Chapter 14: The Lobster Quadrille¹


But first they had to get to the police station.

The Underground trains seemed to be stretching and warming up for the day and the two women found the carriages almost deserted to begin with.

They found themselves talking, despite themselves. Striker asked about Lleuadraeth, Morien answered with anecdotes and information. It was something to plan for, something to look forward to. It was surface-level chatter to side-step a weight of reality that was beginning to crush them.

They got off at Striker's local station, with the High Street waking up. Ten minutes down the road was the remains of the Boom Shack. They couldn't see it, but it was if they could still smell the devastation. Neither of them acknowledged it, but skirted round the knowledge as they skirted round the emergent traffic.

A brief walk and the dingy estate was quiet. Although still echoing with the memories of flashing lights and danger, the police were gone, the bystanders had stolen back to their homes, and there was no sign of life. No sign of possible death.

Carefully, they made their way back to the apartment, up the stairs, along the deserted walkway. Here and there were signs of life among the neighbours - the sound of a radio, the flick of a curtain, but no humanity.

"They could have cleaned," Striker murmured as she set foot through the door.

Morien said nothing. She couldn't tell the difference.

Until she saw the spots of blood on the wall, where yesterday she'd been mopping up stagnant water and dead flowers.

"Do you want me to tidy up?" she asked Striker.

Striker was grateful for the offer, but answered truthfully. "I guess this is a crime scene. They might have finished for now, but I guess it ought to stay for a little longer, especially in view of what we're about to do." She disappeared into her bedroom calling behind her, "If you need anything… use the bathroom… anything like that… help yourself."

Morien stood for a moment, listening to Striker moving around in the bedroom. She could hear the creak of the wardrobe door, the scrape of battered drawers opening. She stared at the blood on the paintwork, unwillingly imagining what had happened in this apartment barely twelve hours before: Danny confronted by strangers. Had it been the quick, heavy, unexpected blow to the head that had changed her life, or had he struggled? And what more had these men - Nigel and Bruce - what more had they wanted, if it hadn't been to warn the two witnesses who had stumbled into the little chapel?

"How far is it to the police station from here?" she called, staring at the closed front door, and wondering how long it would take for somebody to kick it in.

"Clarke Street's off the High Street; bit further up from the Tube."

"Not far then?"

"No, not far."

Morien almost jumped out of her skin when the letter box clacked and mail bumped onto the carpet by the door. Without thinking she picked it up, glancing through it. A couple of bills; junk mail; a music magazine for Danny; a letter, something official, addressed to Striker.

No, not addressed to Striker, addressed to R. S. B. West.

Maybe she was Striker after all.

Intrigued though she was, the sound of footsteps on the walkway outside drew Morien's attention away from the letters. They were only passing, not stopping. Maybe just the postman again, she reasoned, but wondered whether it would be overly dramatic to push the couch in front of the door for the duration of their stay. Instead, she merely slipped the chain across, ensured the latches were down, and, throwing the mail onto the table, moved to the bathroom. She wanted to wash the grime of the chapel and a hospital night from her face. She needed to take her pills.

She caught herself smiling at herself in the mirror as a sudden thought struck her. Funny, considering she'd just locked the two of them away from the outside world, and funny, considering the bathroom door was firmly shut… but, suddenly, here with Striker, she felt as if she didn't need to hide anymore.

She took her cap off and, for the first time, watched herself as she swallowed the hated medication in a mouthful of water.

But she still doesn't fancy you, anghenfil. ²

Besides, why should she be surprised that Striker wasn't fazed by her epilepsy. She was a doctor, wasn't she?

She bent over the basin. The cold water felt good on her skin. She ran a wet hand through her hair, unconsciously lingering over the scar, as always.

"Hey, Morien, you okay?" she heard through the door.

"Yes, fine. Just waking myself up a bit." She towelled her face dry, the friction itself reviving her, and opened the door.

Striker was right outside as Morien emerged. She was about to go into the bathroom, but stopped as she saw her shorter friend and her eyes crinkled. To Morien's surprise, she reached out and ruffled her fingers through her damp hair. Morien wasn't sure what to make of the gesture, but glimpsed only fondness on Striker's face as she dived into the bathroom. She was gone for a few moments, and Morien heard splashing water. Then she re-emerged, her face clean and her hands full of toiletries.

"Hey, Striker," Morien called.

"Mmm?"

"Your post's arrived." She nodded at the letters.

Striker scowled. "Probably just crap I can't pay." Juggling bottles, she picked up the official-looking letter and managed to tear it open without dropping anything. She smirked as she read it. "Well, whaddya know," she muttered. "I've been fired from my job." She threw the paper down and headed out of the sitting room, mumbling expletives under her breath.

As she entered the bedroom, Striker stopped, trying to remember what she was doing. Her mind didn't seem to be working any more. She looked longingly at her bed. Her lovely, big bed. It would be so easy just to curl up and sleep. Curl up and hide from the world. Curl up and hide under the duvet with Morien. Yeah…. But the world wouldn't let them hide. The world would come knocking on the door… or simply break it down - probably advising them by formal letter after the event… so they had to go and confront it.

She sighed, and swayed slightly on her aching feet. That was it. She had to pack. She arranged her armful of bottles and washing sundries in the suitcase - idly hoping the shampoo wouldn't leak - and added another pair of jeans, following them with another couple of t-shirts. Then cleaned out her underwear drawer.

She heard Morien's voice from the living room, drifting to and fro like a sound wave. Striker was unsure whether Morien was speaking another language or she was losing the power of understanding spoken English. "Hi, dad, it's me. Um… I know it's a little short notice, but could me and a friend come and stay for a few days?…. Are you sure that's okay?…. Dw i'n iawn, tad. I ddweud y gwir³ … we're in a little bit of trouble. Um… we'll probably have to have a chat with Idomeneo…."

And Morien must have moved because the rest of the sentence was muffled by space.

Striker stared at the suitcase, already occupied by books. It was going to be heavy to carry but she sure as hell wasn't going to leave it here. She checked in the back pocket - filled with carefully folded, carefully bound bundles of paper - and pulled out the old copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and within, the tattered photograph. She stared at the image as if committing it to memory.

Her tired mind registered a word, a feeling, a touch.

Maybe it was the tiny creak of the door, or the almost silent beep of her mobile phone as Morien switched it off, but Striker looked up to see Morien framed in the doorway.

Morien felt as if she'd interrupted a private conversation. She was going to make her excuses, apologise, turn and leave, but instead she found Striker handing her the photograph.

The colour was so faded it was almost sepia. It had been folded and re-folded and was criss-crossed with lines and time. But the image was clear.

It was as if she was looking at Striker: a face whose shapes and planes she'd sketched in the hospital just the night before. A clear, intelligent, blue gaze. A gentle, almost solemn smile played on the faded lips. But her hair was light - it must have been a dark blonde.

A different woman, from a different place and a different age. It was almost frightening how like her mother Striker was.

Morien looked up, into the same gaze, but this one was desperate for approval. The breath caught in her throat at the trust Striker had placed in her. She would not let her down. She smiled at Striker, a reassuring, honest smile, and said, "She's beautiful."

"She is, isn't she?" Striker's face was almost childlike with the pleasure of Morien's words. She reached out to take the photograph back from Morien, and smiled as she felt Morien's fingers linger against her hand. "I'll find her one day," she said. Then tucked the photograph safely back in its book, into the suitcase and closed the lid. And then her voice changed, lowered, and her eyes became shrouded. "I guess we better get this over with, huh?"


* * * * *


Striker slammed the front door behind them, pushing on it to make sure it was well and truly closed. Then, checking around the waking neighbourhood, they made their way down the stairs, Striker bumping the suitcase in front of her.

Now there were signs of movement here and there: a mother shouting at her petulant children as she herded them across the estate; a dog sniffing round a gathering of dustbins; a drunk trying to negotiate a kerb.

"How far?" Morien asked, her heart in her throat.

"Five minutes if we're fast." Her voice was sharp, urgent.

"Striker…."

"I know, I see them…."

They had reached the main entrance to the estate where it greeted the High Street, and to their left, standing nonchalantly on a corner further up the road, was a small group of skinheads. They seemed indifferent to the time of the morning, or that their quarry had just shown themselves, only seeming concerned about an empty drinks can which they were kicking about the pavement with shouts of invective-laden merriment. But both Striker and Morien felt razor-sharp eyes on them, and as they moved to cross the road they were aware of a shift in the group… a casual tap of the can in their direction.

The traffic was building, and the two women ran the gauntlet of buses, cars and angry horns as they dodged their way to the other side of the street. They were now parallel to the ghouls, as the impromptu game of kick-the-can was abandoned and the women found themselves shadowed across the road. Morien and Striker sped up, close to running, Morien's bag bouncing against her side, the suitcase banging painfully against Striker's leg. She shifted it up, wondering if she could swing the heavy burden fast enough and high enough for it to be an effective weapon if needed.

"Striker…." Morien's voice was high with fear.

Striker looked up, ahead of them. She could see, in the distance, the turning to Clarke Street, their way to the police station and safety, and on that corner a second cluster of skinheads had suddenly appeared as if spat out by the morning.

"Holy shit."

They stopped dead.

"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know."

"They wouldn't try anything, would they? I mean, it's broad daylight… there are too many people about."

"I don't know… but we're fucked. We can't get to Clarke Street."

"Then what do we do?"

Striker was getting angry. Angry with the skinheads, angry with Morien for expecting her to have all the answers, and especially angry at life. But she was too tired to be angry. She was too tired to feel any kind of emotion save a savage amusement, tinged with complete disbelief. For a moment, she was still clinging on to the dilapidated roof of the Salem Chapel, dizzy and disoriented, and then the High Street had turned into Wonderland and she and Morien were waltzing down it.

They had overtaken the first group of ghouls who were now idling a little further back, watching them, waiting for their next move. The second group were laughing and joking among themselves - Striker could swear that one of them was looking at them, beckoning, grinning. And as she watched a car pulled up to the kerb a little further up. A smart sports car, royal blue, expensive and shining. It embodied masculinity, it embodied power, and in the front seat sat two large, suited men.

Striker vividly remembered the feeling of the gun barrel pressed to her forehead, and the mess a single bullet could make of a face …. She looked around, looking for anything… anything… that could get them out of there.

Shops were opening - she recognised the newsagent a little way ahead. Some shopkeepers were setting up stalls on the pavement to display their cheaper wares: a hardware store, a greengrocer, a florist….

"Striker…." She felt Morien grab her arm and nod down the road.

"And they say they're never around when you need them," Striker murmured. Turning out of a side road was a police car. It turned onto the High Street, heading in their direction, and pulled up almost opposite to them. Two policemen got out. Both were rapt in conversation and neither seemed to notice the groups of skinheads, the besieged women, or the elegant car that was causing a potential obstruction, all of whom were watching their arrival avidly.

Morien yelled, trying to catch their attention, but her shout was swallowed by the roar of a passing bus.

Traffic was moving fast now. Striker pulled Morien out of the way of a taxi as she tried to cross the road. Still the police officers were oblivious.

Besides, Striker thought, it wouldn't be enough just to talk to them. They were going to have to get out of this situation with an escort. Striker looked round her again, at the shops, the stalls. She looked at the ghouls, she looked at the sports car, she looked at the policemen…. "Morien, I've just had a really bad idea."

"It'd better be a really good bad idea."

She was moving now, down the street, calling after her. "Remember I told you how I got my name…"

"Yes, baseball, but…."

Striker reached the greengrocers; fruit and vegetables were neatly laid out on the stall. Striker dropped her suitcase. "Well, it's been a while, but…." And a large tomato whizzed across the cars on the busy street and landed with a ripe, juicy splat on the helmet of the unsuspecting police officer.

Striker grinned. "Hey not bad. I still got it…." And she took another tomato and lobbed it across the road. Morien's mouth opened, not sure whether to laugh or scream at Striker, instead she found herself confronted by a furious greengrocer.

"What the hell's she doing?"

"Um… it's a little complicated, but she's saving our backsides." Another tomato whizzed across the road, and Morien reached for her purse.

The astonished police office followed his colleague's finger and raced across the street, dodging traffic, shouting, "Stop! Police!"

Well, duh…! "Don't worry," Striker yelled back. "We're not moving." She thrust a tomato into Morien's hand, immediately implicating her in the crime. Up and down the pavement, the two groups of ghouls were staring, their mouths open.

"What the hell are you doing?" The policeman arrived, sputtering and damp with tomato seeds creating a new and interesting design on his uniform white shirt.

"Sorry about that, it was kinda necessary."

"Necessary? Are you drunk?"

"No, just extremely tired. Are you going to arrest us?"

The policeman goldfished. It was his colleague that replied. "Hell, yes."

They were marched across the road, accompanied by their newly acquired crossing guard and a building and slightly hysterical glee, and helped into the back seat of the police car, the suitcase being carefully stowed in the boot.

"I can't believe you did that," Morien said in an undertone, reaching for Striker's hand as the police car moved into traffic.

