she'd left that morning.

She slammed her finger down on the stop button, then moved it to rest on Delete. But she couldn't delete the messages. What if there was a message from Dad or Drake or… even Sophie?

Instead, she hit the play button again.

There was a beep.

Then silence. She felt herself shaking.

Her finger moved to the delete button again. If it was urgent, they'd phoned back… they'd get into contact another way. She pushed down….

…but was stopped by a voice: "Um… hi… Morien. It's… Striker. I… I know I'm the last person you want to hear from right now, but… I wanted to apologise… properly. What I did was… I'm pretty ashamed of myself. I know I don't deserve it but if you'd be willing to hear an abject and pathetic apology, please give me a call. I'm home tomorrow, my number is 555 7852…."

There was a pause. Morien could hear another voice in the background, barely making out the words: "helicopter", "need you".

Then her voice again: "I gotta go, looks like it's gonna be a busy night. If I don't hear from you… I will understand. But please know, Morien, I'll always… wish you well."

Click. 5.57 p.m.

Morien pressed Stop, rewound the message, listened again. And found herself automatically taking down the phone number.

"…if I don't hear from you… I will understand. Just know, I'll always… wish you well."

Oh, Striker. Her relief was breathtaking.

She rewound again, listened again, and copied over the number in a heavier hand, doodling a flower next to it.

But then why…?

She let the answerphone play on. Then there was a beep.

And silence.

Morien stared at the answerphone. Click. 5.59 p.m. She glanced at her watch. That was fourteen minutes ago.

And it can't… it can't… have been Striker.

So who in the hell…?

The phone rang.

Suddenly, there was nothing in the world except for Morien and the ringing of the phone. The sound bounced of the walls, melted the apartment away from her, and screamed in every nerve in her body.

She grabbed at the receiver and the silence was deafening.

There were no need for words any more.

There was a click as the caller rang off.


* * * * *


She had pulled the phone cable out of the wall and cried herself to sleep.

But strangely felt better on Wednesday morning, as if at some time in the heavy night, a resolution had been found for her.

She would go to work. If there were any more non-messages on the answerphone that evening, she would seek help.

And Striker wished her well.

That one thought, in the maze of confusion, seemed to guide her way, and something inside her smiled. Although she wasn't sure what.

She knew now, believed totally, that Striker hadn't been making those calls - it was an astonishing relief… that now led her to a whole new weight of questions, both about Striker and about those phone calls.

So, Morien had showered, dressed, taken some aspirin, plugged in the phone and left for work.


* * * * *


There had been a multi-car pile up in the middle of the rush hour on the North Circular Road. This in turn had caused several minor accidents as commuters scrambled to take different routes home. Striker thought it was a miracle anybody could travel fast enough in the London rush hour to have that bad an accident.

It was certainly a miracle only one person died.

Striker herself had wanted to strangle several others. Didn't these bastards understand that someone with head injuries was going to take precedence over someone with a slightly bruised foot? She had been bled on, cried on, sworn at and vomited over.

And after six hours of overtime she'd been called into the sonofabitch's office and disciplined for using coarse language in the waiting area.

It was midday, and she fell through her front door and onto the couch.

Danny was just going out.

"Shit, woman, you look like the walking dead."

"Nnnnnnnnh."

"Need anything?"

"Nnnnnnnnnnh."

"Satta, sis."

"Dan…" Striker lifted her head from the couch cushion.

"Yeah?"

"Did anyone call?"


* * * * *


Morien had bumped into Mrs Kantorowicz at the corner of Easthouses Terrace, and together they had walked to their door. Mrs Kantorowicz had talked about her regular Tuesday visit to her friend.

Morien had listened politely and carried the old lady's shopping bags for her.

She saw Mrs Kantorowicz to her own apartment, then slowly took the steps up one flight of stairs. A darkened landing. Another flight of stairs….


* * * * *


Striker opened her eyes. She was still face down on the couch, fully dressed, one booted foot resting on the floor. One arm was still asleep under her. She shook it awake as she tried to concentrate on what had woken her.

The phone was ringing. The digital panel on the VHS twinkled 18:14.

She stretched out on the couch, hearing her back click satisfyingly as she reached for the receiver. "Yeah?" she said.

And a tiny Welsh voice said, "Striker, could you come over? I've been burgled."



Chapter 6: The Rock and the Wind⁵


"Hell, it's a mess."

Everything… everything… had been turned over, emptied, ripped apart and spread over the floor. Drawers regurgitated their contents, papers had been tossed across every surface, books lay like broken bodies on the floor, and what looked like milk slowly drip-dripped its way from a white pool on the surface onto the tiled floor of the kitchen area.

And, in the centre of it all, Morien looked as fragile as Striker had seen her in the hospital. She watched as, heavily, Morien sat down on the sofa.

"Careful where you walk," she said in monotone. "There's glass by your feet. They smashed all the photo frames."

"Have you called the police?"

"No."

"You should…."

"Striker, they haven't taken anything."

"What do you mean...?"

Morien's voice was monotone, almost as if she an unenthusiastic tour guide of a heritage property. "There's some of my mother's jewellery in a drawer over there. They've been through the drawer, but it's still there. The remains of the TV are there." She nodded towards it. "They've taken the VHS apart. The parts are just over there. The stereo's still in one piece though…."

And her face crumpled into tears.

Something deep and sweet and infinitely raw tore open inside Striker as she saw the first tears fall from Morien's eyes, and without a breath she had crossed the room to put her arms around Morien.

"Hey," she said, "don't cry… don't cry. We'll get this sorted out, okay? Everything will be okay."

She looked down at Morien's bowed head. The day's headscarf had been pulled back slightly, revealing an expanse of auburn hairline. There was a freckle there. A tiny, pale freckle, that peeked out from just under a short, copper strand. And she couldn't resist any longer. She lowered her head just enough to rest her lips on Morien's forehead, and there she placed the tiniest, most tender of kisses.

Morien shifted, needing more, and slid her hands around Striker's back, holding the tall woman to her. She didn't want to let go. Ever. She felt safe, Striker's gentle reassurances caressing her skin, her firm embrace supporting and comforting. And the confusion and stress of the last few days poured out of her.

Neither of them knew how long they sat there. Morien's sobs had subsided and her steadier breaths were warm and moist against Striker's shoulder. Striker felt the movement of noise against her.

"What?"

Morien moved her head. "I'm sorry."

Striker pulled away from her so she could see into her face. "You're sorry? What have you got to be sorry about?"

Morien gave her a small smile. "For messing up your t-shirt." She looked away.

"Hey…. Hey…." Striker drew Morien's face towards her. "You have got nothing to apologise for. Look at this. Anybody would get upset at this…." It was her turn to look away now; her hand dropped to her lap. "Not to mention the fact that I ought to be down on my knees begging your forgiveness."

She felt Morien's hand on her leg. "Don't," she said. "I don't want you getting glass in your knees and bleeding all over everything."

Striker got up. "Okay," she said, "I better get the glass cleaned up so I can apologise properly. You got a broom or something?"

"There's a dustpan and brush under the… somewhere on the kitchen floor."

Striker made a careful step towards the kitchen, but stopped and turned. "Morien, are you sure you don't want to call the police?" Morien sighed. After February: the police, the questions; she didn't think she could bear it. Not again. She looked into Striker's eyes, the pale blue gaze penetrating her with quiet intensity. The sincerity in those depths was awe-inspiring. "I'll make the call," she said. "I'll stay with you."

"You'll stay with me?"

"I promise."

Morien nodded.


* * * * *


There had been a slow procession of visitors marking time up the stairs, appearing in the doorway, commenting on the mess: serious-faced uniformed officers; an intense, rain-coated detective; a distressed Mrs Kantorowicz, who made a tearful admission - "I had left something for my friend in my flat. I go back to find it. I leave front door open just for a few minutes...."; and Morien's landlord, ringing his hands.

Striker had salvaged mugs, tea bags and even half a pint of milk from the kitchen, and had made tea. She wasn't very good at making tea, but had found herself improving with practice. She had watched as Morien was questioned, seemingly endlessly, questions fired as if they were bullets.

She had started to regret calling the police.

"Miss Llewelyn, you have no idea who might have done this?"

"No."

"Do you think it might be connected with the attack in February?"

"I don't know, really."

"You say that nothing was taken."

"Nothing seems to have been. There might be something I've overlooked, but all my valuables are still here."

"So, do you think they might have been disturbed before they took anything?"

"It's possible."

"Could one of your neighbours have disturbed them?"

"I suppose so."

"So you think one of your neighbours might have been around at the time?"

"I know Mrs Kantorowicz was out for the day. Mr Phillips, just below, he works similar hours to me."

"Well, we will check with them. Mrs Kan… the lady downstairs might have seen something if she left the door open. Miss Llewelyn, do you think they were looking for something?"

"What?"

"Do you think they might have been looking for something?"

"Such as what?"

"I don't know, I'm asking you."

"Detective, I don't own anything that would mean anything to anyone but me."

Which started a new rash of questions.

Striker fixed her eyes on Morien's face, watching the tiredness wash like a tide across her features. Her head turned and she caught a green gaze, a little smile, and she moved to the sofa to sit next to her. Morien reached for her hand and the gesture amazed her. She held on for dear life.

The detective, Sergeant Manifold he'd called himself, was young, blond-haired and eager. He had launched himself into another question.

"Miss Llewelyn, have you received any threats recently?"

Morien paused, comforted by the feel of Striker's soft, warm palm beneath her own. "No, not threats."

The detective looked at her, puzzled. "Not threats…?"

She could feel Striker's eyes on her.

"I've been receiving phone calls."

Striker's hand twitched beneath her own.

"What phone calls, Miss Llewelyn?"

What phone calls, Morien? Phone calls… phone calls…. She envisaged her fingers tapping their way across the telephone keypad.

Morien was speaking. "They're not threatening or anything. They ring then hang up."

"How long has this been happening?"

"Since Sunday."

She sensed the catch in Striker's breath. Striker had a vivid flash of another time, another detective, questioning her, threatening her. Tears and recriminations rang in her head. But she hadn't done it. She hadn't done it this time.

"And you don't hear anything else?"

"No… nothing."

"Do they call regularly - a particular time of day, for example?"

"It's changed. I spent the day with my brother on Sunday. When I got back I had an answerphone full of silent messages. They'd phone almost every hour throughout the day."