"Got us out of there, didn't it?" Striker couldn't help but wave at the astonished faces of Nigel and Bruce as they passed the sports car, and they swept around the corner of Clarke Street in style.

"You're a genius," Morien whispered.

"Nah, just a damn good pitcher," Striker said, disappointed that the journey was already over as the car was parked in the yard. "You ready for this?"

Morien nodded, squeezing her hand.

Striker bent close to Morien. "They know now. The moment we step out of this police station they're going to be after us."

"Come on. Out." The damp and red-tinged constable opened the door on Striker's side and jerked his thumb in the direction of the building.

"They're after us anyway. What have we got to lose?" Morien replied. She brought Striker's hand up and brought it to her lips. Then with a smile, she slid out of the car.

The custody area was empty, only occupied by the imposing figure of the sergeant behind his desk. A man this time: solemn and humourless, and when told of the charges, his scowl seemed to deepen. Plainly, he was unimpressed and annoyed that these two women were here at all.

Then, Striker spoke. "Sir, we have information."

"Information?" He drawled the word, and raised an eyebrow, cynicism written in every line of his face.

"My name is Striker West. I was arrested late Thursday night for drug offences. We have information on the arson attack on the Boom Shack night club, the assault of Danny Giboyeaux on the Bronte Estate yesterday afternoon, the murder of one of the Boom Shack employees…" she could sense Morien's head flick round in surprise, "…and a very big stash of cocaine."

The sergeant lifted his other eyebrow.


* * * * *


Five hours.

They were separated.

Striker had to wait for the arrival of the sallow-faced solicitor and was shown into a cell. The same cell. "Home from home," she murmured as she lay down on the hard bed and allowed her self to drift off.

Her waking dreams were full of blood and flight, and bullets red and soft and exploding with seeds, as she was chased through the snaking corridors of St Vincent's. And around every corner she found Bruce or Nigel, gun in hand, trying to push her down and pull the trigger - the shot would ring in her ears, and around the walls and she would wonder if she was dead; but then another corner and Danny would be there, soundlessly calling for her as blood dripping down his head from a gaping head wound; only to back up and find Paully, his face a destruction of flesh and brain, his gold tooth jiggling, his arms outstretched as he begged her for help.

And nowhere could she find Morien, but she kept hearing her voice. A quiet, Welsh lyric that would whisper in her ear, "Please don't leave me. I need you."

And the cell door creaked open and there were other voices.

"Miss West," the plain-clothed detective asked, "are you trying to make some deal so we drop the drugs charges for this so-called information?"

Striker blinked, her mind crawling back from sleep. It was the same detective that had interviewed her on Thursday night. "No," she said, swinging her legs onto the floor. "If you want to go ahead with the drugs charges then go ahead. I'm giving you this information because it's the right thing to do. And because my friend and I need your help. Now if you can forget about the tomatoes…."

The detective chuckled. "Come on," he said.


* * * * *


"I suppose I have to go back to February."

Five hours of exposition.

The detective flicked through some paperwork in front of him. "It says here you were attacked in February but no one has been caught. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right. I had no idea at the time who would have done that to me. I do now, and I know why as well."

"Well?"

"I believe their names are Bruce and Nigel, or else it was one of their… friends. I'm afraid I don't know their surnames."

"And why would these men want to attack you?"

"Because I was interested in the Salem Chapel on Tumblety Street."

"This is about a chapel?"

"It's about what they're using the chapel for."

"And what are they using the chapel for?"

"To store drugs."

"And how do you know this?"

"Because I've seen them."


* * * * *


"These two brothers planted the crack on you because…."

"Warning. Payback."

"Payback? What did you do?"

Striker paused. "I… I kinda kicked Bruce in the face."

There was a pause. "You kicked… Bruce… in the face?"

Striker nodded, and watched as the detective glanced at his companion. There was a strange respect in his eyes.

Five hours of two-way knowledge.

Striker fixed him in her gaze. "You know them."


* * * * *


"You've only heard of this Bruce and Nigel through Miss West?"

"I believe what Striker's told me, yes."

"But what do you know, Miss Llewelyn?"

"I know the name Gilbert Lamprey." Morien liked the silence that the name instilled.

"How do you know the name Gilbert Lamprey?"

"He's employed by the council."

"You've seen him at the council building?"

"No, I've never seen him and his telephone number is unobtainable. But he's listed... was listed... as an employee, as caretaker for various council buildings: a couple of warehouses, the chapel on Tumblety Street. I did have documentary evidence of this, but the file was stolen when Striker was attacked."

"So, you're saying the council is involved in this?"

"I think someone at the council must be involved, yes."

Five hours of going round in circles.

"And you think this is why you were attacked back in February, and why your flat was burgled a few days ago?"


* * * * *


Five hours of teas and coffees and police officers' Excuse me's and detectives leaving and arriving and whispered discussions behind half-closed doors and questions and answers, while exhaustion tap-danced on their eyelids.

Morien sat in the custody area. Her eyes closed now, but not asleep. She waited and listened, enjoying the fact that it was over. Enjoying the quiet. She didn't have to see her to know that Striker had been brought in.

Five hours without her.

She smiled and rose to meet her friend. "I've given them dad's address."

"You okay? You look tired."

Morien smiled. "You look tireder," she said, and gave Striker a hug. "We've done it," she whispered. Striker felt heavy in her arms, the exhaustion of two days without sleep weighed them both down.

"We've done it," Striker whispered. "They've joined the dance."

"Excuse me," said the freshly-shirted constable. "I've been told to give you a lift to Paddington station...."



Chapter 15: Into this wild abyss⁴


Now, Striker was irritated.

Their police escort had not allowed her to smoke in the car. There was no smoking in the train station, where it had taken an age to buy expensive tickets - for which Morien had insisted on paying.

The first train had been crowded, and the two of them had perched on the suitcase in the train's corridor; Striker shaking silently from exhaustion and need, while those around them threw pitying or disgusted glances at her - the words 'drug addict' and 'tramp' in their eyes as they took in her still dusty appearance.

And now she was informed by the unapologetic Welsh woman that there was no smoking on the second train either.

"I want a cigarette," Striker said, sounding and feeling like a petulant two-year-old.

"I want to go home, and as this train leaves in about sixty seconds, I am not waiting another two hours for the next one just because you want to give yourself and everyone around you lung cancer." Morien's voice softened. "Take this as an opportunity to cut down a bit."

"I haven't slept in over fifty fucking hours. This is not a good time to cut down my nicotine intake."

"I'm not getting off this train. If you want to, you're on your own." There was a silent battle of wills, until the train jolted to a start, proving Morien's point.

A brief but loud expletive exploded from Striker, which had shocked heads popping up from behind seats in the busy carriage. But she ignored the stares, and climbed over Morien to make it to the aisle and through the carriage door. For one brief moment, Morien wondered if she was going to jump off a moving train for the sake of a cigarette, but as there was no screeching of breaks or shocked screams, she assumed not. Or maybe she had jumped off without anyone noticing and would be found sometime later, half-asleep in a happy fog of cigarette smoke, lost in the middle of Berkshire.

Morien refused to worry.

She relaxed into her seat. Allowing the gentle rocking of the train to lull her into a kind of meditation. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but suddenly she was jogged out of her reverie by a crash on the table in front of her.

Striker had returned with a number of paper bags.

"What's that?" she asked.

"The buffet," Striker replied, climbing back over her, to the annoyance of the businessman who was sharing a table with them. She gave him a look that would have had a weaker man shrinking into the upholstery. "If I can't smoke I'm gonna eat."

She extracted sandwiches, crisps, pastries, chocolate bars, two bottles of water, and four steaming cups of liquid. She handed one to Morien, and the smell of filter coffee reached the Welsh woman's greedy nose.

Morien looked curiously at the other three cups. "What's in there?"

"Coffee."

"Who're they for?"

"Me." Morien looked at her. "What?"

"Three?"

"They didn't have bigger cups, okay?" Striker's tone didn't contain a single hint of humour.

"Fine." Morien sipped at her coffee - a completely different drink to the brown liquid they'd been given at the police station.

They ate in silence for a while, the English countryside rushing beneath their feet; the train rattling in time; Striker's fingers tapping against the emptying coffee cups, drumming against the table. Morien could feel the seat shaking beneath her as Striker's body buzzed with the dangerous mixture of exhaustion, caffeine and nicotine withdrawal.

She watched as Striker's hand disappeared inside her jacket and brought out her packet of cigarettes. She pulled one of the little sticks out of the pack and rolled it between her fingers. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards….

The businessman looked at the cigarette in horror. Striker ignored him.

Morien tidied some of the debris left by their impromptu meal - much to their table-mate's relief - and with the table cleared, she reached for her sketchpad.

And returned to her new favourite subject. She glanced at Striker. The cigarette was still rolled lovingly in her fingers. She was staring out of the window into a blur of anonymous green and grey that rushed past. Lost in England, lost in her own thoughts.

Morien's fingers were used to the patterns now: the planes of her cheeks were familiar… the straight nose just turning up at the end… the dark shadows under her eyes… the flow of the hair. She glanced at the sketch and wondered who she was drawing: mother or daughter?

She wondered about the woman who had apparently deserted her daughter so long ago, a daughter she quite obviously loved. It didn't make sense. And what had Striker been left with? Had her father loved her?

"Doesn't your dad know anything?" The question slipped out before she'd even thought about the words or the situation… or Striker's mood.

Striker turned slowly, as if tearing her gaze from the blur outside. She looked at Morien, taking in the slightly nervous expression that had settled on the smaller woman's face, and then the sketch in front of her. Morien thought she saw a glimpse… just the tiniest glimpse… of a smile.

Striker rolled the cigarette between her fingers and settled back in her seat. Her voice was soft. "Dad would go ape-shit if he knew I was looking for my mother. Besides, dad and I… we're not exactly talking these days."

She slipped the cigarette into her mouth, her lips almost embracing it.

"I'm sorry," Morien said and she genuinely meant it. "May… may I ask why?"

There was a humourless chuckle round the unlit cigarette. "Sure you can ask. We had a… disagreement. He told me I was pissing my life away. Those were his exact words." Striker's voice went deep and humorously threatening. "'You're thirty years old and what the hell are you doing with your life? You've got no future.' He was right. I am pissing my life away."

"How can you say that?" Morien asked. "You've got a good job, a worthwhile job. Most parents would be proud to have a doctor for a…."

Striker's head shot up so quickly that they could almost hear the whipcrack. Her eyes were a startling blue. Her voice was quiet, amazed, shocked…. "I'm not a doctor."

Morien stared. "But you work in A&E at St Vincent's. Weren't you with the crash team?"

"I can't believe you thought that…. Shit, this is embarrassing." She turned back to the window, unable to meet Morien's gaze.

Morien stuttered, unsure of what to say. "Are… are you a nurse?"

"Morien…," Striker said. She felt ashamed, disgusted with herself, terrified at Morien's reaction, and painfully aware of the prying businessman. "Morien, I work with the A&E staff, it's true… but… I'm a…" she said the last word so quietly, Morien strained to hear it, "…porter."

Morien's forehead creased in puzzlement. "A… porter? But… what were you doing when I was…?"

"They asked me to... push your trolley. It meant they were free to…."

And Striker's voice trailed off.

Morien looked at her, or tried to. Striker's face was now hidden by the familiar curtain of long, dark hair. She focused instead on Striker's hands, clenched on her knees, the cigarette bent between two fingers. Her hands were big and rough-looking. There was a tiny scar over one knuckle on her right hand. Morien touched it with the tip of a finger.

"Well," she said, "you're one hell of a porter."

Striker closed her eyes, the need to cry almost overwhelming. She felt lost. She felt mortified. She felt physically ill with pain and tiredness. So she resorted to the single thing that was familiar, and was currently unfurling itself like a scorpion's sting inside.

Anger.

"Move," she said. Her voice was cold.

"What?"

Striker tore her hand away from Morien's touch. "Get out the way."

Morien got up and moved into the aisle. "Striker, have I said…?"

Striker pushed past her and disappeared through the carriage door.

Morien stood for a moment, wondering what to do. She glanced at the businessman. He hurriedly buried himself behind his newspaper, determined not to get involved. Half in and half out of her seat, she paused, her heart beating in her throat.

And she realised, with devastating clarity, that she was scared of Striker. The woman who had just stormed out of the carriage was not the gentle, caring woman with whom Morien had fallen head-over-heels in love. That woman was hidden behind a mask of rage and insecurity.

And a closed carriage door.

Do I really want to be with someone like that? Who can turn on me in an instant?

She thought of Sophie. They never fought. Disagreements, sure; annoyances, of course. But never the cold, blind rage she had caught in Striker's eyes as she pushed past.

How much of who or what she believed Striker to be was her own fantasy?

What did she know of her? She'd lost her mother. She didn't get on with her father. And her first name began with an R.

And she'd read fairy stories to her when Morien had been nothing more to her than a dying stranger.