"Did you keep the messages?"

"I deleted them. They scared me."

"And when you came home. Were there any further calls?"

"Yes, one phone call. When I answered they hung up."

"So they didn't call again that evening?"

"No."

"And since the weekend?"

"They've phoned just after I left for work. The answerphone picked it up."

"Any more?"

"There was another message, just before six o'clock, and someone's phoned just after I got in and sometimes later in the evening."

"Have you received any of these phone calls at work?"

"No."

"Any today?"

Morien started. "Oh, I don't know." She hadn't even looked at the answerphone. All she'd taken when she'd phoned Striker was Striker's number and the devastation of her flat. Now they could all see the light was blinking, and Morien felt the now familiar surge of panic swell within her. She reached out and pressed the button.

Beep.

Silence.

Click.

8.12 a.m.

Beep.

Silence.

Click.

11.42 a.m.

No other messages after 11.42.

Of course. "They were checking up on me? Checking to see if I was home?" Morien's voice sounded childlike. She now held Striker's hand with both her own.

Manifold only said, "Or making sure you were out. Could we take the machine? We might be able to pick something up." Morien nodded.

"Miss Llewelyn, you say these calls scared you. Why didn't you report them immediately, to us or the phone company?"

Morien paused, and took a deep breath. "I thought I knew who it was."

Striker shifted beside her. Morien glanced sideways. Striker's head was turned away, her face and expression hidden by hair escaping from her plait.

"Who?" asked the detective.

"I doesn't matter now. I know I was wrong."

"It would help us if we could eliminate this person from our enquiries."

"No." Morien shook her head firmly.

Sergeant Manifold sniffed loudly, glancing between the two women.

"Miss Llewelyn, who else has had access to your flat?"

"Access?"

"Friends, family, other visitors…?"

Morien thought. "My brother and his wife, my grandparents have visited. My father was here a few weeks ago… and there's Sophie, of course."

"Sophie?"

Sophie?

Striker's head jerked up.

"Sophie Cometti. She lives here too." Morien caught the sergeant's fleeting look around the apartment, taking in its compact nature, it's one and only bed…. "She's my girlfriend."

And Striker's insides backflipped. WHAT?!!! Where the fuck did she come from?! She could feel her heart hammering against her ribcage. She felt sure that Morien could feel it pulsing.

She glanced round, and realised that Manifold was looking at her. He dragged his attention back to Morien. Striker closed her eyes and tried to breath.

"And where is she now, Miss Llewelyn?"

"She's in South America. On a charity work placement."

"How long has she been there?"

"Since the beginning of the year."

"And she hasn't been back since."

"She hasn't been able to."

"Would there be anyone who holds a grudge against her?"

"Sophie? No, not Sophie. Besides, everyone knows she's away."

"Do you think there could be anyone who might resent your relationship?"

Striker opened her eyes, she could have sworn just in time to see the detective looking away.

"I… I can't think of anyone."

Manifold nodded slowly. "I have to ask you this. Were yourself and Miss…" he glanced at his notebook, "...Cometti on good terms when she left?"

"Yes! Yes, of course."

"And you've been in touch with her since she's been in South America?"

"Oh yes. We write to each other all the time. And she phones when she can." Striker could hear the smile in Morien's voice. It burnt her. "She's based in the middle of nowhere, up in the Andes, so she hasn't got easy access to a phone, unless she visits the nearest town."

To Striker, the contact between herself and Morien felt like a flame. But she couldn't let go. Her free fingers drummed on the sofa repeatedly.

The detective regarded their joined hands. "And would there be any reason why Miss Cometti would be concerned about your relationship?"

That was it. "What the hell are you implying?" The words were out of Striker's mouth before she'd even realised what she was thinking.

Manifold stared at Striker, but addressed Morien. "If you could answer the question, Miss Llewelyn, I would be grateful."

Morien's hand slipped out of Striker's. She straightened her skirt. "No. There is no reason why Miss Cometti should be concerned about our relationship, detective." And it suddenly felt as if Morien had taken charge.

Sergeant Manifold stood up, and Morien followed him. "Well, thank you, Miss Llewelyn, that'll be it for now. Of course if you or your friend think of anything or wish to talk to me, you can contact me at the station." He looked again at Striker. It was a look that said, "I haven't finished with you." Striker imagined him as a little smoking patch on the floor. "The chances are that it's a simple burglary…"

"…but how would they know my…?"

"..and unfortunately, there's little real chance of catching them. Of course, you've been lucky, they don't seem to have taken anything. Here's your paperwork…" he shoved a document into Morien's hands, "..you'll be needing that for any insurance claim." He bundled up the answerphone, and pulled his raincoat around him. "There'll be a forensic team over tomorrow morning. Thank you for the tea."

And he was gone.

Striker leapt after him. "Tomorrow?! What's she supposed to do until tomorrow?!"

But he was already halfway down the stairs.

"Stupid, fucking bastard," she only half-mumbled.

Suddenly, the flat seemed eerily quiet. It was dark outside. The rain fell on the June night, shuttering the rest of the world behind their closed doors, behind their curtained windows. Little individual dramas behind every wall: hearts breaking, memories haunting, souls crying….

Striker found herself at Morien's front door again, half expecting it to shut in her face. It didn't. Morien stood amid the wreckage of her life and looked at her.

"That's why I'm sorry," she said.

Exhaustion crashed over Striker until she felt her knees begin to buckle. She managed to step back into the apartment and closed the door behind her. "What?" she said, her voice flat. Her mind was thrumming with a single word: girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend….

"I'm sorry for not telling you."

"Telling me what?"

"About the phone calls."

"Oh," Striker smiled, weakly. "You thought it was me?"

Morien nodded, shamefaced.

"I don't blame you," Striker said. "I don't blame you at all." She scrubbed her face with her hands, as if this would help her make sense of the last half hour. "After what I've done…."

"You read to me."

Striker removed her hands from her face.

"What?"

"You read to me in hospital, didn't you?"

"You remember? Coma patients aren't supposed…."

"I remember. I can't believe I forgot." She looked round her flat. "I suppose I can tidy up a little now, change the bedclothes…."

"You can't stay here."

"I can't leave it. The lock's been forced. The door won't close."

"Any thief would have to get past the front door and Rottweiler-woman downstairs, wouldn't they? Anyway, pack up anything you don't want to lose sight of and come back with me. We'll tidy up tomorrow."

Morien didn't miss it: "We…." She took a step forward and gently moved her arms around Striker. "Thank you."

Striker stood awkwardly for a moment. Her conscience taunted her. Girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend….

Fuck you, she responded and returned Morien's embrace.



Chapter 7: Words, Wide Night⁶


As Morien packed a bag, Striker had salvaged the coffee. She had wanted something stronger, but whisky didn't seem to be Morien's drink, and there was no beer, no wine… no alcohol whatsoever.

She opened the window to light a cigarette, leaning into the damp air. She could feel drizzle against her skin, but the nicotine felt good in her blood.

"I wish you wouldn't smoke," Morien said behind her.

Striker turned, carefully leaving the burning cigarette outside. "You want me to put this out?"

"It's bad for you. You can get all sorts of nasty things through smoking."

"I know." She leaned back outside, taking another couple of puffs and watching sparks disappear into the dark.

"So why do you smoke?"

"Habit. Bad habit." She stubbed the cigarette out on the brickwork by the window and flicked it into the night. "So why did you call me?"

There was a sigh from behind her. "Not habit."

Yet?

She turned.

Morien had a small holdall at her feet, and her fingers tangled with the handles of her tapestry bag, tossed over her shoulder. "I couldn't get hold of anyone else."

Striker nodded, her face clouded, and Morien immediately regretted lying. "No, that's not true. I mean… I … I wanted to call you," she finished simply.

Striker's expression didn't change, but Morien noticed the tiniest relaxation of her jaw and that ball of tension that she'd felt bloom inside her since Sunday morning, finally burst like dandelion seeds in a puff of wind.

Striker closed and locked the window. "Come on," she said. "I feel like I could sleep for a week, so fuck knows how you must be feeling."


* * * * *


Approaching midnight, and she had led Morien across the dark, shadow abstract that was the Bronte Estate and up the grimy concrete stairs to her apartment - not sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that the urine-scented lift was out of order. "Please keep in mind," she said as she opened the door, "that I live in pigsty." She flicked on a light.

"Please bear in mind where we've just come from," Morien replied. "Your…" she searched for the word unsuccessfully, "…isn't in?"

"Apparently not. And I don't know if he'll be back tonight. Danny comes and goes as he pleases. In all sorts of ways." She lifted and eyebrow and smiled. "I would offer you his bed… but I'd hate for you to get a surprise in the early hours. Have my bed… I'll take the couch."

Striker pushed open her bedroom door and flicked the light switch. It was a good sized room, bigger than the bedroom that Morien shared with Sophie, but it was strangely devoid of personality. There was a plain wardrobe and a battered chest of drawers, the walls were a bland off-white, there were no pictures. The threadbare carpet was dark grey and needed vacuuming. There was a toppling pile of un-ironed clothes on the floor by the chest of drawers. There was a lamp on the floor by the bed, and a large old-fashioned alarm clock. The bedclothes were plain blue. The bed was enormous.

"It's huge, I'll get lost in that thing," Morien said.

"Well, that means you'll be comfortable. The bathroom's next door." Striker turned to go.

Morien envisioned her closing the door, leaving her on her own. The room was empty, alien. Suddenly, being alone felt like the worst thing in the world. "Striker, you can't sleep on the couch all night."

"I'll be fine."

"What if Danny comes home? Won't he wake you up out there?"

Striker smiled. "Probably, but better me than you."

"Striker…" Morien caught her bottom lip in her mouth. Striker found herself staring at the gesture. "Striker, I don't want to be on my own." Morien's words came out in a rush, but her eyes dragged their way up Striker's body, until she felt she could meet her eyes.

Striker's heart sank. She didn't know what gods were doing this too her, but she felt taunted, manipulated, hung out to dry. It felt like a test… a test for a lady's hand… except this lady's hand belonged to another. I can't do this….

"I…."

"Striker, it's a huge bed. Please stay with me."

"I can't…." She didn't know how to finish that sentence.

Morien stared at her. Her brow suddenly wrinkled. "Do you have a problem with me being gay?"

Fuck no!… Yes! I have a problem with you having a girlfriend, but that's not the same thing… Striker felt herself goldfishing. "No, no of course I don't."

"Look… I'm a quiet sleeper, or so I'm told. I promise I won't touch you, if it worries you. I… After all that's happened…." Morien was momentarily reminded of the first time she'd seen Striker on the station platform. It was the same expression: a rabbit caught in headlights. "I'm sorry. This is wrong of me. If you'd prefer the couch, I do understand."

"No… I'll stay."


* * * * *


Self-consciously, she'd changed in the bathroom. She didn't usually wear clothes in bed, so had picked an old, baggy t-shirt and a pair of Danny's hipsters which had been mixed up with her laundry. She hoped she wouldn't get too hot… in all sorts of ways.

She now sat on the side of the bath, staring into the mirror and steeling herself for the night. This was her first time.

The first time.

She was thirty-two years old and she felt like an inexperienced teenager out for her first grope. Except the groping wasn't the problem. If groping had been part of this package she wouldn't be hiding in the bathroom. Sex was definitely no problem. The rest of it was.

This was the first time she'd shared a bed with someone she was actually, honest-to-goodness, head-over-heels in love with.

Her blue eyes stared back at her from the mirror. Her face was pale. There were dark patches under her eyes. She wanted a cigarette, but didn't want to bring the smell of smoke into the bedroom. Her hands were shaking.

Fuck, you're pathetic.

She braced herself, opened the bathroom door and doggedly made her way to the bedroom.

In the light of the lamp, Morien sat on the far side of the bed, her face in shadow. She was wearing a short-sleeved nightshirt covered in a delicate embroidered floral design. It toned with the bed.

She still wore her headscarf.

"Hi," Striker said from the door.

Morien looked round. "Hi," she said, shyly.

Striker, amazed at her own boldness, shut the door and crossed to the bed, slipping herself under the covers. Damn, maybe I can do this….

Morien didn't move.

"Are you okay? Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine, really," she said, then slowly slid her hand up and tugged away her headscarf.

Oh….

Her auburn hair was growing longer at her forehead, round behind her ears, and down the back of her neck, but the large patch of newly grown stubble at the back of her head couldn't disguise the vivid, angry scar that tore across her scalp.

"I couldn't bear to get it all cut off," she said, without looking at Striker. "It would be like admitting defeat… you know? Everyone says it will grow back… eventually, but…."

She finally looked round, terrified at the expression of horror that would be sure to grace her new friend's face. But found herself gazing at acceptance.

Striker resisted the temptation to run her fingers across the patch of dark red fuzz. The dim light shimmered across the strands, turning them to flame. "You have beautiful hair," she said. "Never believe otherwise."

Morien's relief was tangible, but Striker simply smiled and pulled at the covers. Morien slid under them and settled down. Striker switched out the light and the two of them lay in darkness.

"You know something…," Striker said. "I still owe you that apology."

A heartbeat. Another. Then, "I think you've put up with enough from me this evening to warrant any apology completely unnecessary."

"Never."

The word seemed to resound.

"Can I ask you a question?"

A moment of hesitation.

"Yes?"

"Why did you follow me?"

That was a question Striker didn't want to answer, mostly because there were so many possible answers and she had no idea which one was true. Or if they were all true. She had followed Morien because she genuinely cared about her, because she was very attracted to her, because she was curious, because she was scared of her, because she was scared of herself…. She could go on and on. But Morien was waiting.

"I followed you because I… wanted to make sure you were all right. I… I wanted to make sure that you were being looked after."

"I was."

"I know."

"You could have asked. You could have come up and asked me."

"I know, but…"

"But?"

"I didn't want to intrude. You had so many people around you, anyway, why would you want some stranger prying?"

Striker sensed Morien's smile. "I'm glad… we're not strangers now."

Striker felt warm at the comment. She glowed with it, enjoying the resonance of the words in her mind and in her body. It would be so easy just to reach out and touch her. Just touch her, nothing else….

Only, to be interrupted by Morien's voice. "So, what did you find out about me, stalker?" Again, there was a smile in the words.

"I found out where you lived. I found out you have a family who love you very much. I found out where you worked, though I didn't know what you did there…"

"You really didn't found out that much, did you?"

"Hey, I couldn't stalk you 24/7. I have a job to do, I have hospital management to freak out. I have patients to scare. Tell you what, I'll do the job properly. I'll take some leave next month and I'll stalk you full time for a couple of weeks. Is that good for you?"

Morien's laugh echoed round the bedroom and made Striker tingle with delight.

"How come you get all the fun?" she returned, her voice rippling with joy. "How about if I take leave and stalk you for a couple of weeks?"

"Don't know what you'd get out of it," Striker replied. "You know where I work, you know where I live…."

"I can wheedle out all those little details of your life…"

"…I like baseball, I don't have a favourite colour, I sleep weird hours…"

"I can find out about the family who love you…."

And the conversation hit a brick wall at high speed.

There was a long, long silence.

And then something moved in the wreckage. The flailing limb of life. "My family's out picking up women right now."

Morien didn't know how to respond. She was going to open her mouth and say something placatory, something shallow and uncontroversial, but there was a mumble from beside her: "Might be more interesting if we both stalked Danny."

This time, the lull in the conversation was more relaxed, like a natural break between stanzas, yet still full of expectation and uncertainty. Then the next line.

"Tell me about your family," Striker asked.

"What?"

"Tell me about your family…"

"All of them?"

"How about your brother… your dad…."

"Why?"

"Because I'm interested. You seem like a nice family. What does your dad do?"

"He's a teacher."

"What does he teach?"

"Literature."

"Big surprise there."

Morien could feel a warm buzz of amusement through the bedclothes. She returned the smile in the dark. "He's good at it too. Makes all the difference when your father happens to be one of the most popular teachers at your school."

"He taught you?"

"Mmm hmm. Me and Drake."

"And what does Drake do, apart from fussing over his sister?"

"Oh, he doesn't just fuss over me, he fusses over his students…"

"He teaches too?"

"Yup, and he fusses over his wife and children as well."

"Your brother's got kids? He's twelve!"

"He's twenty four."

"I was close!"

Morien giggled. She was enjoying this.

"So, you gonna tell me he's got eight kids with green eyes and red hair?"

"No, two, both boys. Macsen and Toby."

"Toby? Poor kid!"

"Could've been far worse. Drake wanted to call him Taliesin."

"Poor kid!! Your brother is weird!"

"My brother is a good brother and a good father."

Striker felt the purr of affection in Morien's voice and bathed in that sound. There was a comfortable silence which was eventually broken by the American. "What about your mother?"

The words were accompanied by a sigh. "She died when I was eight. Leukaemia"

"I'm sorry."

Morien paused for a moment. There was something different. This was a new variation on the many condolences she'd heard in her life. Somewhere, buried underneath the familiar phrase and the genuine sentiment, was a strange… longing.

She felt a question on her lips and felt bound to ask it. "Striker…." She felt a tremor of expectation next to her. Striker knew what was coming. "What about your mother?"

There was a silence, then, "My mother?"

"You said you'd come over to England to see your mother."

Another silence, and then came a simple statement. "I lied."

"You lied?" It wasn't an accusation, and there was no anger in the words. It was a question, plain and simple.

Striker turned over, her back now to Morien. She didn't tell this story to anyone. It hurt too much. There were those that knew… bits and pieces. Danny knew the basics - she had to explain the phone bill somehow - but he didn't push it. But Striker had a feeling that if she started to tell Morien, she wouldn't be able to stop. She loved Morien, she knew that - she loved her even more since she'd actually met her - but did she trust her?

Morien kicked herself. She'd been aware of Striker's movement - and the other woman was now curled on her side, facing away from her, every syllable of her body's language crying Keep Out. She had upset her, and Morien was shocked by how much that hurt.

But then she heard Striker let out a sigh and she started to speak. Her voice seemed distant. "I came to England to find my mother." Morien found herself edging closer to be able to hear Striker's quiet voice, and to be able to offer support by her presence. She was careful not to touch her.

Striker swallowed and continued. "I haven't seen her for twenty two years. She walked out when I was ten."

Morien wanted to reach out a hand, just to touch her shoulder, but was scared that she might frighten Striker, might stop her from talking. This was a story that was rusty from neglect and it was aching and hesitant in its telling.

"It makes my mother sound like a bitch, doesn't it? She wasn't. My father stifled her. He wanted to own her, control her and she couldn't live with that. She was desperate. They were such different people. It was amazing how long she did stay and put up with it. It was amazing they got married in the first place. Anyway, she came back to England."

A chapter had closed, but Morien wondered if there was more to come. Her hand inched closer to Striker, but it was her voice that reached her first. "She didn't keep in touch?"

Again, a pause, and again Morien wondered if she'd pushed too far.

Striker suddenly shifted again. She was back on her back. It had been surprisingly easy to force the words past the lump in her throat and now it was just as easy to keep going… to follow the flood to the safe harbour of Morien.

"She kept in touch. She wrote all the time: long letters every week, postcards and cards almost every day, sometimes two in a day. She sent candy and toys, bits and pieces she thought I might like, books, lots of books…. And she called too. But it was tough for her. She had to get past my dad. When she called he would answer and more often than not they'd end up fighting. Dad was so angry with her for leaving. He was so angry with her."

Striker swallowed. She had closed her eyes, storytelling to the dark. Seeing the pictures in her head. Seeing her father's livid face, hearing his furious words, and the bang as the phone receiver was crashed into its cradle. She felt all over again the cutting disappointment that that noise had meant: at not being able to talk to her mother again, hear her voice.

She wanted so badly to hear her mother's voice.

"But she kept in touch, one way or another, for five months. She told me that she'd got a job, that she had somewhere to live. And always… always… she'd tell me how much she wanted to see me, how much she missed me… loved me…." There was a long sigh. "She talked about me coming over to visit… maybe even to live with her. That's what she wanted… that's what I wanted…."

And now another pause, longer than the rest.

Morien's eyes were getting used to the gloom. A faint glimmer of London night penetrated the heavy curtains. She could see the shape that was Striker lying next to her in the big bed. She could hear her soft breaths, slow and even. There was no other sound. Even London was waiting.

"What happened?" she finally asked.

"I don't know," Striker replied, abruptly. "She stopped writing."