There was something beyond that anger that Morien wanted to understand. And maybe that gentle, caring woman simply needed rescuing, which is why she stood, and opened the carriage door.

Striker was standing in the corridor. She'd pulled the window down and was now leaning out, smoking.

Morien stood and watched her for a moment, her presence disguised by the rush of the wind on Striker's face. The dark hair, now completely loose, flowed down the broad back, caught by flurries of breeze. The black leather jacket, a second skin, stretched over wide shoulders. The long, jean-clad legs, ending in the big, black boots, one of which tapped in agitation against the train door.

Finally, Morien spoke, her voice rising above the rush of the train and the wind. "Striker."

She could see the leather-clad shoulders tense. The head moved slightly to one side, so Morien could see the glimpse of a profile. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you."

"'Bout what?"

"I want to make sure you're okay."

Striker sucked in her cheeks as she inhaled and blew out smoke which was torn away by the wind. "What do you care?"

"You're my friend."

Striker exhaled and Morien could see smoke coming from her nose. "Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?"

And now Striker turned round. "I mean, why the fuck are you hanging out with someone like me? I'm a complete fuck-up. My dad's right, I've pissed my life away."

"Striker…."

"Look at me, Morien," she grabbed Morien's face. "Look at me. Do I look like a doctor? I'm a stalker, a college drop-out. Now I've got police records on two continents. I can't keep a job. Jesus…." She turned away. "You thought I was a doctor, and I can't even keep a job as a fucking hospital porter."

"Striker…."

"For Christ's sake, Morien, why the hell are you always so nice to me?"

"Because you are nice."

"Nice?! No I'm not, I'm a bitch. I've done some shitty things in my life."

"Like what?"

And now she turned back and smiled. It was the kind of smile that made Morien shiver; a kind of cold, wolfish snarl. Her voice was quiet, icy. "Do you know how close I was to becoming your worst nightmare?"

Morien stared up at Striker. "What do you mean?"

"I've tried to justify what I did. I followed you because I cared about you, that's true. But those phone calls you got, they could have been me."

"But it wasn't you, it was…."

"I've done it."

"Done what? Striker, I don't under…."

"You know what it's like? To be so scared of losing someone you want, someone you care about, that you can't sleep, can't eat, you can't do anything but think about them… what they're doing, who they're with, whether they're thinking of you. So you pick up the phone and dial the number. And the first few times you do it, you'll say something, 'Hi, how you doing? Only me.' But eventually it'll come… that phrase…. You're waiting for it: 'You don't have to phone me all the time, you know.' And then you can't say anything. You'll still call, just to see if they're home, just to hear their voice. But if they're home you can't say anything so you hang up. And if they're out you start going nuts and wondering where they are and who they're with. So, you call again, or you try their cellphone, and you keep trying 'til they answer and then you don't know what to say, so you hang up. Or they don't answer so you start obsessing and you go to where they live and wait outside 'til you see them, or you go find them, see who they're out with, instead of you. You follow them, you spy on them, you spook them. You start scaring them, stealing from them, threatening them, I mean scaring the shit out of them - letting them know that you're in control now - and, fuck, it makes you feel so good, because it means that you mean something to them. Suddenly you're important - the most important thing in their world, because you're the person who's destroying them."

Striker's head snapped round to meet Morien's horrified expression. "Am I scaring you, little girl?" she asked. Her face came close to Morien's. They were sharing air, their lips barely centimetres apart. "That's what I was going to do to you. That's what I could have done. You want a nightmare? I can be yours."

"Are you all right? Can I help at all?" A middle-aged man in an striped pullover stood behind Morien, a would-be warrior hero, wielding not a sword but a paper bag from the buffet car. He looked at Striker. "You know, you're not supposed to smoke on this train."

For a moment, there was an ire in Striker's eyes that destroyed time. The look of hatred fermented the tension. Morien could sense the violence in her, clawing at its bindings. Striker's propensity to hurt shone out of her like the sun behind a thundercloud.

Morien reached out and caught Striker's wrist. She could feel the blood pounding beneath her fingers.

"No, thank you," she said to the gentleman, "we're fine." He moved on, although glancing backwards to assure her words.

There was a silence that couldn't be penetrated, even by the rattle of the train and the sound of land moving beneath their feet.

Striker's attention was drawn back through the window, the remains of her cigarette, caught between two fingers, fascinating on the sill.

Morien still held her wrist. She opened her mouth, and this time it was her voice that was angry, loud and cold. "And you," she said, "can stop being so bloody stupid."

Striker turned with a look of disbelief on her face.

"What you've done in the past is wrong," Morien continued. "It's bloody awful. You scared people. You hurt people who might have cared for you. But you know that what you did was wrong." Her grip on Striker's wrist loosened, but she didn't let go. "And what you've given me is support and kindness and unthinking generosity at the expense of your friends, your job and your own safety." Striker's eyes were round and shone fresh blue like the sky after a storm. "And know this, Striker West," Morien said, losing herself, just for a moment, in those eyes, "whether you like it or not, I love you for it."

And she reached up and placed a sweet, tender kiss on the side of Striker's mouth. Not a lover's kiss, or a friend's kiss, but something agonisingly in-between. And then she disappeared through the carriage door, leaving Striker alone with her mouth open.

And her cigarette burning up to her fingers.

Ouch. Shit.

She flipped the stick out of the window and stuck her fingers in her mouth, feeling stupid. Bloody stupid.

The kiss still tingled at the side of her mouth. The caress of Morien's lips: tender, sweet and infinitely magical. She felt like a frog who'd just discovered its humanity.

And her humanity had auburn hair, green eyes and the softest lips imaginable.

In any other lifetime, in any other story, she would have felt too ashamed of herself to return to her seat. But in this story, with this princess, she couldn't keep away. She opened the carriage door and stepped inside.

Morien was now sitting by the window. Much as she liked the thought of Striker on top of her, she knew she was running the risk of getting something crushed if she let the tall American climb over her again in those heavy boots. She had returned to her pad, and having added a few finishing touches to the quick sketch, she was now doodling initials underneath: R. S. B. W. complete with Gothic-style flourishes. Striker's admission had concerned her, niggled at her as she drew, but the concern was being overwhelmed by the memory of the low, sweet voice whispering of princes and princesses and fairy curses, until she wondered if Striker had ever fallen out with a godmother.

R….

Ruth…

Rebecca…

Rachel…

None of them seemed to suit Striker.

There was a whisper in her ear. "Tell me to stop being so bloody stupid again."

Morien grinned. "Stop being so bloody stupid."

"I love that accent." Striker settled herself in the seat next to her.

"So, are you going to stop being so bloody stupid?"

"Probably not. I have a lot of stupidity left in me yet." She looked over Morien's shoulder at the sketch. "You're really good. D'you ever make any money out of it?"

"No. That's what I aspired to when I was at university, but things got in the way, you know? Work, girlfriend, getting hit over the head…."

Striker thought for a moment. "Morien, would you… would you paint something for me?"

Morien looked up at her friend. "Like a commission?"

"Yes. A commission." Striker looked momentarily uncomfortable. "I… I couldn't afford to pay you right now... the way things have gone… but I will. I'll pay you."

"Striker, I wouldn't dream of taking money from you. I mean, I'd be happy to do anything for you… paint anything…."

Striker smiled. "You know that photo I showed you… of my mother?" Morien nodded. "Could you paint that?"

Morien thought about the photograph. The colours were so faded, she would need help if Striker wanted it exact. But there was only one answer she could give. "Yes, of course. Striker, I'd be honoured."

And Striker blessed her with an expression which was so full of gratitude, so full of warmth and love and joy that Morien wondered how she could ever look away. If they hadn't been in a crowded train carriage, if it hadn't been for the frustrated businessman, if it hadn't been for her own fear of the consequences - Morien knew she would have kissed her, and lost herself… on that beautiful, full mouth….

Striker winced and glared at the businessman, and Morien realised there was a war for legroom going on underneath the table. She had just got the sweet Striker back, she wasn't going to lose her for the sake of bootspace. She was about to offer to change seats again, when they pulled in at a station. And a table became free across from them. With a huff and a glare at Striker, the businessman gathered his belongings and moved.

Striker sighed contentedly, put her feet up on the seat opposite and closed her eyes. She was quiet for a while. Morien thought she'd fallen asleep, and turned her attention back to the sketch of Striker. She wondered how she was going to approach the portrait of Striker's mother. She had the perfect model in her daughter, but the colouring….

A voice pierced her thoughts. She looked round as Striker started speaking. She still had her eyes closed.

"You asked why I'm not talking to my dad nowadays. Truth is, forty eight hours after he'd lectured me on responsibility, he drank a bottle and a half of bourbon and drove into a kid."

"Oh my God.…"

"Which makes it kind of difficult to talk to him now. He's in a correctional facility in Pennsylvania."

"Striker, I'm so sorry."

"Don't feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for the kid. Feel sorry for her family."

Morien waited for more, but there was no more to be had. For now. Instead, she returned to the sketch. And it prompted a question. "Striker, is your name Rebecca?"

The corners of Striker's mouth turned up. "No."

Morien frowned. There goes the Daphne du Maurier theory.

She opened her mouth and wondered how Striker knew she was going to speak with her eyes still closed. "Morien," Striker said. "Don't."


* * * * *


They crossed the border.

Nothing seemed to change. The scenery was still green. The sky was still blue and white and grey. The train still rattled and creaked. The carriage, now less crowded, still maintained the hum of conversation.

But something had changed. Morien had said the words very quietly, as if only to herself, "We're in Wales," but the words instilled an excitement and relief that revitalised them both.

But neither of them moved. Striker stayed with her feet up on the opposite seat, long legs stretched under the table, eyes closed. To all intents and purposes asleep. She thought of escape. She thought of rest.

And Morien sat, her temple against the headrest, watching her country go by in a blur. Home. The word echoed through her mind, thrilled through her veins, and found itself on her pad, surrounded by flowers. Home.


* * * * *


Another station. They sat and waited for the train to Pwllheli on a hard, wooden bench. A Welsh station this time. Signs in two languages. Loudspeaker announcements in a haze of half-understood sound. The sky here was a perfect blue, the sun sinking into the west, but it was humid, as if the weather as well as lack of sleep was heavy on them. Striker felt as if she was fading under the weight.

Another crowded train. They found a corner seat and Striker curled up, sinking into the worn upholstery. She was aware that this would be the last train before their destination, but the fact wasn't helping the headache that had seemed to descend with the humidity, or the aching of every single muscle in her battered body. All she wanted to do… right now more than find her mother… right now more than kiss every inch of Morien's skin…

…was sleep.

Except she couldn't. The carriage was unpleasantly warm, despite the open windows. And each time she closed her eyes and felt herself begin to drift, the train would clatter, a raucous laugh would explode from somewhere down the aisle, a mobile phone would blare some intrusive jingle, or the guard would pass requesting tickets.

Or she'd suddenly jerk herself to consciousness with the thought of Danny or Paully or the cold-steel hell they'd left behind.

Morien stroked Striker's overgrown fringe away from her damp forehead. "Hey, cariad," she whispered, below the rattle of the train and the voices around them, "hang on in there. Only a little way to go now."

Striker opened her eyes: a burst of light blue in the middle of a grey sky face, half-lost between dark alleys and crowded trains. "It's going to get better, isn't it? It's going to be different now, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's going to be different. We can rest, okay?"

"No more bad guys?"

"No more bad guys."

A silence.

"Morien…." Her eyes were closed again. Morien wondered if she was even aware she had spoken.

"Mmm…?"

"I feel like I'm hungover without the fun part."

Morien chuckled, stifling a yawn herself. "You'll feel better soon."

Striker drifted off, the movement of the train rocking her from side to side like a leaf in an autumn breeze. She found herself back in the chapel, opening the pew seats one by one in an increasing panic, but this time finding each one empty. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for. She could hear noises of approach outside, she was waiting for the sound of gunshots. She had to get out but she had to keep looking. And then that last pew, Paully's pew, and she opened the seat and found…

She woke up with a start, damp with sweat and confusion.

And Morien was gone.

The seat next to her was empty.

She looked round, at the faces of strangers. They seemed twisted, cold. They looked through her as if she didn't exist. The land outside was alien: green and mountainous and completely unrecognisable.

Morien, where are you?

She sat up, looking round her again. Her eyes wide with worry. She wondered whether she should ask someone. The couple opposite were talking to each other in a strange, guttural language that sounded like a musical joke.

Morien, sweetheart, please don't leave me.

She was half out of her seat - her breathing heavy, the carriage begin to spin in dizzying circles - and drawing anxious glances from the people around her, when Morien reappeared, a cool breeze in the sticky evening. "What's wrong?" she asked as she saw the look on Striker's face.

"I woke up and you were gone," Striker said, taking huge gulps of air. She sat back down, drinking in the sight of her friend.

"I'm sorry… I was only gone for a little bit. The toilet was finally free," she said with an apologetic grin. "And I thought I'd phone Asha, and I didn't want to wake you." She fished her mobile phone out of her pocket.

"Is Danny okay?" Striker asked, her eyes dazzling with worry.

Morien smiled. "Danny's fine. He's woken up."

"He has?"

"Asha said he's spoken a few words."

"Yeah?"

"He asked for his portable CD player."

A bubble of laughter erupted from Striker and she felt tears of relief briefly burn her eyes. Suddenly, she shivered. Morien leant over and rubbed her arms. "I'm not cold," Striker said, grateful for the contact.

"I know, you're exhausted. No wonder. You've been through hell the last few days."

Striker looked up into the greenest gaze. Morien was pale too. Morien had dark circles under her eyes. Morien was showing every sign of exhaustion.

"And what about you, honey?" Striker's words were quiet. Morien was stunned by the tone. "You amaze me," Striker said. "You've been through so much, not just over the last few days, but for weeks and months…." She reached up and ran a gentle hand over the corduroy cap. "But you're still here, looking after some overgrown fuck-up kid who can't even stay awake to help you." She shivered again, but felt warm inside, swallowed whole by balmy sea-green in front of her. She gave in to temptation, and caught an errant lock of auburn hair between her fingers, feeling the softness on her skin.

Her eyes fell to Morien's lips, candy-pink and sweetly enticing. She remembered that tiny touch just a few hours before: how they had felt on her skin. And with a rush of comforting heat she realised just how much more she wanted.

She closed her eyes.

And felt the sure touch of Morien's mouth on her own. Her body was suffused in delicious heat that turned her nerves to liquid. The ache in her limbs was replaced by a pulsing want that sank her deeper and deeper. She felt arms go round her, hold her close, rock her, impel life into her. She could feel her blood sparkling. Little flashes of electricity coursing through her veins, singing a single word: love, love, lovelovelove….

She wanted to give that word another name. "Morien" she felt on her lips, moving against them. Morien, my love, my sweet one, my princess….

"Striker," whispered back with that agonising-beautiful rasp of skin on skin.

Striker groaned into Morien's mouth, an exquisite vibration that thrilled round her body.

"Striker…." Someone was shaking her arm.

"Wha…?"

"Striker, we're almost at Pwllheli. It's time to wake up."

"But…."

The sweet voice said, "Not much longer then we can get you into bed, okay?"

"Bed?" Striker opened her eyes and realised she was drooling onto the headrest. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and blinked.

In amongst the flurry of activity around them, was Morien, smiling. "Do you need a tissue?"

Striker could feel herself flushing pink.

They finally alighted from the last train, as sedately as their stiff legs and the heavy suitcase would let them. The day was trying to darken into evening, but June wouldn't let it. The up-late sun still hovered on the horizon, as they tried to adjust to the gloom of the station. Passengers came and went, but for a moment it was enough just to stand.

"What next?" Striker asked, but Morien didn't seem to be listening. They were at one end of the platform and she was staring through the clearing jumble of people as if she'd seen someone she recognised.

Striker followed her gaze.

There was a man standing by the exit. Striker couldn't make out his face, but the evening sunlight fell on his clothes: a casual pair of linen trousers, a loose, striped, short-sleeved shirt and comfortable sandals. He had his hands in his pockets, from the movement of the material he looked like he was jingling loose change. The stance was casual, maybe a little nervous. But as Striker saw him she felt her heart in her throat. She knew that she was going to have to impress this man, and right now she wasn't feeling very impressive.

Too tired to do anything, Striker simply stood, grateful for the solidity of her case against her leg, as if it was propping her up.

But Morien moved, fast, dodging her way through the remains of the passengers. Suddenly, the hand was removed from the trouser pocket and waved, and then the man started forward himself. They met halfway in a devoted collision of arms and bodies, and the man was rocking Morien backwards and forwards in a giant embrace.

Striker rocked backwards on her heels, feeling intrusive. She looked away, at the station around her, trying to get a sense of this place. It looked like any other station… except for the additional signs. Allanfa. Exit. Merched. Ladies. There was the scent of salt in the air, and just touching the humidity, a breath of sea.

Then Morien broke away, smiling upwards. Her mouth moved, a few words, then she turned and beckoned Striker. So she stirred, harvesting the last vestiges of adrenaline, heaving the suitcase up one more time, and walked into smiling eyes.

"Dad," Morien said, "this is my friend, Striker West. Striker, this is my dad, Sullivan Llewelyn."

He was shorter than Striker, but only just. A trim, wiry body warring with middle-aged spread. His eyes were hazel, hidden behind round, metal-framed glasses. His hair was brown, darker than Morien's, but with a sheen of red in the evening sun, and peppered with grey at the temple. It needed a trim. Striker smiled, and Sullivan's face lit up like his daughter's and he held out a hand.

Striker took it. "Good to meet you, Mr Llewelyn," she said, and relaxed.



Chapter 16: The Last Homely House in the West⁵


Sullivan Llewelyn owned a Volvo. It looked as if it had been making the journey between Pwllheli and Lleuadraeth for many years, and knew the way without Sullivan having to do a thing.

Striker and Morien sat in the back, Striker staring absently out of the window at the green and hilly countryside, Morien tossing idle questions and answers to the front seat. Mostly it seemed to be local gossip, nothing too taxing, nothing familiar, and all entirely safe. From time to time a word or a name would catch Striker's attention, but she remained silent. Morien was fielding questions for the both of them, she knew it, and was grateful. Occasionally, a comment was aimed directly at her: pointing out a landmark, a suggestion for a visit, a mention of an activity….

"Oh, Striker, I forgot to ask, do you have a problem with cats?" Morien asked suddenly. The first question that had actually called for Striker to speak.

"Only if they haven't got a problem with me," she said. She glanced up, catching Sullivan's gaze in the mirror. He was watching her. Sizing her up? Striker didn't blame him. What did he know of her? At the very least, a wreck of a woman who'd simply appeared in his daughter's life, bringing trouble in her wake.

"That's a relief. We've got three of them. I wouldn't want you spending your time sneezing," Morien continued blithely. "And they'll love you, just as long as you realise your place in the pecking order, that they'll sleep where they damn well want to, that your food is their food, and that your toes are fair game."

"No problem," Striker replied, "it'll be just like living with Danny." Sullivan's eyes flicked up from the road again, puzzlement wrestling with amusement in his look.

Morien laughed. "Somehow I can't believe you're that low down the pecking order at home."

"True. Danny's toes are fair game too." She finally looked away from the rear view mirror and round at Morien.

Her friend's face was alive. Morien still looked pale and tired, but there was a glow of excitement about her that reminded Striker of a child at Christmas. To be this animated about going home: Striker felt a strand of envy tugging inside, but conversely gloried at the joy. It inspired her, energised her, made her believe that she could at least stay awake until the nearest bed.

The green land rushed by. In the hazy distance Striker could see mountains, holding up the blue and sleepy sky. Sheep dotted the hillsides, as if the clouds had fallen.

And she remembered, this is where she had always pictured Morien. Never in a city, never in the dark and dangerous alleys that had led her to Striker, but here, in a blue and green panorama.

Now it was Striker that didn't fit.

In time, fields transformed to buildings, and then a whole street of stone and brick, followed by another and another, huddled at the foot of the hillside. Looking ahead, they could see the faint trace of water, but the car turned and the water was lost.

And in its place was a row of houses that looked as if they'd been designed by the Brothers Grimm, or their Cymric cousins. White painted, with grey slate roofs, individually they wouldn't have looked out of place in some enchanted forest, the white paint proving to be sugar icing, the slate-tiles… maybe liquorice. Together they looked like a giant's Monopoly board. Four dwarf cottages equalled one king's castle.

Striker smiled. If Sleeping Beauty had been daughter of a woodsman instead of a king, this would have been her home. And now her very own Sleeping Beauty was getting out of the car and approaching the cottage that was surrounded by impenetrable thorns. Except these thorns proved to be a carefully trimmed hedge, and the vines clinging to the cottage walls were nothing more than neatly-cultivated clematis, about ready to burst its buds. All the cottages had beautiful gardens, ablaze with summer colour.

She briefly wondered why she recognised the scene... and then it came to her. The photograph. Morien and Sophie, in happier times, posing and laughing.... She felt a little twist of jealousy that was quickly consumed by her overwhelming tiredness.

Striker pushed herself out of the car, as Sullivan hauled her suitcase out of the boot. "Mr Llewelyn, let me get that."

"No, it's fine," Sullivan replied, though he seemed extremely grateful to set the case down. "Though I would be interested in finding out why you're carrying a set of weights round with you." His eyes teased. "And please call me Sullivan, Striker."

"They're not weights, daddy," Morien called from the gate. "Striker's got a library with her."

The look of respect that graced the man's face told Striker that Morien had just won her some well-earned points of parental approval, and he seemed to lift the suitcase with an added reverence.

"Let's get you inside then," he said. "You look as if you're about to drop."


* * * * *


Morien had to admire her. Striker had managed to give the perfect impression of politeness as she was ushered into the sitting room and offered food and drink and the most comfortable armchair by her father.

Morien watched Striker struggle to keep her eyes open as she declined a cup of coffee, even a glass of wine, in favour of a glass of water. And she watched in amusement as a tabby cat appeared from nowhere, landing heavily on Striker's lap and kneaded her knees with sharpened claws before settling herself down.

It had woken Striker up a little, but she now looked positively panicked. "What do I do now?"

"Chuck her off or stroke her."

Gingerly, Striker stroked the soft fur and received a rumble of appreciation in response. So she did it again.

"Her name's Easey."

"Easey?"

"One stroke and she's anybody's." Morien's eyes twinkled.

"And I thought I was a pussy magnet," Striker retorted, stifling another yawn.

Morien smirked. "That's a cheap joke."

"Yeah, well I'm not feeling too expensive right now." One more stifled yawn.

She looked at the cat, so peaceful on her lap. Anybody's, huh? You and I, cat, we understand each other. She ran her hand along the dappled fur again, and again felt the answering vibration.

The warmth of the cat and her purring, finally sent Striker over the sweet edge. She closed her eyes.

Morien watched from the sofa. Her friend's face was pale, and if she looked closely she imagined she could still see a ghost of a handprint on her cheek.

She moved, crouching down by Striker so she could stroke Easey. And she touched Striker's hand. "How would you like that glass of water in bed?"

Striker jerked her eyes open and Morien momentarily wallowed in the gratitude that she saw there.

The suitcase was already in her bedroom. Drake's bedroom, they called it, but there was little of the boy there now. It was simply a pleasant guest bedroom, although Striker could only seem to notice the bed, duvet-covered with welcoming soft pillows. It wasn't as large as her own of course, but still sizeable, and infinitely tempting, although right now she could have slept on a bed of nails.

Morien encouraged her into the bathroom, where Striker, her hair gathered on top of her head, did her best to wash away the grime of the last… how long now? The last day and a half clung to her skin in layers, and she soaped off the travel, the police station, (was that a tomato seed under her nail?), the hospital, Tumblety Street….

She regarded her body as she rinsed soap from her now clean skin. She couldn't wash off the scratches and bruises she'd gained - her skin a sensitive work of art in places - and she knew she could never fully wash off the stain the chapel, so she shut off the shower, wrapped the large, borrowed towel round herself, gathered her clothes, and tiptoed back to the bedroom.

She opened the door and found herself wrapping the towel around her more tightly, as she realised Morien was in there.

"I thought you might want the window open in here," she said, her back to Striker. "It took me ages to find the key, and there's a particular knack to opening…" she turned and saw Striker was all but naked. Her cheeks glowed in the dim light of the bedside lamp. "Um… sorry… I'll give you some privacy." She headed for the door.

"Morien, wait."

Morien turned, expectantly.

Striker wondered what to say. "I… I… would like the window open. Could you…?"

"Of course," Morien smiled and returned to the window. "I think it's going to be a warm night." She put the key in the window lock.

Striker smiled at her words - one night, baby, but not when I'm running on empty - but didn't respond, merely dropping her dirty clothes in the corner and turning to her suitcase, a single hand clutching at the top of her towel.

She dug a t-shirt out from the mess of her hurriedly-packed clothes and books, and glanced at Morien. So, she could wait for Morien to leave or she could…

…shit, they were friends, weren't they?

With her back to her friend, who seemed to be fully occupied in wrestling with the window, she dropped the towel and unpinned her hair.

And Morien stopped breathing.

The magic of twilight. The window had turned half-mirror. She could see her own face, flushed pink, in the glass, the darkening garden shouldering the blue dusk outside, and seemingly beyond, a phantasm. Pale against dark, Striker's skin seemed to glow, translucent against the lazy, silhouetted trees. Hazy curves - the arc of a muscle, the swell of a breast - converging with the evening as if smoothed by a lover's touch. Then her hair cascaded like water across her shoulders and down her back, both hiding and accentuating the landscape of her body.

And then a long t-shirt came down like a shutter and Morien was left with her own swift breathing and the impending night. She heaved the window open and gulped the air as if it was liquid in a desert.