Striker turned over, her back to Morien.

And the story ended.

The muffled buzz of the city slowly buried its way into Morien's consciousness.

Then there was a loud click and the sound of voices from the sitting room. Morien found herself silently smiling at the hypothetical situation of her being joined in Danny's bed by the man himself and his guest. Would he have minded?

Then came the humming of mutual gratification, and a giggle, and the click of a light switch. A glow of light appeared under from under the bedroom door, and she could see Striker's face, turned away from her. Her skin seemed to glow from within.

The bedroom door opened a crack and a quiet voice heavy with drink, and flirting both with south London and the West Indies said, "Hey, sis, you got any fags?"

There was a kind of rumble from the other side of the bed and a husky voice said, "Drawer… kitchen table…." The door began to close and Striker called louder, "Don't smoke them all."

The door shut.

There was a silence.

"He always smokes my cigarettes," the muffled explanation came from under the duvet.

"Then don't smoke," Morien replied from her side of the bed.

There was a chuckle.

The tension broke.

A warm, comfortable ambience descended. Morien's thoughts turned to the woman beside her: her kindness, her generosity, the blood on her hands, her voyeurism, the faith in her that Morien seemed to feel intrinsically. Striker had read to her like a mother does a child. And she'd stalked her. Morien didn't understand her. She didn't know her. She had said that they weren't strangers, but she didn't even know her name.

What kind of a name was Striker anyway?

What the hell am I doing?

Every logical bone in her body was screaming questions at her, screaming danger.

And her heart whispered trust.

Morien had craved her friendship before she even knew who she was. There had been a pull of need since she'd first heard her voice - like the need for her mother's memory - which had only increased since their meeting on the station platform. She had known that this stunning woman, with the impossibly blue eyes, was going to be important in her life: one way or another.

But what way did Morien want?

Striker had quickly become a friend, perhaps some kind of surrogate sister. She moved her head so she could once again make out the curves beneath the bedclothes.

She could smell Striker's skin. It was warm, a mixture of rich masculine and flowery feminine, and slightly smoky. It made her wonder if it tasted the same way, and her tongue tingled with an unexpected anticipation.

And her mind turned to Sophie and a bolt of guilt ripped through her.

It had been so easy to love Sophie. She was sweet and kind and supportive and enthusiastic about everything around her. She was enthusiastic about her charity work and enthusiastic about going to Peru and her enthusiasm shone in the letters she wrote to Morien, about the work she was doing and the South American landscape and the culture and the people she was working with.

It had been so easy to let Sophie go, and be quiet and on her own. Even after the attack she hadn't needed Sophie to come home. Sophie had cried on the phone - trying to find a way to come home and be with her girlfriend. Morien had been genuinely sorry when no way could be found. But now she realised, she hadn't needed her to come home. Despite everything, she hadn't needed her.

It had been so very easy to love Sophie.

She did love Sophie. Very much.

But…

But…

The first doubt. The first conscious doubt.

Morien felt a lump in her throat.

She would have to tell Sophie about the flat. She really didn't want to tell Sophie about the flat. She wanted to tell Sophie that everything was fine, that work was fine, that home was fine, that she wasn't being terrorised by mystery phone calls. That she wasn't currently in another woman's bed.

Maybe she should have stayed at home, but the thought of her possessions strewn across her floor and the thought of the phone ringing….

She started to cry.

It was the slightest of noises that alerted Striker. She had almost been asleep, lulled by the sound of Morien's breathing and the exhaustion of the evening: thoughts of her mother once again tucked safely behind the walls of denial. But then there was a hitch - the tiniest change in the air.

Morien felt Striker's body warm against her back; felt rather than heard the words Come on. An arm slipped over her and a gentle hand settled against her stomach. She shifted back, her breath catching in her throat, and found a willing berth on Striker's shoulder, as another arm moved under her body to cradle her.

Striker felt the smooth velvet of Morien's short hair beneath her cheek. Briefly, she allowed herself to nuzzle it, cherishing the feeling on her skin.

Morien's quiet sobs faded into the dark and her breathing quietened.

They lay like that until the London night claimed them.



Chapter 8: Where you're going to turn


There are many advantages to being tall, was one of Striker's first coherent thoughts the following morning. Others were simple words: warm and safe and loved. And the first fully conscious thought was: Well, damn, I actually slept.

They had barely moved during the night, only to shift closer together; so close together that Striker was sure that the next millimetre would take her inside Morien… and that way lay dragons.

So, Striker didn't move. She simply relished her height and the way her long body contained Morien's shorter length so perfectly. She could feel Morien's heels resting against her own ankles. Their knees dovetailed, the pressure of skin on skin as soft as feathers. Morien's firm, rounded backside was flush against… Oh God, she feels so good… that is truly… fuck, these hipsters are hot. Strikers breasts were wonderfully sensitive against the plain of Morien's back. One arm was draped over Morien's still form, her hand having taken up happy residence in the valley of Morien's stomach; the other arm pillowed Morien's head, and stretched out along the sheet, this hand gently surrounding Morien's fist, like a shell treasuring its kernel. Her cheek rested comfortably against the top of Morien's head.

She didn't move, afraid that the slightest change in position would wake Morien. Would she be frightened? Upset? Angry? She had a girlfriend already, after all.

Sophie.

Sophie, I have her now. Right now, she's mine. Now I can hold her in my arms, feel her breath on my skin, hear those little secret sounds of sleep that are meant only for my ears. She's mine to touch.

Morien sighed in her sleep. A warm, contented breath in the still room. Striker closed her eyes, feeling every inch of body against body, her heart praying.

Morien, let me love you. Does she love you like I do? Does she treasure each word, each touch of your hand? And how does she touch you? Does she touch you like I want to touch you? Does she kiss you, caress you, does she make you moan? Does she make you sigh her name?

The morning sunshine filtered through the bedroom window, turning the room from a cold shadow to an enchanted bower. Just for the loveliest of moments, it was her bower, with her lady-love.

Striker didn't want to move.

Then, she was jerked backwards by the force of Morien's awakening.

"God, what's the time? I've got to get to work!" she said as she sat up.

Striker felt breathless with the loss of the moment, but then realisation hit her. "There is no way in hell you're going to work."

Morien looked round. "But, I can't not…."

"Hey," Striker felt a inexplicable burst of anger. "You had a shit-ass day yesterday, there's a shitload of stuff that still needs to be organised. You can't do that and go to work. They'll understand."

"But…."

"I'll call in. What's the number." With a wrench of regret, Striker got out of bed.

"Striker…."

"Morien, I don't care what you say. You are not going to win this. You are not working today. Now, what's the number and who do I need to speak to?"

"Striker, please don't tell them what's happened."

"Fine, you're sick. I'll tell 'em you've got the Ebola virus. What's the number?"


* * * * *


Morien listened as Striker made the call.

"Hello, may I speak to Keith Tivison please? I'm on hold. Jesus, what is this shit? Can't they get better hold mus… Hello, Mr Tivison? Good morning, Mr Tivison, my name is Striker West. Striker West, sir. No you don't know me, I'm a friend of Morien Llewelyn. Yes, Morien. I'm afraid she's sick today. I know, I know she has been off-colour lately. It looks like she's come down with a nasty case of gastro-enteritis. Stomach flu, sir. She's been throwing up all night, and, of course, it can be highly contagious. Yes, Mr Tivison, I think it's best that she stays home the rest of the week. And yes, sir, I will make sure she gets to the doctor too. I'll give you a call next week to let you know how she's doing. You're welcome, Mr Tivison, and you have a nice day. Goodbye." She put the receiver down. "You could have made some barfing noises in the background."

Morien's mouth was hanging open. "Striker, you said a day…!"

"Stick with me, kid, I'll get you the month off."

"I don't want a month off. I've had too much time off already."

Striker mentally kicked herself. "I'm sorry. But you need some time… just 'til the end of this week, okay? Look after yourself, Morien, please."

Morien nodded, a look of resignation on her face. She went back into the bedroom and shut the door.

Striker stared after her, nervous about following, nervous about staying out. Instead, she went into the kitchen and found Danny hadn't smoked all her cigarettes. She lit one and inhaled the smoke, letting it burn all the way down her throat. Then she looked around the sparse kitchen and thought of food.

She hadn't eaten since… Jeez, Vinnie's. Her search for food became more earnest.


* * * * *


Morien slipped into the shower. She felt tense, upset, guilty, nervous about the day to come, but somewhere inside a quiet chord of serenity played. Despite the fear of the last few days, despite the mess that was once her apartment, despite her current frustration with Striker… it had been a good night. She had slept well. She had felt sheltered from a storm, only to wake up in the arms of a balmy morning. And she had allowed herself just a few, drowsy moments of pleasure in Striker's embrace before reality had struck.

The water drummed on her skin and scalp and she washed quickly, dried and dressed. Then, she reached for her spongebag and pulled out the pills, swallowing them down with a palmful of water from the tap.

Finally, the headscarf. Her hair was still a little damp, but it didn't matter. With experienced and nimble fingers, she tied it around her head, and with it came a dejected sense of normality tinged with relief. And then as something as normal as air came beckoning to her from under the bathroom door. Hunger.

Bacon?


* * * * *


"How d'you like it?" Striker seemed to know she'd entered the kitchen, even with her back to her.

She was still dressed in her night clothes: her t-shirt cut high and loose enough to give an agonising glimpse of a backside as sculptured as the rest of her: the full swell of her breasts, the hipsters clutching the top of her thighs….

How do I like it? Morien's mouth was watering. "Um… as it comes?" she managed to splutter, sitting down at the table.

Striker turned her head. Her loose hair, tucked behind her ear, framed her face enough for Morien to see the arch of an eyebrow. Morien remembered the urge she had felt to draw her, paint her… the arch of that eyebrow, the curve of that cheekbone, the rose-petal lips moving….

"I hope bacon sandwiches are okay, but it was that or some green fluffy stuff that's growing in the refrigerator."

"Yes… yes, fine."

"And I can do coffee. Or Danny might have some tea.…"

"Coffee's fine, thank you."

Morien continued to watch Striker, observe the way her hair flowed over her shoulders, the way that her body moved as she fried the bacon, buttered bread, brought a sneaky cigarette to her mouth from its resting place on the sill of the open window - her lips closing round it, sucking at it, her throat moving….