No one, her dazed mind thought, no one deserves to look that good on a diet of coffee, burgers and bacon sandwiches.

She felt her heart slow with the sound of Lleuadraeth at night: the distant sound of cars, the final whisper of birdsong and beyond it all, the faint hush of the sea. And, drawing the curtains, she felt brave enough to turn.

Striker was slipping into bed, covers now drawn up over the body that had tantalised her from the shadows. She put her head down on the pillows and made a sound halfway between moan and sigh that went straight to Morien's centre. But Striker's eyes were closed and her breathing even.

Morien was caught halfway between relief and disappointment, but took this as her cue to leave. Treading softly, she moved the bedside. "Goodnight, Striker, love," she said, as quietly as she could, and switching off the bedside lamp, turned towards the door.

"Morien," she heard as soft as starshine through the nightfall of the room, her hand caught in a soft grip.

"Yes?" She looked back and saw Striker's eyes neon blue in the dark.

"Morien." Striker spoke her name so sweetly she thought her heart would melt. "Before you go, I wanted to say…." There was a pause. Morien felt the tension in Striker's hand. She seemed to be struggling for the words, as if looking for them through a maze of sleep. "…I wanted to say thank you." Another pause, but Morien's hand was still prisoner, waiting for more.

"Striker, I haven't…."

"Morien, what you've done for me… I couldn't begin to tell you how much…." Still the hand grasped hers. There was a sigh, a long breath in the dark. "Morien, your… friendship has meant more to me than… than anything."

And Striker's hand slipped from her own.

Morien closed the door behind her, just for a moment resting against the soft wood as if unwilling to leave. She wanted to go back in. She wanted to go to Striker on her knees and worship her for what she had just said. She wanted to curl up in Striker's embrace, and sleep. It had only been a few nights ago when….

But Striker needed sleep, desperately, and so did she and she would be terrified in disturbing her… in so many ways.

She had the quickest and most welcome of showers, changed into a pair of pyjamas, and made her way back downstairs to say goodnight to her father.

He was in the kitchen, standing at the counter, a big, black tomcat winding gently round his legs. "Heriell, you know hot chocolate is not good for your teeth," he was saying to the determined feline, and Morien wondered, not for the first time, if he didn't get lonely here on his own.

She crept up behind him and reached up to give him a peck on the cheek.

Sullivan glanced round at her and smiled. "You look as if you're ready for bed, too."

"Yeah, sorry, dad. It's been a long day. A long few days. But if there's enough of that for a second mug, I wouldn't say no."

"Big surprise there," Sullivan said, raising an eyebrow, and revealed the ready-prepared second mug, complete with bobbing pink and white marshmallows.

"You know you're the best dad in the world, don't you?" Morien said, stealing the mug away and scampering to the kitchen table.

"I always suspected as much," Sullivan replied, following her.

There was a contented silence as the chocolate cooled.

"Are you going to fill me in on the details, then?" Sullivan finally broached.

"Details?"

"Of what's been going on. This bit of trouble you're in. Just how serious is it. I mean, if you wanted Idomeneo involved?"

"Dad…," Morien sighed, "do you mind if we talk about it tomorrow? If I start thinking about it now, I'll never shut down." She stuck a finger in her hot chocolate and held it out to the plump, black Heriell, who had followed them to the table and now sat patiently waiting for a night-cap.

Her father sighed and licked melted marshmallow off his top lip as he watched his daughter. The cat's pink tongue lapped at Morien's finger. She smiled at the feeling.

"Well," he said, "it can't be that bad. For someone in trouble you seem remarkably contented, which is lovely to see."

"I've got my two favourite people in the whole world under the same roof. Why wouldn't I be happy?"

The silence made her look up at her father and then she realised what she had said. Sullivan didn't look shocked or judgmental. His raised eyebrows simply asked a question. He swirled the remains of his chocolate in the mug and regarded the liquid with seeming fascination, while his mouth tried to form words. He finally started with: "May I ask you something, cariad?"

"Yes…" she replied, tentatively.

"How… how long have you known Striker?"

Morien thought for a moment. Since February… technically. Well, that's how long Striker had known Morien. But she had known Striker…. It felt like a lifetime. It felt like centuries. It felt like she'd known Striker, soul-deep, for a thousand reincarnations.

She stared bleakly at her chocolate. It was showing signs of developing a skin. "A week," she said. And almost half of that week was spent believing that Striker was harassing her.

The concern softened on Sullivan's face. "I'm not going to ask anything stupid like 'How do you know you can trust her?' I trust you, Mo, and I trust your judgement. And anyone who carries that many books around with her can't be bad."

Morien smiled, despite herself. Then apprehension stole into her eyes. "But…?"

"But… the first time I hear about her is the same time I hear you're in trouble, and I can't help but wonder. I love you, I'm your father, it's my job to worry and you've been through so much this year. I don't want to see you hurt again."

"I am an adult, dad."

"I know that, sweetheart. I suppose I'm just concerned that it's been a difficult time for you, and with Sophie away…."

"I've latched onto the first person I can find?" Morien's tone was clipped. "You don't know her, dad."

"Do you?" It was couched in the softest, sweetest, most loving manner, but Morien felt as if the question had drawn blood.

She looked her father in his hazel eyes. "No, I don't. Until a few hours ago, I didn't even know what she did for a living. I don't even know her real name. How foolish is that?"

"Sweetheart…."

"But I trust her, dad. I trust her. And it's frightening because there's a big part of me that can't explain why and I can't control these feelings I have for her. I feel so guilty, because Sophie's my girlfriend, but it's like I forget her the moment Striker walks into the room." She took a breath, trying to calm her heartbeat. "And I don't know what to do, dad, because I'm so scared of what I'm feeling. I'm scared of losing Sophie, but I'm even more terrified of losing Striker. I feel like I'm on a cliff edge," she finished, lamely.

Again the silence. Morien ran her fingers through her hair, her hand settling unconsciously on the scar at the back of her scalp.

"So, what do you know about her, sweetheart?"

Morien's voice was quiet, but the words came fast and easily. "I know that at the lowest point in my life, when you weren't there, when Drake wasn't there, when I was lying in a hospital bed in a coma, and wasn't even there for myself, she was there. Daddy, she read to me. It wasn't her job, she didn't have to do it. I was a complete stranger, but out of the goodness of her heart, she reached out to me. And when someone has that much goodness in their heart, does anything else matter?"

It was an honest question, and looking at his daughter's earnest emerald gaze, he answered only as a parent could. "Your happiness matters…," Morien was about to speak, but he raised his hand to silence her, "…and if Striker truly makes you happy then I will love her for it."

Gratitude welled up like tears in Morien's eyes. "Thank you."

Sullivan smiled back, simply glad to have his daughter there. "Now," he said eventually, "finish your chocolate, and get yourself up to bed. And don't forget to brush your teeth."

"How old am I, dad?"

"Twenty seven going on five," Sullivan retorted, chuckling, and went to do the washing up.


* * * * *


Upstairs, Striker slept the sleep of the dead.

And didn't dream.



Chapter 17: A heart well worth winning⁶


It was a soft, warm light that woke her. And she basked in it.

She was an angel bathed in celestial glow.

She was a lioness on the African plain, stretched out in warm shade.

At the very least, she was a lizard sunning itself on a rock.

That made a change, she usually felt like a lizard lurking under a rock.

But then she returned to the celestial light, because gently, quietly, she could hear music. So unlike the pulsating beat of Danny's music, which could wake her up like an aural cattle prod. This came to her, undulating - washing over her in rolling, string-tipped sound. A sound like angel wings.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

The room was still dim, but sunlight was bursting through every tiny uncovered gap at the window. A breeze, not much more than a stirring of air, played with the curtains, causing the sunbeams to dance in harmony.

Striker felt rested.

She felt relaxed.

She felt as if she had slept for the first time in several years.

She jumped as she felt something move on the bed. Looking down, she saw Easey stretching luxuriously against her thigh. Striker decided to emulate her and stretched too, from her finger joints down to the tips of her toes.

The door was ajar, by just an inch. Below the music, she could hear the faint sounds of life downstairs. She wondered what time it was. She wondered where she'd dropped her watch in the rush to get into bed last night. She wondered if Morien was awake. She wondered what they ate for breakfast in Wales.

Feeling more energised than she had done in months, she jumped out of bed and threw back the curtains, plunging the room into glorious light. Outside, the birds were singing their heads off. Striker debated whether to join them then and there, but opted for the muted studio of the shower instead.

By the time she headed downstairs, braided, washed, dressed and ready for life, the music had stopped; replace by the drone of the television. She stopped in the doorway of the sitting room. Sullivan and Morien were silent, engrossed by the news.

"The Metropolitan police have seized cocaine with an estimated street value of £300 million in one of the biggest drugs seizures on record. The drugs were discovered at an abandoned chapel in east London. Also found was the body of a man, who is yet to be formally identified…."

The bubble of joy burst. Striker opened her mouth. "His name was Paul Maloney, twenty nine years old, of no fixed abode and the Boom Shack, south London," Striker said, quietly.

"Striker?!" Morien looked round, shocked.

"I saw him." Striker smiled weakly. Morien got up to meet her, the report still ringing in her ears.

"Twelve men who were caught attempting to remove the haul have been arrested for drugs and firearms offences. Further arrests are expected to follow."

A police spokesman appeared on screen, talking about drug gangs and murder.

"You saw the body at Tumblety Street?"

Striker nodded. "Doesn't matter now. Police have found him, and looks like they've got the bastards. Lil' Paully can rest in peace."

"Police are also investigating the possible involvement of members of staff from the East Metropolitan Borough Council. Council members are yet to comment on the operation, but a statement is expected…."

Still halfway through the report, Sullivan switched the television off. "Well, I think the two of you have been remarkably brave. I'm proud of you. Both of you." He smiled at Striker. He was feeling better… and worse… after the talk he had had with his daughter that morning. Now he knew the nature of the trouble. Now he knew just how much danger they had been in. "Striker, I thought that you and Morien might like a pub lunch today. My treat. What do you say?"

"That would be lovely, Mr Llewelyn, thank you."

"And please call me Sullivan. If you keep calling me Mr Llewelyn, I'll have to start giving you homework. Now, we ought to go in a minute if we're going to get a table. Are you two ready?"

"Do you want to go on ahead, dad? We'll be right behind you."

Sullivan looked from Morien to Striker and smiled. "I'll get the drinks in." They heard the front door close behind him.

"Don't you have breakfast in Wales?" Striker asked.

Morien's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Striker, it's past midday. You were asleep for over fourteen hours."

Striker's mouth opened and closed. "Oh."

"I stuck my head round your door a couple of hours ago and you were dead to the world." Morien didn't mention that she'd stood there for a good few minutes, watching Striker sleep; loving the sweet serenity that smoothed her face. She hadn't even noticed when Easey slid past her legs only realising the little tabby was there when she'd leapt onto the bed. Striker hadn't even stirred at that little disturbance, and deciding it would be more disrupting to try and move Easey, Morien had left her there, leaving the door ajar and wishing it was her settling herself down against Striker's long body.

"So that's how I got a bedmate," Striker said.

Morien smiled, and blushed slightly, as if her thoughts had been caught naked, unashamed and with a box of tissues. "I phoned Asha again, earlier," she said.

"How's Danny?"

Morien felt again that little tickle of jealousy at the way Striker's face lit up, at her eagerness to hear about her friend.

"Sleeping most of the time, but holding his own."

Striker giggled: an amazing sound from this normally dry American, welled up from relief. "Makes a change, Danny usually gets someone else to hold…." She looked at Morien and buttoned her lip, and then the sparkle diminished. "I feel bad for not being there with him."

"And where would you be if you were still down there?" Morien's voice sounded sharp, despite herself. "You wouldn't be safe. They might still be after you, after us. Would Danny want that?"

Striker answered with a question. "Do you think they've caught them?"

Morien shrugged. "It said they've arrested twelve people. Hopefully, Bruce and Nigel are among them. But, just in case they aren't, I'm glad you're up here… with me."

Striker smiled, softly. "So am I." She reached a hand out, thinking to cup Morien's cheek, but lost the burst of courage and simply brushed an auburn strand away from her skin. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You wouldn't have been charged with drug dealing. You'd have your best friend safe at home instead of in intensive care. You'd still have a job…."

"And I would be miserable."

Striker's eyes fell to Morien's lips as the Welsh woman smiled shyly. They were neat and faintly heart shaped, and full and soft and Striker suddenly got the most stubborn urge to touch them… kiss them… lick them. Anything rather than just stand here like a jerk looking at them. She remembered the dream she had had on the train the day before, and felt an answering tickle of memory between her thighs.

There was a silence, heavy laden with the humidity of anticipation, and it was Morien who broke it, a voice like cool valley rain. "We ought to go," she said. Her tongue came out, just to dampen that plump bottom lip, and Striker wondered if her knees would give way. Instead, she forced her mind back to the trivial.