And something between epiphany and cold dread hit her between the eyes. It had been so long, the feeling felt alien. Oh God, I think I'm....

There was movement behind her, and then a god entered the room. He was tall, taller than Striker, with smooth soft skin the colour of coffee; short, silky dreadlocks framing his face like a lion's mane, and the face of an angel.

Morien found herself staring, and in a blinding moment of revelation, she completely understood Striker's attraction to this man.

"Hi," he said and grinned at her: a warm, friendly, welcoming grin.

If she'd had been straight....

"Morien... Danny... Danny... Morien," Striker said, flipping the bacon.

"Hi." Morien at last found her voice.

"Your guest gone?"

Danny smiled. "Yeah, she had to go early." He wandered over to Striker and, putting his arm round her waist, gave her a loving peck on the lips. "Hey, sis, how're you doing?"

"I'm good, thanks." Striker looked up at Danny. And smiled. Morien could see her face glow with affection for this man.

She loved him.

And they made a stunning couple.

Danny's hand slid down and came to rest on Striker's bottom, and gave a tiny squeeze. And Morien's heart gave a regretful little twang in response. Danny's other hand darted into the pan to steal a slice of bacon.

"Hey!" Striker said, slapping his hand with the spatula she'd been using.

Danny dodged back, his mouth full, and gave Morien a conspiratorial wink. "You wouldn't deprive a starving man of his breakfast, would you, sis?"

"I will if he doesn't put any underwear on," Striker retorted.

Danny looked down at his unclad body. "Fair enough," he said. "Good to meet you," he said to Morien, and with another bite, he was gone as quickly as he'd come.

An apologetic look on her face, Striker placed a large bacon sandwich in front of Morien. "So, what are your plans now?"

Morien took a big bite, happy to get her mind from dwelling on what she'd just seen. Chewing thoughtfully, she finally said, "Phone the police, go to the flat, meet the forensics people, tidy up, get on with my life."

Striker played with her bacon sandwich. "Do you want some help?"

Yes. Please yes. "Don't you have to work?"

"Day off today. Back on days tomorrow. I'm yours if you want me."

Morien forgot to chew for a moment, as she looked up into Striker's eyes. I want you. And I can't want you. You're straight. She swallowed. "Well, we'll see how it goes." Striker looked down. She was playing with her food again. "But if you are free… maybe later?"


* * * * *


Morien was only waiting for Striker to get out of the shower before she left. She didn't want to leave the flat without saying thank you. Without ensuring that Striker know just how important the night had been to her.

She sat on Striker's bed, her two bags in front of her, listening to the sound of splashing water from the bathroom. Her stomach was fluttering: aware at just how nervous she was at the impending day, and aware at just how much she didn't want to leave the sanctuary that Striker's apartment had become. And aware now how excitingly tense the American's presence was beginning to make her.

Then something caught her eye, a dark shadow peeking out from underneath the big bed. She reached down, half apprehensive and half hopeful of finding dirty underwear. Instead her hand hit something hard. She drew it out. It was a hardback book: the cover worn, the pages fingered, the corners of some folded as a marker. Carefully, she let the book fall open at one of these marked pages, and found an illustration, a colour plate of a beautiful woman, red-haired, pale-skinned, with a starling perched on her finger, ready to take flight. It was entitled 'Branwen, Daughter of Llyr'.

This was a treasure, as in this most impersonal of rooms, she knew she'd found something that was cherished by Striker, and an extraordinary key to this extraordinary woman. She held the book as if it were the most fragile of living things, as if it were Striker's heart.

The bathroom door opened and she heard Striker's voice. "Hey, Morien, I've been thinking. You don't want to take both bags on the Tube at this time of day. What if I brought one on later?" And then she was in the doorway, her hair dripping from the shower, her mouth open, looking as if she'd been more grateful if Morien had found soiled underwear. "Shit."

"You read The Mabinogion?!"

"Yeah, what about it?" Striker's attempt to be nonchalant was made unsuccessful by the slight blush playing along her cheekbones.

"I'm surprised, that's all. I'm sorry."

Striker looked at her, and at the way she was holding the book with a reverence she understood. Morien, she knew, would understand, as she'd known the moment she'd looked in her eyes.

Her voice was quiet, shy almost. "My mom used to read me stories when I was a kid, okay? She loved fairy stories, myths, legends, fantasy stuff. She read to me right up until…. I guess stuff like that… it's always been…"

"Your escape?"

Striker nodded, then strode forward, dropping to the floor by Morien and heaving out a dilapidated suitcase from under the bed. She threw the lid open and Morien's eyes widened. Striker kept her life in a suitcase. It was full of books, paperbacks, hardbacks all of them obviously read and re-read: Grimm's fairytales, classical myths, a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland barely able to stay within its covers, books of poetry, Tolkien. Morien grabbed a dog-eared paperback and held it up to Striker's face with a grin. "Harry Potter?"

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you've read it," she said snatching it out of Morien's hand.

"I have read it. I've read all of them. Why do you keep them all hidden away like this?"

"Habit," Striker said. Another habit.

Morien didn't want to push but the look on her face must have asked a question.

"My dad always said it was stupid, that I'd end up with my head in the clouds, and when my mother left…" Striker sensed Morien's intake of breath, "…he would get so mad… he got rid of everything to do with her. And so I hid them. I guess I've hidden them ever since.

"Does Danny know you have them?"

Striker shrugged, "I don't know. I've never shown him. It's not something that would interest him." There was a shade of regret in her voice. "Besides, like everyone, he thinks of me as the big, strong, straight-thinking, down-to-earth type."

"But you aren't?"

"Oh, yeah, they're right, I am the big, strong, straight-thinking, down-to-earth type… I just like…."

"…to escape once in a while."

Striker smiled. "Just think of me as a closet fantasy transvestite."

Morien laughed, her eyes sparkling. "I can't get my head round that one," she said. Then paused. "Striker, are you close to your dad?"

Striker sighed. "'Was, for a while, when I was a kid. We used to do stuff together." An inexplicable, cheesy grin burst onto her face. "He taught me how to play baseball, I ended up playing Little League…. You get it…?"

Morien's face was blank.

"Little League baseball."

Morien's face was still blank.

"You know, big bat, hard ball, cool caps, Joe Di Maggio, except in miniature…."

"I know what Little League baseball is, I just don't get what I'm supposed to get."

"Striker!"

"I thought that was football…."

"I was a damn good pitcher…."

"So you didn't fall on your arse like Charlie Brown, so what?"

"Strike One… Strike Two…."

The penny dropped. "And that's why you're called Striker?"

"'Bout time."

"So, what is your real name?"

Striker closed her eyes. "My 'real' name is Striker, that's the name I've gone by since I was ten."

And she'd closed off again. Morien felt disappointed, annoyed, at herself as much as Striker. "You're not going to tell me?" Striker didn't answer, just started putting books back in the suitcase. "Your mother named you, didn't she?"

Striker still said nothing, her head bent over her task. "Hey…" Morien's hand reached out and took the book from Striker's hand. Reverently, she opened the book. "'Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen, who lacked but one thing on earth to make them entirely happy'," she said. A strange feeling of recognition. "Is this what you read to me?"

Striker suddenly looked shamefaced.

"Please, please don't feel embarrassed," Morien said. She caught Striker's hand and held on to it. "You don't know how much it meant to me."

"It did?" Striker's look was so anxious, Morien almost laughed. But she couldn't.

"Why did you do that? You had no reason…."

"You were alone," Striker interrupted her, at a rush to explain herself. "You didn't have anyone… and…" But how could she say those words now, now that she knew that Morien's affections lay elsewhere? She started again. "I know it helps to talk to coma patients, and the nurses in the ICU are pretty cool, but they're busy, you know? They wouldn't have had the time…."

"But you didn't need to do it, and you did. Thank you…." Morien knew that those two words would never be enough, and hoped that Striker knew that.


* * * * *


Morien felt like a infant in the outside world. This was a foreign area of London: the sounds, the sights, the people, everything about it seemed new, and Morien was keenly aware that Striker was not at her side. She clutched her bag closely, and headed for the Tube station.

She felt like a newborn… as if everything had changed. She wondered what was to come: would the phone calls continue now? Would the burglars return? Had they really been searching for something? Would she ever feel safe again?

And then there it was, that sweet kernel of security that had been planted in February, but had grown overnight, now tinged with regret at what she'd learnt. She had loved Striker for opening up to her, she had felt privileged with her trust. She would treasure the fact that this most secretive and private of women had confided in her.

She could feel herself falling gently in love with her. And there were so many reasons she couldn't allow herself to fall.

Striker was straight, that had been made obvious to her. Striker loved Danny, and Danny loved her. Morien didn't understand their relationship, it was obviously open, but there was a togetherness between them that couldn't… shouldn't be broken.

There was Sophie: her lovely, sweet Sophie. Sophie who had been her friend and lover for six years. How could she turn her back on six years?

Besides, how could someone like Striker, someone so exceptional, be attracted to her? I mean, look at my life, she almost said aloud. A disaster area. Even my body's turned against me.

She got to the station and bumped the holdall through the ticket barrier, grateful that she had taken Striker up on her offer and had only one bag to handle. She felt the familiar prickle of being watched, the burning surety that eyes were following her; the shiver down her spine. People were staring at her - the holdall bumping against her ankle. People were staring at her - she was a stranger in their land. People were staring at her - she shouldn't have come alone.

She made her way onto the train, sitting with the holdall on her lap, hugging it to herself - glancing round the carriage, but not making eye contact. It was busy. She was lucky to get a seat. Newspapers were rustled, books were studied, music was listened to behind the curtain of white noise, private conversations were murmured under the blanket of non-sound.

Morien hugged her little holdall.

There was a man standing near the central door of the carriage, staring at her. He looked away when her eyes came to rest on his face. He was big built, tall with broad shoulders and chest; dressed in jeans and a smart-casual shirt. He wore trainers, but they were clean, newly-bought. He looked as if he shouldn't be in casual clothes. His hair was crew cut, almost shaved, and dyed a strange bleach-blond that didn't suit him. It made his skin look too pink, as if he was constantly agitated. There was something familiar about him.

Morien looked away, and she felt his eyes on her again.

She kept her eyes fixed on the advertisements above the seats opposite: air conditioning, cheap phone calls, a poem.