"Do I look respectable enough?" she asked. "I mean, you look…." Morien was wearing a plain cotton dress, rich green and sleeveless, which, while managing to hide all those curves that Striker was craving, somehow accentuated them by their concealment.

Morien's eyes moved slowly down Striker's body, taking in the loose t-shirt that allowed a glimpse of the strong contours of her upper arms, the peaked swell of full breasts, the knee-length shorts, the silky accentuation of her calf muscles, the truly ancient sneakers, those calf muscles… and her eyes wandered up again. "You look fine," she said.


* * * * *


The sky was a deep, cloudless blue, the sun almost blinding off the sea and the whitewashed buildings, with the slightest touch of breeze from the water ahead. They made their slow way down the incline of Lleuadraeth's main street towards the little harbour. Morien pointed out shops, some open, some closed in deference to Sunday. Striker trailed smoke.

Morien had given her a look of disgust as she'd pulled the cigarettes out of her pocket.

"I haven't had one for almost a day!"

"Your lungs must be throwing a party."

"So I'll bring refreshment," Striker growled and snapped her cigarette lighter, although she was careful, as always, not to get the glowing stick anywhere near Morien.

Halfway down the hill, Morien asked a question. "Striker, why didn't you tell me about Paully at the chapel?"

"Because he wasn't pretty." She took a drag from the cigarette to still the slight queasiness that suddenly materialised.

"But you could have told me."

"I wanted to forget…." Striker stopped for a moment, mid-pavement. "Paully's my friend. I don't want to remember him like that. I want to remember him for what he was." She half-smiled. "Fun-loving... easy-going... a stoned, oversexed, little buttmunch... but he was my friend. I don't want to remember him as... what was in that chapel. You get it?"

Morien nodded.

"And there was no way then, and there is no way now, I'm going to share what I saw with you, 'kay?" Her voice was determined, strong and kindly. It made Morien smile with understanding and warmth, and filled her with sadness at her friend's grief. And she still wanted to know.

"Tell me about Paully," she asked. "I mean, what he was like."

Striker looked her in the eyes - they seemed to be shimmering with tears that she herself couldn't shed - and gave her a sad smile. Then with the cigarette dangling from her lips, she started talking about Lil' Paully: the first time she met him, his friendship with Thomas, the time he tackled a guy double his size because he'd swiped his spliff....

They continued their walk down the hill at the bottom of which was a pedestrianised square, open to the harbour. On one side, large and cheerful, was a pub. There were bright, flower-laden boxes at the windows, and tables with happy drinkers spilled out onto the square. 'The Ship Inn', a sign declared in proud letters.

Striker started towards it, still talking, but felt a hand on her arm. "You don't want to go in there." Striker turned to look at her. "At least, I don't want to go in there."

Morien tugged on her arm, and the two of them crossed to the opposite side of the square, where a much smaller pub seemed to be hiding in a corner. A sign hung motionless over the door. 'The Half Moon', it murmured.

An elderly couple were leaving as they approached its front porch. Striker held the outer door open for them, a gesture rewarded by a smiling, "Diolch." Behind her, she could the couple greeting her friend politely. "P'nawn da, Morien, sut dach chi?"

"Da iawn, diolch, Mrs Lloyd. S'dach chi?"

The door slipped from her fingers, cutting off the conversation. Now, from inside the pub, she could hear a rumble of voices: jokes, laughs, 'hellos', 'goodbyes', questions on health, wealth and wellbeing. A man, obviously sitting close to the other side of the door, called out, "So, where's your Dylan today?"

"Oh," a distant voice said, "he's…."

Striker opened the inner door.

And every single person in the room turned to look at her.

She wondered, momentarily, if she'd grown an extra head.

The same, distant voice piped up again, continuing the sentence: "…mae o adra. Mae o'n sâl."

And the rumble started again, as each conversation was taken up… but in a foreign language. Fucking rude bastards!

"Don't take it personally," a soft voice said in her ear. "They do it to everybody they don't recognise. It's a defence mechanism against the invading English."

And as if to prove a point someone close by said, "Hello, Morien, love, how's it going?" Morien couldn't help chuckling as she replied.

Striker heard someone call her name and she turned to see a welcoming pint glass, and beneath it, a smiling Sullivan.

He was sitting with someone. The man seemed a mass of unyielding granite. He was broad in every direction, and gave the impression of weighty, immovable, grey solidity. He seemed timeless. Striker couldn't guess his age - somewhere between thirty five and sixty five. Maybe. She felt his eyes on her as she approached the table.

At one hand was an almost-empty glass of beer. Under the other was a dog-eared copy of Our Mutual Friend.

Sullivan pushed a chair out for Striker, as Morien greeted the mountain man affectionately. "I thought you might like to try the local brew," he said, pushing the pint glass towards her. She smiled her thanks and, tipping the glass in a communal toast, took a sip, praying to any passing deity that her enjoyment looked convincing. What was the appropriate etiquette for telling the father of the love of your life that you thought bitter tasted like creosote?

Then she took another sip, just to make sure it was as revolting as she thought.

For creosote, it sure went down smooth.

Sullivan was speaking again. "Striker, this is a good friend of mine, Idomeneo Jones. Idomeneo, this is Striker West."

Striker smiled and nodded: "Good to meet you."

Slowly, like watching a glacial shift, the man's faced moved. "So," he said in a rumbling bass voice, "you're the drug dealer."

Striker's jaw dropped. She looked in horror from Sullivan to Idomeneo and back again. Idomeneo stared back. Sullivan looked suitably uncomfortable. "Sorry, Striker, I should explain…."

"Idomeneo is Detective Inspector Jones of the North Wales Police," Morien finished, a wry smile playing on her face.

A flash of understanding crossed Striker's face, but she still confronted the policeman. "I'm no drug dealer."

There was a pause. Idomeneo took a leisurely mouthful of beer, while he regarded her. "No, you aren't," he said, finally.

Nothing more seemed forthcoming.

"I know I'm not, but how can you be so sure?" Striker asked.

Again. The pause. Striker was beginning to realise that holding a conversation with Idomeneo Jones was a Sisyphean task.

"Were you wearing gloves that night?" he asked, suddenly.

Okay, a question from leftfield. She could hit back. "Hell no, it was a warm night."

He nodded over his beer.

"Did you have gloves in your pockets?"

"No."

It was as if they could hear the chugging of a great, ancient machine inside him.

"Did you have a handkerchief or tissues?"

"No." Striker felt as if she was back in the interview room at Clarke Street police station. She took another sip of bitter and found its disgusting taste surprisingly refreshing.

Idomeneo sat back in his chair. It creaked beneath him. "Very clever of you."

"What?"

"Dealing drugs without touching them."

His audience inched forward with hopeful expectation, as if he was a magician waving a wand over a top hat.

"What do you mean, Idomeneo?" Morien asked.

He looked Striker in the eye. "Your fingerprints were found on the cigarette packet, but not on the bag the drugs were in. Either you disposed of some gloves before you were arrested, or you never touched the drugs in the first place."

And the metaphorical white rabbit appeared from the hat, and sat on the table, nibbling a carrot.

"But that proves her story. That clears her!" Morien said. "That's fantastic!"

"No it doesn't," Idomeneo replied. "Any decent prosecution lawyer could wiggle out of that one. But it might raise enough questions." He drained his glass.

"How do you know all this?" Striker asked.

"Your paperwork landed on my desk yesterday afternoon. And I'd left Our Mutual Friend at home. Made interesting reading." In the depths of Idomeneo's coal-dark eyes, Striker saw a twinkle like diamonds, and she was suddenly incredibly grateful he was on the case.

Hell, she thought, if you're gonna damage a couple of human humvees you might as well use a walking rock face.

"Have they caught them?" Striker asked.

Idomeneo's dark grey eyebrows came together like mountain peaks. "Who?"

Striker glanced at Morien. "Bruce and Nigel."

The policeman frowned in thought, faultlines appearing on his brow. "Bruce and Nigel? No surname?"

"We're not sure." Striker took a guess. "Maybe Lamprey?"

"I don't know of any Lampreys who have been arrested."

Idomeneo got up.

"Give my love to Mary and the kids," Sullivan said.

Idomeneo nodded.

"Thank you for your help," Morien said.

Idomeneo nodded again, gathered up the empty glass and Our Mutual Friend and turned to Striker, "See you tomorrow."

And then he was gone.

"What was that about?" Sullivan asked.

"I'm on bail. I have to register with the local police." She looked at Morien. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

Her face was mixture of childlike yearning and nonchalant disorientation, and it was a look that Morien couldn't resist. "Of course I will," she said, momentarily laying a finger on the back of Striker's hand. But her father's presence, and the tingle of skin on skin, made her remove it. "Maybe we can make a day of it. We could have a look round Caernarfon, see the castle…."

Striker smiled. "I'd love to."

She really, really would love to. A day with Morien that was free from drug dealers, burglaries, shootings, dead bodies…. Just the two of them. She looked at Morien. The headscarf she was wearing, tie-dyed green with streaks of blue and purple, made her eyes as deep as a forest. She wanted to lose herself in their secret paths.

They would be alone, wouldn't they?

She turned to Sullivan, her mind phrasing and re-phrasing…. "Will you be able to join us, Mr Llewelyn?"

Sullivan smiled, his gentle, Welsh tenor mock sad. "Unfortunately, my plight tomorrow is to light the spark of Shakespearean wonder in the minds of bored teenagers. Think of me while you're having fun, won't you? And please call me Sullivan. Now, what do you two want to eat?"



Chapter 18: From far, from eve and morning⁷


They came blinking out into the daylight, the sun almost blinding and the air heavy with Sunday afternoon lethargy. Across the square was The Ship Inn, pretty and dominant. Drinkers still relaxed at the tables in front of the building.

But Striker had soon realised why the Llewelyns frequented The Half Moon. Its initially dark interior had blossomed into something far less threatening. The gentle buzz of conversation, lyrical Welsh counterpointed by middle-C English, provided a harmony to their own conversation.

It was cool inside. Large ceiling fans circulated air, sweeping away the muggy smells of cigarette smoke and stale beer through the open windows, where outside the harbour square sizzled.

Striker had mellowed into a follow-up half pint of the revolting bitter. It was a taste she was quickly acquiring. Even Morien had welcomed a small glass of shandy.

The food was excellent. A Sunday pub lunch: Welsh roast lamb with a cornucopia of trimmings followed by home-made peach ice cream. A good meal, great company, and a cup of coffee attended by a gentle cigarette. Very different from a beer at the Boom. Striker had felt she could get used to this.

As closing time approached, bilingual goodbyes had echoed from the doorway. On several occasions, Morien and Sullivan would add to the chorus, and Striker had found herself joining in. Until their own turn to step back out into the afternoon.

They watched Sullivan make his way across the square and back up the hill, a pile of exercise books and a red pen awaiting him.

Morien and Striker dawdled in the square, drawn towards the harbour wall and the little boats bobbing on the nursery waves. Seagulls wheeled above them. Striker glanced back at the emptying Ship Inn. "So, why don't I want to go in there?"

"Looks pleasant enough, doesn't it?" Morien seemed to pause with thought before she continued, her eyes fixed firmly away from the building and out into the harbour. Her voice seemed low and dark in the bright light. "I suppose you could say that my type isn't welcome in there."

Striker looked from the building back to Morien. "But they can't do that!"

"No, they can't. But there are subtle ways and means of making me or my family… or my friends… feel very unwelcome should we step through the door. That building is the pretty face of small-town bigotry."

"Fucking bastards. I wouldn't let them get away with it. I would…."

"I know you would, Striker. But I'm smaller than you and not as strong as you…." Morien sighed. "Sometimes, it's safer to go for the easy life. Keep your head down, go to a different pub…."

"…let the drug dealers get away with it? Morien, I know that's not you."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think, stalker."

There was an awkward pause. The heat seemed heavier.

"What do they do?"

"Nothing much. Name-calling. Spitting. I've been threatened before, but it's never got beyond words. My dad's a friend of Idomeneo Jones, remember, so they can't get too obvious. Besides The Half Moon serves better food and the people in there are better company. So, what's the problem?"

"Is it a problem that there's a bunch of guys coming over from The Ship who look like rejects from the Hood?"

"What?" Morien finally turned round. There were five of them, barely out of their teens - some of them hardly seemed out of short trousers. But even in the hottest of weather they wore caps, hoodies, big baggy clothes.

She mumbled something under her breath that sounded Welsh and vulgar to Striker.

Striker, for her part, simply leant back against the harbour wall. Leisurely, she extracted a cigarette and, nonchalantly, she lit it. Just a few days ago she had stared down the barrel of a gun. She wasn't about to be alarmed by some punk kids who looked and walked like wannabe rapper trolls on E.

In fact, she couldn't help but be amused.

But Morien was on edge, and Striker briefly remembered the youths in the packed carriage of the Underground train, from whom Morien had shrunk all that time ago....

"Hey, dyke, what are you doing here?" the first called as they approached. He seemed to be the oldest of them, the leader. He must have been just escaping his teens, small and wiry, and the kind of complexion that displayed a pubertal battle with acne which he had well and truly lost.