The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that'll burn
Some people wrap their lives round a cocktail glass
And you sit wondering
where you're going to turn
I got it.
Come. And be my baby.⁷

She read and re-read and re-read until she had learnt it by heart.

A few more stations and she changed trains. Finally arriving at her local stop, she had walked down the high streets - the busy streets - even though it was the long route back.

She didn't see the blond man again.

But she felt his eyes on her all the way home.


* * * * *


Striker threw Morien's tapestry bag over her shoulder and slammed the apartment door behind her.

It had been two hours since Morien had left and the place felt empty without her, despite the volume of Danny's music. Striker had kept seeing her: sitting on the bed, at the kitchen table. That morning… with the sunlight dancing through the window, inviting beauty out of the dullest things. The grimy kitchen had even looked hospitable. She'd felt Morien's eyes on her, wondering what was behind those eyes, but afraid of what she might see had she turned round - especially after Danny's entrance. Striker had returned his kiss without thought, only realising as her lips left his what Morien might think. It was Danny; he was her friend, her occasional, former lover. But would Morien understand that?

She made her way down the familiar high street, to the Tube station, and launched herself into the nearest train, preferring to stand rather than sit. She took no notice of the people around her, staring at the whirring blackness beyond the carriage doors.

She lost herself in thoughts of Morien as the darkness and the people came and went, in a world of her own which moved with her like a protective bubble as she changed trains and finally left the Underground system. Until she found herself making a decision.

This must end.

She would help Morien with her flat. She would make sure she was okay, that she was safe and secure. She would go home. Have a quiet evening in. Read some. Sleep. Then the day would be over, this whole confusing shit would be over and she could get on with her life. Her empty life.

After which, maybe she'd call Morien and ask her out on a date. An honest-to-goodness date.

And have the phone slammed down on her sorry ass.

This is nuts. This is….

A burly arm reached round her neck and hauled her into an alley.



Chapter 9: My need, a knight⁸


She was pressed up against a wall, the brickwork biting into the back of her skull.

"Gimme the bag," the man said.

He was heavy against her. Every inch as tall as Striker, he was barrel-chested, and he used his weight to pin her. His face was a breath away from hers, big and aggressive. His head was covered in a nondescript stubble. His thick chin was marked by a neat, goatee beard. He wore a thick, gold chain round his solid neck. His breath smelt of peppermint and smoke.

Morien's bag was trapped behind her. She couldn't have moved to give it to him, even if she'd wanted to. She didn't want to.

Striker looked him straight in his dark grey eyes. "Fuck you."

He slapped her hard across her face, again hitting her head against the bricks. She could taste blood in her mouth. Her cheek was blazing with the smack.

"Gimme the fucking bag, bitch."

He was used to getting what he wanted from women… whatever he wanted. He was hard against her. He was getting off on this, rubbing himself against her. She could feel him growing stiff against her thigh. His hand was on her face now, holding it. She could feel fingerprints imbedding into her skin. He smiled. He'd had work done on his teeth - they were white, straight, sharp. "Want me to spoil this beautiful face of yours, cos I will."

His other hand was moving now, touching her body, squeezing a breast, running down her side to snake its way behind her, landing on a buttock. Squeezing it.

Silly boy…

Striker jerked a knee up, fast. The hit was not as brutal as she would have liked, but the man reeled back with surprise as much as pain. This gave her the space to punch him hard in the face and he landed on his knees on the alley floor. This time, in this alley, there was no compunction. She kicked him, hard, in the stomach, and then in the face - and she felt the satisfying crunch of bone beneath her boot.

He was crying with pain. But she was incensed now and she kicked him again, and he doubled over, bringing his knees up to his chest to protect himself. His hand flew to his waist. For a man built like a humvee he could move surprisingly quickly.

And Striker found herself at the wrong end of a gun.

It wasn't the first time she'd been in this position. She'd been around guns... both ends... several times. Once at St Vincent's, she had disarmed a young man threatening a receptionist with an old World War I pistol. But he had been nervous, scared even, easy to talk down, easy to out-think.

This guy was neither - and he was furious.

He spoke slowly, his voice sodden with blood and mucus. "STOP fucking kicking me!"

Striker took a step back. The man's hand was shaking, but he held the gun with the confidence of familiarity. "Okay," she said, her voice trying to stay calm, to keep him calm. "I'm sorry… okay."

With difficulty, he got to his feet, but the gun didn't move from its aim. She could see his finger edgy on the trigger.

"Now give me the fucking bag."

Striker didn't hesitate to swing Morien's bag off her shoulder. She dropped it on the ground. He followed, again bending painfully to open it, but the gun remained aimed at her. His free hand rifled through the contents, and brought out a ring binder, emblazoned with a council crest.

Then he stood, leaving the bag on the ground, and moved towards her. "As for you…." Striker found herself on her knees, as he kicked her feet from under her. The man was wearing shoes, casual, but polished. His jeans had dirt all up one leg. The imprint of her own boot was clear on his sweatshirt. The gun came down and the barrel was pressed against her forehead. She closed her eyes. The pressure was cold and sharp against her skull, as if the bullet was biting already.

Please, she wanted to say, please. I haven't found my mother yet. I want Morien. Please, I want Morien.

And then there were worried voices on the other side of the wall. "Is there anyone there?" someone called. The man's eyes darted at the sound. He came close to her, his breath hot on her face, his words accompanied by bodily fluids, and whispered. "I'll fucking get you." He took her face in his big hand and slammed her head back against the wall. For a moment, she saw nothing but a burst of stars, and when she opened her eyes again he was gone.

The voices were still there, coming closer. The thought of intruding strangers suddenly made her sick and, lunging for the bag, she stumbled out of the alley.


* * * * *


Morien had spent half the morning on the phone: the police - to check the arrival of their forensic team; the landlord - to arrange for a new lock on her front door; her insurance company - just pausing to let in a single forensic officer in an overgrown romper suit. Now she was talking to her sister-in-law.

"Kerensa, I'm fine, I promise. Tell Drake to stop worrying. The policeman said it was a simple burglary. It's over. Everything's all right."

She sighed. Her brother had apparently tried to phone her last night. Concerned when neither she nor her answerphone picked up, he had tried her at work that morning, only to be told she was off sick. Then busy with classes, Drake had given his wife strict instruction to ensure Morien's health and safety. She couldn't blame him for his paranoia. Not after what had happened.

"I stayed with a friend last night, that's all. No… no… you don't have to come round. My friend is helping me out."

She glanced up as a noise distracted her. And the breath caught in her throat. Striker stood in the doorway, leaning against the door frame. Her face was marked with dirty, red streaks, and there was blood trickling from her mouth.

"Oh my God…. Kerensa, I've got to go." She put the phone down and bolted up from the sofa. "What happened?"

Striker stepped forward, swaying a little, tossing Morien's bag onto the floor. "I'm okay, really."

Morien reached up to touch Striker's face. "This is okay?"

"You should see the other guy." She smiled. Then winced.

"Striker…." She took the American's arm and steered her to the sofa. Then darted into the kitchen.

Striker put her head back on the sofa. She owed her the truth. "I was attacked, okay?"

"Mugged?"

"This was no ordinary mugging."

Morien appeared in the doorway with a soft cloth and a bowl of warm water. "What do you mean?"

Striker looked at Morien as she sat down beside her. "You still have your bag, I still have my wallet."

"Then what…?"

"You had a ring binder in your bag?"

The phone rang.

Morien picked it up, unthinkingly, her eyes still fixed on Striker. "Hello?" She closed her eyes. "Iesu Grist. Drake, I can't talk to you right now. I'm fine. Yes, I was burgled. I'm fine. I can't talk you right now. Don't you have classes to teach? Then go and eat lunch then. I promise I'll call you later." She put the phone down.

Striker's eyes were closed now. There were what looked like fingerprints on her face. Morien reached up with the damp cloth and, as gently as gossamer, tried to clean the blood from around Striker's mouth.

Striker flinched at the touch, but then allowed herself to be tended.

"You said they took my ring binder?"

Striker nodded. Her eyes fluttered open. "What was in it?"

Morien's hand fell into her lap. "My work. Work I'm doing on the Woodhall Estate project. My Tumblety Street proposal." Her mind was whirling. None of this made sense.

"Anything that anyone would be interested in?"

"Nothing. A few well-known details about the Woodhall Estate…."

"And what about your proposal?"

"I told you. Just a plan to renovate the houses, develop the warehouses and turn a little disused chapel into a community centre and art gallery, that's all."

"Everyone's a critic."

Morien smiled a weak smile, then ran a hand across her forehead, displacing her headscarf and allow a few wisps of auburn hair to escape. "I don't know what's happening. I'm so sorry, Striker. Look at you. This shouldn't be happening to you."

"This shouldn't be happening to you," Striker returned. Tentatively, she reached out for Morien's hand and held it softly in her own. "Can you think of any reason why anyone would be after your work?"

"There's been problems on the Woodhall Estate. Most of the community are behind the regeneration project, but there was a lot of crime there... there still might be people.... Oh, God, Striker… there're names in that binder. Community leaders who have been helping us. But I thought they were well known. And why me? There's a dozen people in my office working on that project. Why me?" And again she felt the tears well. "I can't stand this. I can't stand this anymore."

Striker put an arm round her and drew her into a hug, just wanting to hold Morien. Somehow, concentrating on Morien's fear stilled her own. Somehow, the incident in the alley didn't seem so terrifying with Morien in arms. "Hey," she said, "if they've got your work, then they've got what they want. They won't bother us again."

"I ought to call the police. You ought to call the police," Morien mumbled into Striker's jacket.

"I'm fine, honey. I've had far worse in my life." Physically, she had. Mentally…. Mentally, she'd be feeling that gun for a long time. She'd be feeling that terror. But she wouldn't show Morien. She pushed Morien back so she could see her face. "Do you want to phone the cops?"

Morien didn't answer for a long time. Striker watched the expressions wax and wane on her face. She was like an open book and Striker followed the story with the fascination of a devoted reader. Finally, Morien opened her mouth. "No, I don't. I just want the whole thing to be over with." She sighed. "How about you? You were the one that was attacked."

"You're kidding? With my luck, Manifold'll say I beat myself up." She smiled weakly. "So it's over with, as of now." She got up, stiffly, and stretched her back. Then stripped off her jacket. "All we have to do is tidy up in here."

"Striker…."

"Yeah?" She looked back at Morien, surprised at the smile on her face.

"…did you just call me 'honey'?"

Striker caught herself blushing. "Shit. That's not gonna do a thing for my bad girl rep, is it?"

"Don't worry, bad girl, I won't tell anyone." Her smile faded. "It is over, isn't it?"

"It's over, or these guys are going to have to answer to me."


* * * * *


Stalker's paradise.

Morien's life was scattered everywhere, and Striker had free-rein. She arranged the eclectic CD collection, organised video cassettes, folded clothes, lost herself in books. And all accompanied by a dialogue of chat and banter: some resulting in laughter, some resulting in a shaky breath and a reassuring touch of hand on hand.

Now she was pondering photographs. She had rescued them from their broken frames and was collecting them into a neat, respectful pile. These were places that meant a lot to Morien, people who cared for her, people she loved.... Her stomach turned over.

They were standing in front of a gate, a garden with flowers behind, and the wall of a house in the background, covered in the green and pink of a climbing plant. Morien somehow looked less fragile, less thin, her auburn hair loose around her face and longer, resting on her shoulders. Her eyes were bright - she was laughing - and seemed to be struggling to hold onto a white cat in her arms.

Sophie was a little taller than Morien, dark haired and with dark, sparkling eyes, although Striker couldn't tell exactly what colour they were. Her skin was tanned. Her hair was neat and short-cropped. She was frustratingly pretty. She had her arm round Morien and was smiling brightly; the kind of smile that made her pretty face even more beautiful.

Striker swallowed the rising gall of jealousy as she stared at the picture.

"What?"

Morien was staring at her. She forced a smile. "Nothing, just looking." She placed the photographs in the extended hand.

Morien smiled in return, studying the picture at the top of the pile. But Striker couldn't help noticing the smile turning wistful. "Last summer," Morien murmured. "A lot's happened since then." She slid the photos into a drawer, keeping any remaining thoughts to herself.

But Striker had to know. "How... how long have you two been together?" She tried to make the question sound nonchalant, a matter of casual interest, and followed it up with another smile. She hurt inside.

"Six years," Morien said, simply. It felt strange talking about this with Striker. She didn't look at her.

"How did you meet?"

"At university." Then feeling the need for explanation: "We were friends at first... then things kind of developed afterwards." She finally looked round at Striker, taken aback by the dark blue interest in her eyes. She smiled, shyly. "It's funny. I never would have thought we'd make a couple. She... she had a boyfriend before me, although I know I wasn't her first...."

She trailed off, and Striker couldn't help commenting, "Even Sappho was married."

The Welsh woman lifted an annoyed auburn eyebrow at the observation, and Striker took on an expression of mock contrition. The silent, upbeat exchange seemed to give Morien confidence, and she went on. "Sophie was always the life and soul of the party. Everyone liked her. She always had... has time for everyone, you know? I was the quiet one who actually got on with studying."

Striker's smile briefly became genuine. She could imagine Morien: earnest, determined, passionate about her work.

"We got together at our graduation party." She chuckled. "I'm sure the wine helped that night. And neither of us ever planned on it being anything more than a one-night stand. But...."

"It turned into a whole lot more."

"It turned into a life." There was a softness in Morien's green eyes that ran Striker through.

For a moment, she floundered in silence until, at last, she spoke, her voice quiet to disguise its shaking. "You must miss her very much."

Morien looked away, closed the drawer.

She couldn't answer that question.

It took a while for either of them to speak again, both concentrating on the task at hand. At last, Morien glanced over to where Striker was wrestling with the vacuum cleaner as if it was a seven-headed hydra. Her lip was slightly swollen and there were still the red shadows of slap marks on her cheek. My hero... my friend.

Even Sappho was married. What was that supposed to mean? It only seemed to confirm that Striker was straight. She sighed. Friends then.

"It's been a long time since I had a friend."

She hadn't meant to say that, it had slipped off her tongue as quickly as it had slipped into her mind.

Striker's head jerk up, surprise and puzzlement on her face, and she momentarily abandoned the cleaner. Morien felt the need to explain pushing up inside her. "I mean… all the people we used to go out with, socialise with, you know? They were Sophie's friends. It always felt like they were our friends, but I've barely seen any of them since Sophie went away. And since I got out of hospital… well, I haven't wanted to see any of them. I get so tired," she finished lamely.

Striker didn't say anything, but there was a quiet encouragement in her eyes.

"It's hard to get close to people, you know?" Morien continued. Striker lowered her eyes briefly, but there was a smile of acknowledgement on her lips. "How can you get close to people when you don't even understand yourself?"

Their eyes locked for a moment, but then Morien looked away. "You're lucky to have Danny."

"I am," Striker spoke with a sigh, "very lucky. I'm not sure if anyone else would have put up with me, the way he has."

"You love him," Morien said, her voice surprisingly strong.

"Yes, I do. But…." What could she say now? I love you too. I love you more. "There's love and love, you know?"

"Yes, I know."

They smiled, and for a moment Morien was lost in a pool of cerulean blue, but was then shocked out of her reverie.

"Do you… want to come out with me tonight?"

"Sorry?"

"Hey, no big deal. Just two friends going out."

"Out where?"

"There's a club I know… Danny works there, but I don't know if he's got a set tonight."

A club? "I don't know…."

"It's okay if you don't want to. I just thought… maybe a drink or two, listen to the music. You don't have to dance or anything. And it won't be late… I'm working tomorrow."

Morien hesitated. She was torn in two. She wanted… really wanted… to go out with Striker. It had occurred to her that with the ending of the horrors of the past few days, Striker would go too. It felt as if their friendship was on borrowed time. At some point, something would finish it and Striker would suddenly vanish in a flurry of pumpkins and white mice.

So the chance to extend this time with her was more than welcome.

But a club. That scared her.

The noise, the lights, the heat, the buzz of alcohol. God, she'd forgotten what that was like. And Striker, the thought of Striker there, the thought of Striker dancing - her body moving. She didn't know how it would effect her. Any of it.

Morien rubbed her eyes.

"It's okay," Striker said. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"No." The vehemence of Morien's response surprised her as much as Striker. It's time I stopped being scared. "It's time I had some fun."


* * * * *


It was still light as they walked to The Boom Shack, and the sounds of the outside world still had precedence down the high street. But in its small back street, the Boom was already nestling in cosy shadow.

Striker could barely contain her joy. The short walk from her apartment to the Boom had been one of the proudest of her life: simply because she had Morien on her arm. Well, not on her arm. She had walked demurely at her side, interested in her surroundings, interested in Striker's comments. But not touching. Not touching.

Not that Striker didn't want to touch. Morien had walked bashfully out of her bedroom wearing the flowing, blue-green dress, her face demurely made up, and all topped off by a long, embroidered headscarf that made her look like a pre-Raphaelite model. And ever since Striker had wanted to touch, if only to run the diaphanous material through her fingers.

"Is it too much?" Morien had asked, shyly, misunderstanding Striker's wide-eyed stare.

Striker had opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, but eventually said, "No… no… not at all. It's… pretty."

Pretty? Pretty?!! Was Helen of Troy pretty? Was Blodeuwedd pretty? Was Guinevere pretty? Striker wondered if it would be overly dramatic to make up for her mistake by prostrating herself at Morien's feet.

Instead, they'd made their way back to Striker's apartment where she had washed and changed as quickly as she could - black jeans, clean cream t-shirt, her other boots: smart… for her, not only bothering to braid her hair - only so she needn't be out of Morien's awe-inspiring presence for too long.

And now, as they turned into the alley, she felt like an Elizabethan love poet bursting with sonnets of adoration and lapdog hope.

In the lazy neon of the Boom Shack light were Thomas and Paully, one on either side of the entrance, smoking, relaxing. Paully looked round and saw them through a haze of smoke and pink light. "Lawd have mercy, sis," he said, flashing his gold tooth, "you really know where to find 'em."

"Lawd have mercy on you, Lil' Paully, if I catch you anywhere near her," Striker retorted, smiling.

It was Thomas who remembered his manners. He reached out and took Morien's hand in a gentle grip, and Morien looked up and up and up to greet his wide smile. "Welcome to the Boom Shack, little lady. My name is Thomas, and any friend of Striker's is a friend of mine. I hope you have a fine evening."

"Thank you," Morien replied quietly.

She was feeling nervous.

She had been feeling nervous from the moment she stepped into her bedroom to change. It had been frightening just how much she had wanted to impress Striker. She'd even put on a little eye make-up. And it had been frightening seeing the look of pure longing on Striker's face as she had finally emerged. That wasn't longing, she said to herself. She's straight, she's straight, she's straight…. Please let her be straight. And then she'd changed her mind when Striker had changed to the black jeans that showcased every inch of her long, long legs.

And for a moment she had thought about throwing caution to the wind, throwing Sophie over, and leaping on Striker then and there.

But the possible repercussions of that had been even more frightening.

So, she was here in this gloomy alley, shaking hands with a giant.

"Come on," Striker said, daring to touch Morien's arm, just for moment. The material shimmered on her fingertips. It tingled through her nerves.

The two of them walked through the shady entrance.

It was dark inside as well. It was like walking into the mouth of a dragon: red and dark and smoky. But with relief, Morien realised it wasn't as loud as she'd feared, and the lights stayed constant. Striker steered her over to the bar. "The first set isn't 'til nine so they pipe in the recorded stuff 'til then."

It was dub music, loud enough for a few couples to be dancing, but quiet enough to sustain a conversation away from the dancefloor. They sat themselves at one end of the bar, out of the way, but in a position to watch the rest of the club, the dancefloor, and the stage.

"Beer, please, Viv," Striker said, making herself at home. "What would you like?"

Morien considered for a moment, regarding the assortment of bottles ranged behind the bar, and the brightly coloured liquids within. "An orange juice, please."

"An orange juice?"

"Yes please."

She wondered if Striker would protest, preparing herself for "But surely…" or "Don't you want…" or "Come on, a little one…." But Striker turned to the barman and said, "An orange juice, please." She turned back to Morien. "I'm glad you decided to come." Striker's eyes were shining like stars in the dim night of the Boom.