Morien sighed. "That's none of your business, Dean."

"It's my fucking business when perverts like you invade my town."

The others chimed in. "Yeah, fuck off."

"Go back to England, dyke."

"Ffwcia oma."⁸

"This is my town too. If you can't accept that, then maybe you should leave."

"Yeah, right." There were laughs round the group. "We live here, you don't."

Morien moved. "Come on, Striker, let's go," she said quietly.

Striker didn't move. She took another drag from the cigarette and watched the group through half-lidded eyes. They had ignored her until then.

"Maybe your girlfriend wants a taste of something different," Dean grinned. Sweat was dripping down from under his cap. A rivulet ran down through the pockmarks. "You want to see that, teacher-girl? Want to see me give your girlfriend one?"

Morien rounded on him, her voice as angry as Striker had ever heard her. "Cau dy ffwcin ceg, ti cachu mes."

Striker had absolutely no idea what Morien had just said, but judging by her friend's tone, the surprise on the pock-marked face of the young man and the laughs it received from his friends, it was something very rude indeed. She grinned.

Great curveball, teacher-girl.

"So, little teacher-girl's learnt some grown-up words, has she?" Dean replied.

"At least little teacher-girl has grown up," Morien spat back.

There was a chorus of "Ooooh" from the amused boys.

"You want to see grown up?" Dean said, fingering his fly.

"I've seen it, thanks, I didn't fancy it."

"I can see what you fancy."

Dean's shaded eyes dallied up Striker's body. She smiled, taking a final drag from her cigarette and flicking the stub over the harbour wall.

"See anything you like, boy?"

Grown up had arrived.

Her voice was so sultry the summer heat went up a few degrees. She licked her lips. Morien could feel her cheeks burning as her eyes followed Dean's.

"I see a lot I like."

"Good." Striker smiled, encouragingly. "Come here."

Dean didn't have to be asked twice. He moseyed over, stopping barely inches away from her, invading her body space.

That's right, little boy, come to momma.

He was considerably shorter than Striker, his eyes rested easily on her breasts, which suddenly seemed to blossom under the t-shirt. Distended tips thrust through the material. Dean licked his lips…

...and found himself sprawled on his back, Striker's trainer balanced on his groin.

"Like picking on girls, do you, you little shit?" she said. "Figures. Little boy like you can't pick up girls so you have to pick on them, is that right?" Her foot pushed downwards, just enough to put pressure where it mattered. She bent down a little, smiling at him. "Or is it because you're jealous, boy, because this is the closest thing you're dick is getting to any kind of action."

And she stamped on his groin. Even Morien winced as Dean cried out.

But Striker was moving off him, moving away. "Do you honestly think someone like me is going to be interested in a skinny little pizza faced runt like you?" She paused. "Especially when I can have a sweet thing like her." She gifted Morien with a smile.

Morien felt her cheeks go even pinker. Any more and she felt her freckles would explode from her skin. Long, sensuous fingers ran across the bare flesh of her upper back, and an arm was draped around her shoulders.

Striker glanced back at the gaping and watery-eyed Dean, his friends agog behind him. "Now be a good boy and go play with your little friends." She smiled again. "I know you want to. Isn't playing with your friends what you really dream about at night?" She winked at him and, her arm still round Morien, they walked back up the square, towards the High Street.

Morien looked back. Dean was trying to get up, but he seemed to be caught up in his own voluminous trousers. His face was red with heat and anger. "You'll get yours, slebog⁹. I know you will," he shouted. Morien slid her arm round Striker's waist, needing reassurance. Needing to feel the wonderful freedom of her arm round Striker's waist.

"You'll be all right, honey," Striker whispered in her ear, aware that they were still being watched. "They're not going to touch you. I won't let them." She pulled back and looked at Morien's pink face. "Hey. Looks like you've caught the sun."

"Striker, you don't have to protect me, you know." The words came suddenly, as if from nowhere.

Striker stilled for a moment. Removing her arm from her shoulder and shifting away from Morien, she looked down at her. She frowned and her voice was tense with suppressed annoyance. "I'm sorry, I thought I could help."

Morien sighed. Damn it. Damn Dean Powell and his stupid friends. We were having such a lovely day. "You could have seriously hurt him, Striker."

"Asshole deserves it," Striker mumbled. "Anyway, it could have been worse. Could have been wearing my boots…."

"Striker…" Morien picked her words. "Not everything calls for physical payback."

"But I couldn't walk away from that."

"You didn't have to hurt him."

"Morien, dickwads like that don't understand anything except fighting."

"But doesn't that bring us down to their level? Doesn't it make us as bad as them?"

Striker flinched from the comment.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. You could never be… Your intentions were honourable, when they wouldn't know the meaning of the word."

A slight smile appeared.

"I appreciate what you were trying to do back there. I appreciate everything you've done to help me this last week. I suppose… I suppose I've got tired of people always fussing around me. People always worrying about me. I used to be able to look after myself and now… all I seem to be is a burden…."

"You're not a burden!" Striker exclaimed. "How could you ever think you're a burden?"

"I've had to ask a lot of people for help and understanding these past few months…."

"…and I charge in, in my big black boots, when you don't even ask for it?"

"You're wearing trainers."

"Okay, I charge in, in my crappy trainers…."

"No, my love, you charge in riding a white stallion. That's the difference between you and… everybody else. You really do protect me. You're my knight in shining armour."

The look on Striker's face was one that Morien wanted to inspire again. Time and time again. Every day for the rest of their lives. It was like sunrise over the hills: the faintest confusion of light, followed by the slow explosion of dazzling joy. Her eyes shone with blue radiance. Her smile was pure brilliance. Morien's heart bloomed with love.

Striker wasn't sure what had thrilled her more, Morien's description or the use of "my love". Had she been ten she might have found herself cartwheeling round the square. Instead, she played it cool.

"Knight, huh?" she said. "Better go buy some smarter sneakers then."

Morien grinned. "You don't have to do that. I love you the way you are, Striker West. Don't you change a thing."

And Striker stopped breathing.

The sun stopped burning, the sea splashed to a halt, the seagulls' cries were drowned in beautiful silence: nothing was left but Morien's shining green eyes, her smooth, pink mouth, the distance between them….

So Striker did something she'd been wanting to do for… her entire life. She bent down and kissed Morien.

Her lips were soft beneath Striker's. And warm. She melted at the heat of it, and the gentle, determined strength of Morien's response. It was a kiss that made promises: fidelity, adoration, breath-taking fantasies of flesh and sinew and bodies moving together in the most divine of harmonies.

It lasted a second, maybe less. A quick, non-threatening peck. Sweet, chaste and pure before the world started turning again.

And from the harbour end of the square there were shouts of "Fucking perverts".

So she was a pervert. Fine.

If something this good was perverted then the world was screwed.

"Fuck 'em," Striker said.

"I'd rather not," Morien replied. She slipped her arm back round Striker's waist, and welcomed Striker's loose embrace across her shoulders. And they wandered back up the High Street.


* * * * *


They walked their lunch off.

Morien gave Striker a guided tour of Lleuadraeth: a journey through her life. They passed the squat primary school she'd attended, with its cream-coloured walls, friendly in the summer sun. Peeping in at the windows, they glimpsed the proud work of the youngest members of the community - bright coloured and enthusiastic on the pinboards. Striker had the greatest urge to push Morien on one of the lonely-looking swings in the playground, but decided that lunch hadn't settled enough, and contented herself with imagining the ginger-headed, skinned-kneed, little girl running and screaming and laughing there instead.

They wandered down streets of small terraced houses - Morien entertaining her with stories of the friends who'd lived there. How they'd played cowboys and Indians in the streets, Morien spending an entire summer wearing feathers in her hair. How Drake had fallen out of the apple tree in the Williams's garden, only to be relieved that it was only a toe that was broken and he could still play the violin. How Mrs Bevan, her art teacher, had caused scandal by running off with the milkman - only for Mr Bevan to get it together with the replacement milkwoman. How Davey Miles had proposed to Morien on the corner of Bryn Mawr and Llywarch Street at the tender age of five, and how Morien had turned him down with a giggle and a toffee. And where Morien had kissed Annie Sayce. Just a touch, but….

"…I knew then, you know? I was seven. And I just had a feeling that something was different about me. I didn't know the words or anything or understand what that difference was. I just knew that all those stories that I read about princes and princesses, I was always so uninterested in the princes. I went running home to talk to mam about it and…." She stopped walking for a moment, and sighed a deep sigh. "It went out of my head, because I got home and found that mam was just back from the doctor's."

Striker didn't say anything. She just put her arm back round Morien's shoulders, welcoming the returning arm around her waist. And they carried on in silence. For a while.

They walked as far as the High School, where Morien and Drake had studied and where their father still taught. It was a large complex, based around an older building that still had ivy clinging to its brickwork, despite the tugging of many generations of destructive young hands. There was a modern science block; an extension that boasted a well-stocked library; an ugly, but comprehensive gymnasium; and a playing field that was currently hosting a game of cricket. They sat on the edge of the grass and watched for a while, neither of them following what was going on, and neither of them caring, simply enjoying the sunshine, the peace, and the irregular but hypnotic slap of leather on willow. They half-dozed with the afternoon.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Striker's voice was low and hazy.

"Mmm?" Morien wasn't sure if she could say more than that. She felt too contented, too lethargic, to think.

"How did your family take it when you… came out?"

An inexplicable grin suddenly shone on Morien's face.

"What?" Striker asked, echoing the expression.

"Just remembering telling them," Morien replied.

"So what happened?"

"It took me years to figure out that I wasn't miraculously going to change and stop being interested in the princesses, you know? So, that was it - seventeen years old, and after a little bit of making sure…." Striker lifted an eyebrow. "…I consciously accepted I was a lesbian. But it's one thing accepting it yourself, and another to admit it to anyone else. So… I picked out a day: a Saturday morning breakfast, when I knew we'd all be together. I didn't sleep a wink the night before, worrying about their reaction, what they might say and practising what I was going to say… how I was going to phrase it. My stomach was in knots when I sat down at that table."

She paused. "And?" Striker said.

"Well… I told them…. And Drake glanced up from some football magazine he was reading and said, 'Yeah, we knew that, Mo, can you pass the marmalade?'"

They both laughed. But Morien continued, "Actually, it's funny now, but I felt really upset at the time. I wanted them to acknowledge what I'd said, you know?"

Striker nodded.

"But Dad did. He gave me a big hug and told me he knew how hard that must have been for me to say, and how brave I was for saying it. And that whatever, he loved me and was proud of me and he wanted me to be happy." She smiled. "I love my dad."

"He seems like a really nice guy."

There was a silence, and Morien felt a sudden weight of guilt. She looked at the woman beside her, long legs stretched out on the grass. She could still feel Striker's lips on her own, and hoped that the feeling would never leave her. Striker's head was up, staring at the sky, her hair escaping, as it always did, from the confines of its braid; but even from this angle Morien could distinguish the furrow on her brow.

"What about your dad?"

Striker looked down, but her gaze seemed to have captured some sky. "What about him?"

"How did he react to… your… sexuality."

"Never told him. It's none of his fucking business who I choose to…. It's nobody's business but mine." She bit her lip. "You're very lucky, Morien. You have a fantastic relationship with your father. Cherish it."

She got up, and swiping grass off her shorts, walked off. Her hands in her pockets. Morien got to her feet and followed, watching Striker from behind as she went through the now familiar motions of lighting a cigarette.

"I'm sorry," Morien said, finally, as they got the school gates.

Striker turned round. Her voice was bitter. "What are you apologising for? It's not your fault that your father is a decent human being and mine is an asshole. Makes you what you are, and me what I am, doesn't it?"

"And what are you, Striker?" Morien's voice betraying aggravation.

"I'm a bitch, honey, get used to it."

"Then why the hell do I like you so much then?"

Striker inhaled smoke leisurely, letting it escape through her nose. "I dunno. Maybe that bump on the head made you crazy."

The words froze Morien mid-thought. She blinked, unsure of what she'd just heard. Striker couldn't have said that, could she? Not Striker?

Then anger as bitter as Morien had ever felt flooded her. She couldn't speak, afraid of what might come out. She was afraid of crying. She was afraid of the wave of nausea that washed over her. And right now she was more afraid of herself than anything else.

She turned her back on Striker and bolted down the road.

You jerk.

Striker started moving.

You stupid, fucking jerk.

How could I do that?

How could I…?

Striker threw her cigarette into the gutter and ran after Morien. Despite her long legs, it wasn't easy to catch up with her, but she did, grabbing her arm to stop her.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

Morien didn't move.

"I get angry," Striker continued, struggling to make her understand. Struggling to make herself understand. "And when I get angry I don't think. I would never want to hurt you. Morien, I lo…."

She felt the stinging pain in her cheek before she realised that Morien had turned round.

They stared at each other: shocked blue locked on shocked green. There was anger, bitterness, hatred warring between them.