"I'm glad I decided to come." Striker's enthusiasm was infectious, and Morien found herself sinking into her surroundings with an ease that belied her previous tension. Or maybe it was because she felt at ease around Striker. She enjoyed her company, she enjoyed the conversation, she enjoyed the way that when she and Striker talked it was as if nothing else in the world existed. They could have been back at the flat, or on a desert island, or on a Welsh hillside. She liked the way Striker listened to her, the way her eyes would change colour in the space of a heartbeat from serious to teasing to caring, from blue Arctic sky to dark summer night. She liked her mouth, the way it curved into a smile when she was amused, the way it encircled her cigarette, the way her lips pursed as she exhaled the smoke - so carefully blown away from Morien - as if she was kissing the air.

They talked of music and books and art, and were completely oblivious to their surroundings, as the club began to fill with patrons. Only the barman's occasional interventions to refill their glasses detracted from their world of two.

Striker's cheeks were beginning to glow with alcohol and pleasure. She started to shrug off her jacket, only for it to be pulled off her shoulders and replaced by an arm. "Let me help you with that," said a sultry voice.

Striker started and looked round at the face of the pretty blonde that had appeared from nowhere. "Oh, hi Diane," she said, uncomfortably.

"Wanna little fun later, if you're free?" the blonde said speaking low into Striker's ear, but loud enough for Morien to hear. Morien could see the woman's tongue moving in her mouth. Another inch and it'd be in Striker's ear.

"No, Diane, I'm with someone," Striker said, loudly, so Diane could make no mistake about her answer. And she took her jacket from Diane's grasp and put it back on.

Diane's cheek twitched as if she'd been slapped. She glanced at Morien, looking at her as if she was last year's fashion. But then she turned back to Striker and the smile returned. "Well," she said, "maybe another time, gorgeous." And she slunk back into the crowd to find someone else's space to invade.

Striker stubbed out her cigarette with frustration. "Sorry," she said. "We had a… thing. Once. Ages ago." She looked up and found Morien staring at her, her mouth open.

The filing cards of Morien's memory had exploded in her head and now lay in disorganised clutter on the floor of her mind. Propriety dictated that she should brush the encounter off. Propriety dictated that she should take up the reins of their former conversation. Propriety dictated that she shouldn't question her new friend's choice of sexual partner.

Propriety could go to hell.

"I... I... I... thought you were straight?"

"I never said I was straight."

"But what about you and Danny?"

"Yeah, Danny and I have… slept together… but that doesn't make me straight."

"You're gay, then?"

"No, I'm just me… and I don't like being labelled." There was a confrontational tone in Striker's voice that seemed totally alien.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that if I want someone, I fuck them." There was a glint in Striker's eye that was new again from all the shades and sparkles Morien had witnessed since the evening began. It was dark, dangerous, deeply passionate and frighteningly desirable.

And Morien was taken in by it, sucked in to the depths of the blue and the depths of Striker's challenge.

She took up the gauntlet. "Do you want to fuck me?"

Morien was joking.

The use of the expletive on the small woman's lips was like a cold shower… or a hot bath. Never had a single word caused so much pleasurable uncertainty for Striker. Morien's voice had taken on a teasing, sensuous tone, a warm, wet tone that brought to mind bodies slipping together and the musky smell of sex. And with her Welsh tongue toying with the words….

She was joking, wasn't she?

Except it didn't seem like a joke. "No," Striker said quietly, and was totally unprepared for the look of hurt that crossed Morien's face.

"Irie, sisters and brothers. My name's Fabio and, for those of you who don't know, this joint is mine. And I say time for the good stuff. We got rockers, we got dub, but first we got bredda DJ Just."

And simultaneously the music started pounding, the bodies around them moved fast and hard, and the lights began to flash.

And Morien felt her knees almost give way. "I've got to get out of here."

Striker saw Morien's mouth move under the music, and saw her turn and begin to push her way through the crowd. She saw her put her hand to her eyes, almost running blind from the room.


* * * * *


Morien made it outside, the music, the lights, the heat pounding in her brain. But the darkening evening only offered humidity and the flashing neon BOOM SHA.

This couldn't be happening. She couldn't let this happen. Not here. Not with Striker on her heels. I hate this. I hate this. This can't happen. Not in front of….

"Hey, little lady," a voice said through the white noise in front of her eyes. "You okay?"

"I need some… some fresh air."

It was Thomas. His big hands took her by the arms and gently pulled her away from the entrance. "Don't worry, lady, I got you."

Morien swayed in the direction of the street, but Thomas's strong grip pulled her back. "Not out on the street. You go up the other end, there's some boxes up there. You go sit tight. I'll keep an eye out for you. You wan' me get Striker?"

Morien shook her head and stumbled down to the end of the alley. It was even darker down here, pitch when it formed an L shape and she found herself almost tripping over a pile of wooden crates, set up as if they were hidden thrones. She sat down heavily, thought to put her head between her legs, but felt her body fall.


* * * * *


Striker had tried to follow Morien, but the smaller woman was quicker and more desperate, and Striker found herself colliding, almost dancing, with an agile woman in front of her. She looked into the woman's face - they were strangely familiar - beautiful, deep almond eyes smiling at her. Then the woman pushed past with a mouthed apology.

Striker turned again, anxious that she had hurt Morien, worried that Morien might be unwell, and again started to push past the dancing mass. And again found her way blocked. Arms came up and grabbed her waist.

"Hey, sis, what's the hurry?"

"Danny." She breathed easier. "Bro, have you seen Morien?"

"That little red head? Sorry, sis, been otherwise engaged." Danny smiled and nodded his head in the direction of the Asian woman.

Striker stared after her as she disappeared towards the Ladies. "Is it my imagination or is that the same girl as last weekend?"

Danny shrugged. "I didn't think you noticed last weekend."

"Bro… you got something to tell me?"

"She's nice."

"She'd better be for you." Finding themselves on the edge of the seething crowd, Striker pulled a cigarette and lit it with shaking fingers. "There's going to be a lot of devastated ladies here when the news breaks."

"The devastated ladies will have you to look after them, sis," Danny grinned back.

"No they won't."

"They won't?" Danny's face became concerned, regarding Striker's cheerless expression. "What's up, sis?"

"Nothing. Just fucked up again. The usual."

"Fucked up?"

"It's nothing. Nothing I can't fix. I hope."

"Strike, you're okay with this… with me, aren't you?"

Striker looked at him, concentrating on his words now. "Dan, of course I am!" She took his hand. "You don't need my permission to start dating someone. Besides, I'm happy for you. I really want this to work for you." She kissed him gently on the lips. The most chaste of kisses. "You're my friend."

Danny squeezed her hand, and his grin appeared again like sunrise. "So, you and the little red head…?"

Striker sighed. "Me and the little red head."

"Well, you and her… last night… is she a real red head?"

Striker threw him a look of disgust. "Nothing happened."

"Nothing happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"You mean you had that cute little catty in your bed all night and you didn't get to stroke the…"

"Nothing happened."

Danny's voice rose above the music, causing stares from their neighbours. "I don't believe it. The great Striker West struck out!"

There was a pause. Striker looked up at him, exhaling smoke at him like a demon at hell's gate. "Firstly," she said, "don't you dare use one of my own phrases against me and secondly, asshole, Striker West chose not to go up to the plate."

"Chill out, sis. You didn't make a move?" Striker shook her head. "Shit," Danny said. "We both got it bad."

"My friend, we certainly do."


* * * * *


The latest patrons dispatched, Thomas left Paully to mind the door, and made his way into the dark part of the alley. He didn't see Morien immediately, despite his eyes being used to the gloom. Approaching the crates he almost tripped over her. She was sitting up against the wall, her head on her knees, her arms clutched round her bent legs.

"Coo yah, sis, I almost didn't see you there," he said, crouching down by her side. "You sick, sweetheart?"

She lifted her head from her knees and her face was almost luminous white in the dark. She was crying. The make-up she'd so carefully applied just a couple of hours before, ran down her cheeks in black streams. "Hey, little lady, I'll get Striker for you, 'kay?"

"No!" She reached out and caught his arm as he started to get up. "No, please. I just want to go home."

"Okay," Thomas said. "How 'bout if I get you a cab, huh?" She nodded. "Can you stand? Here, let me help you." He almost lifted her to her feet, holding onto her shoulder as she trembled. "There's a rank just round the corner. Can I walk you?" He held out an arm, and she took it with a small, grateful smile.

"Thank you," she said, in a tiny voice.

"My pleasure, sister," he said, and walked her slowly up the alley.

As they passed the entrance to the Boom Shack, Thomas winked at the staring Paully and said, "Back in a minute, dread, hold tight." And they walked off into the street.

Paully gaped after them, the two figures, one towering and sturdy, one small and fragile, silhouetted against the streetlamps of the outside world. They rounded the corner and were out of sight.

He took a saved joint from his shirt pocket and lit it carefully, encouraging the glow of the tip with long inhalations. Then leaned back against the brickwork and closed his eyes, his tongue absent-mindedly playing with his gold tooth, becoming one with the music and the night.

A minute or so of delicious reverie passed until an urgent voice said, "Hey, Paully, you seen my friend."

Paully opened his eyes and gazed up at Striker rather unsteadily.

"Wha…?"

"Fuck, shorty, have you seen my friend, the woman I came with?"

"Oh, yeah, Thomas took her to get a cab. She looked like shit, Strike."

"What do you mean she looked like shit?"

"She looked ill, sis. I think she fainted."

"Fucking shit, Paully, why didn't someone come and get me?" Striker darted out of the entrance, looking as if she wanted to hit someone. Paully had a sneaking suspicion it was going to be him.

"I dunno. Thomas looked like he was handling it. They've only just gone. They might still be up at the rank."

Striker was off without replying, up the alley. But her movement was brought to a shuddering halt as a group of men blocked the exit to the street.

It wouldn't have mattered to her. She would have simply pushed past them - despite the size of the group: a group of pale-faced, skinheaded freaks who looked like ghouls out of the night. And despite the size of the men. The two suited bodies that led them blocked the alley between them.

In another life, at another time, she would have pushed past them with a momentary smirk: one had a bleached-blond crew cut, that made his face look far too red. The other had his nose bandaged and two black eyes.

It was this man who stopped her. In a voice that made him sound as if he had a bad cold, he said, "Well well. Two birds with one stone."



Continued in Chapter 10….