And then Morien spoke, her voice shuddering. "Striker… I'm so sorry. Cariad… I should never…."

She had never planned to hit her. Her anger had dictated that she either strike out or explode. Her hand had made the decision before her brain was even aware of it. She had actually hit her. And it was only now that her brain registered that picking a fight with Striker West was not sensible. It wasn't even sane.

Striker blinked. "You're sorry…." She put a hand to her cheek. "Don't be sorry, you saved me the job. Jesus…." She spat blood into the gutter. "You could teach Bruce a thing or two."

"Oh, don't…." Morien put her hand over her mouth. There was so much shame in her eyes that Striker almost laughed. But it was a laugh partly of relief. The idea of facing Morien's anger had almost had her back on the train to London.

"Hey…." Striker removed Morien's hand from her mouth. "Don't you dare be sorry. I deserved every bit of that. In fact, if you got any more in you I probably deserve that too. You're not crazy. I'm crazy. For all sorts of reasons I'm crazy. But that doesn't give me an excuse for hurting you."

"And it doesn't give me an excuse for hurting you…."

"Then I guess that makes us quits, huh?"

Morien looked up into Striker's waiting, hopeful gaze. "If you're sure…?"

"Come here," Striker said and took the confused Welsh woman in her arms.

Morien snuggled into the embrace, wrapping her own arms round Striker's back, relishing the smell of Striker's sun-warmed skin beneath her cheek. She wondered if she could risk kissing her neck, but felt Striker move.

"Let's go home," she said.

Morien felt able to smile at last, and she took her hand and led her home.


* * * * *


They opened the front door to music. The same breathtaking music to which Striker had woken that morning.

Sullivan was in the dining room, exercise books piled around him at the table, glasses perched on his nose, red pen soaring in mid-air as he conducted his invisible orchestra. He glanced up as they stuck their heads round the door. "Ssssh," he said, "it's getting to the really good bit." So, they retreated to the sitting room and let the music come to its climax.

It was cool indoors, a blissful remit from the heavy sun and their exercised emotions. They sat on the sofa, calm and quiet, letting relaxation and harmony wash over them… until Easey landed on Striker's lap with a silent thump and a loud, "Shit!" from the American. "Damn cat." But she willingly stroked the tabby's back, while Morien petted Easey's cheeks and rubbed her little pink nose with her own.

And Striker added another Morien fantasy to her anthology. Nose-rubbing… now that would be a first.

"I want to give Kish a call, see how Dan really is," Striker finally said, as Easey settled between them. Her body relaxed further into the comfortable sofa. "But that involves moving."

Morien stirred… slightly. "Is my bag still on the floor down there?"

Striker reached down the side of the sofa and felt for the now familiar handles of Morien's tapestry bag.

Morien went through the contents, manoeuvring Easey's nose out of the way, pulling out sketchpad, poetry book… ah, mobile phone. A piece of paper fell out of the book as she placed it on the table. Striker picked it up, idly unfolding it while barely looking at it. At its head sat the crest of the East Metropolitan Borough Council. It seemed to be a list of names, jobs and contact numbers. She was about to refold it and take the mobile from Morien, when something jumped out at her.

"Jesus Christ…."

"What?" Morien asked.

"How long have you had this in here?"

Morien had the vague memory of reading on the Tube. "A week or more. Why? What is it?"

"Is this an official council document?"

Morien looked over her shoulder. "Yes. Well, an old one. It was updated, so I included the update in the proposal, but used that printout as notepaper at the back of my…." She saw where Striker's finger was pointing.

It was a list of council employees associated with buildings and regeneration - their posts, their details - and near the bottom of the list danced a single name.

Gilbert Lamprey.



Chapter 19: Fear of a Name¹⁰


Striker was woken by a flurry of muted activity. Doors opening and closing. The creak of the stairs. Water splashing in old pipes. The sound of voices downstairs.

Monday morning.

It was hot. Hotter than yesterday. The humidity replaced her duvet that had bunched itself at her feet during the night. The curtains hung motionless at the open window. The outside air felt tired.

Slipping on a pair of boxers under her t-shirt, she padded downstairs.

They were in the kitchen, Sullivan at the table, shovelling cornflakes into his mouth and splashing milk on a loud and indiscriminate tie. Morien at the sink, dividing food into three bowls, a furry expectation of cats winding round her bare legs: black and tabby. Only two for breakfast. She was talking to them in Welsh, the words indistinct, but her tone soft and expressive and wonderfully warm. Her head was bare, the long auburn strands pushed behind her ears and dancing on her forehead, the crimson scar vivid under ginger fuzz. It didn't matter to Striker. The scar was part of Morien, therefore it was beautiful.

Morien was still wearing pyjamas, short, stripy-pink pyjamas that bared her arms and drew to a loving finish at her lower thigh. Striker's eyes flittered up, but found themselves alighting on the rounded perch of a slim buttock, the stripy material stretched across it….

"Good morning." The voice made her jump, and she looked up to meet Sullivan's eyes, twinkling, warning, twinkling….

Yeah, that's right, asshole, get caught ogling his daughter.

"Hi, Striker." Morien looked up from her work, her eyes sparkling.

"Morning," Striker replied, smiling at her, and then glancing sheepishly at Sullivan.

"We'll have to take the bus to Caernarfon," Morien said. "Dad's taking the car."

It was Sullivan's turn to look shamefaced. "Sorry," he said. "You're welcome to drive the old banger any time, Striker. I can add you to the insurance if you want. But I've got piles of books to take in this morning."

"That's fine," Striker replied, quietly relieved that she wouldn't have to drive the ancient Volvo.

"But make sure the two of you take an umbrella. It's likely to rain later." Morien rolled her eyes and smiled at Striker behind her father's back. She then bent to place the bowls of cat food on the floor by the back door, only to gift Striker with the subtle play of muscles up the back of her legs, and again the material straining against the neat mounds…. She just wanted to touch….

A spoon clattered in its bowl, and Striker jumped. But Sullivan got up from the table, his back to her, heading towards the sink. "Mo, love, you wouldn't mind… would you?"

"Yes, dad, I only came up here to do your washing up for you," Morien scolded, but her tone was good-natured.

"I'll do the washing up," Striker said.

Morien looked at her, dubiously. "You wash up?"


* * * * *


They had handed the council printout to Idomeneo at Caernarfon Police Station. He had taken it with a slowly raised eyebrow and, Striker thought, the faintest gleam of one-upmanship. Undeniable proof that linked Gilbert Lamprey directly to both the East Metropolitan Borough Council and the buildings on Tumblety Street.

And so she registered, and Striker West was officially under the watchful eye of Detective Inspector Jones.

They found a café and enjoyed a light lunch. A salad for Morien, a steak sandwich without the garnish for Striker, who then spent the rest of the meal stealing tomato slices from Morien's plate.

"Why don't you order your own salad?"

"It tastes better this way."

Striker wouldn't have dared do this a week ago. Morien smiled to herself, secretly thrilled that her friendship with Striker had become so strong, and slapped her hand playfully as she allowed the American to pilfer another piece of tomato.

Caernarfon staggered under the oppressive heat. They had wandered down streets, window-shopping, and finally explored the stone-cool of the castle, but now stood on the parapet of the West Gate, trying to catch the faintest breath of wind from the Menai Strait. But the air seemed trapped between the island of Anglesey and the mainland. Striker wondered, for the umpteenth time, why she had brought her jacket.

She had dressed to look smart for the police station… at least smart for her. Plain white t-shirt, tucked into black jeans (to Morien's secret delight) and her big, black boots. She was going to leave the jacket.

But, "It's going to rain", Sullivan had said, the weather forecasters had said, and Morien had said as they had walked out of the front door. "Do you want an umbrella?" she'd been asked. Striker had opted instead for her familiar leather to keep her dry, only to find herself sitting under brilliant sunshine, the sky stalwartly blue, with not a cloud in sight.

"Anglesey looks like a dreamland," Morien said, abstractedly. "It's like the air's too thick to see." She leaned against the parapet, her head down.

"You all right?" Striker asked, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Morien looked up at her. "Just a little too tired and a little too hot. I didn't sleep too well last night, and my pills sometimes make me…." She trailed off as if Striker would understand.

"Come on, let's get into the shade." Striker guided her backwards, and they sat down in the shadow of the castle walls, the ancient stone seeming cool despite the weather. "Where's the umbrella?"

Morien pulled the small fold-up out of her bag, and Striker opened it, positioning it in such a way that they were further sheltered from the sun.

An arm slid round Morien's shoulders, and the Welsh woman found her head resting gently on the broad shoulder. She shut her eyes and felt Striker's featherlight fingers brushing strands of hair from her forehead. It felt wonderful, cooling… she sighed.

Then the sonorous, balmy voice in her ear. "When I was growing up, my mom would read all these stories to me about princes and princesses who lived in these great castles. King Arthur in Camelot. Pwyll's court at Arbeth. Rapunzel in her tower. I would dream of living in a castle, being one of those princesses. Hell, being one of those princes." Morien chuckled, drowsily. "I wanted to make friends with dragons, and battle giants and see if there were fairies at the bottom of the yard."

A seagull called from somewhere above them, but even its cry muted in the heat. And then the sweet, low voice.

"But it was always in my head, never real. Philadelphia's a great city, with some amazing buildings - maybe I'll take you there one day - but the only castles I knew were skyscrapers. Castles weren't real. Princes and princesses and knights in shining armour didn't exist. And then my mom, who came from this land with all this history and all these stories, vanished, and I would sometimes wonder if she'd ever existed either."

Morien shifted an arm across Striker's stomach, returning her comfortable embrace.

"And then I came to Britain, and everywhere I looked there were old buildings. So the kings and queens weren't what I wanted them to be, and the knights didn't wear shining armour, but the castles were there. And maybe that meant there were dragons and giants, and that my mom was…."

Striker felt a cool flutter on her neck. Morien's eyes were closed, and her breathing smooth and even. Gentle perspiration gave her a look of sweet glazing. Striker watched as a bead of sweat trailed from under her embroidered cream headscarf, down her neck and slithered further, disappearing into the folds of her white, sleeveless blouse.

Striker wanted to follow it - she felt her tongue tingling with the thought of licking that sweet droplet from a smooth, succulent breast. But she swallowed a groan instead and allowed the flush of arousal to lull to an underscore.

This was heaven.

They had been through hell. They had had gangsters after them, and guns haunting them. They had seen violence and death. She was facing a drugs conviction. She was unemployed and guessed she had enough money to last her about a month, and that was before rent, bills and food. It was as hot as damnation….

But now I'm the knight in the castle, and I have my princess sleeping in my arms. This is heaven. If I never touch her the way I want to touch her. If it all falls apart tomorrow, I've had this.


* * * * *


They were awoken by a dark shadow. A man stood over them, silhouetted against the sun now lowering itself into the Menai Strait.

"Come on, ladies," he said, "castle's closing soon."

"Wha…?" Morien murmured, blinking up at him. "What time is it?"

"Five to six, love, come on."

"Five to six?!" Morien's eyes were wide now. "Striker, come on…. Don't forget the umbrella…."

They made it to the bus station in time to see their chosen transport heave down the road without them.

"Bloody hell," Morien said. "That was the last bus."

"You're kidding?!" Striker panted, willing the bus driver to see them and do a quick u-turn. He didn't. "What are we going to do?"

Morien stared down the road. "We're either stuck here overnight, or we're going to take the number sixty-two, get off at the closest stop to Lleuadraeth, and walk the rest of the way."

The thought of staying overnight in a motel room with Morien caroused in Striker's head. It made her feel drunk with possibility. The low hum of arousal suddenly started to crescendo.

And then the ugly face of pride appeared. She had very little money, and she couldn't let Morien pay for something else. The sun's heat was no longer so strong, although it was still sticky with humidity. The walk wouldn't be too bad.

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

Morien looked at Striker, the same thoughts waltzing in her mind. But she felt tired and stiff and much as the idea of a night of forbidden passion in a low-price bed and breakfast tempted her…. "Number sixty-two," she said.




* * * * *


This bus, like the first, rattled along the road as if wanting to shake its bolts loose. They had to hold on to the seat for dear life in order that they didn't end up on the floor, and they had to all but shout to be heard.

But the speed which the vehicle somehow managed to gain, caused a glorious breeze, which had them almost screaming with pleasure. It felt like a wonderful carnival ride. It felt as if they were children again. They thrilled with the pleasure of just being.

Their conversation twisted and turned with the bus, until Striker said, "So what's with Idomeneo?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Idomeneo?"

Morien grinned. "Hell of a name to dump on a child, isn't it? His parents were leading lights in the local amateur operatic society." She looked at Striker's blank face. "Mozart."

"Oh. And he's got kids? What are they called? Rigoletto? Madam Butterfly…."

"La Traviata Jones. Has a ring to it, doesn't it?" She grinned. "Actually, you might have noticed, Idomeneo's a big Dickens fan." She watched Striker's face change, her amusement growing with Striker's growing dismay, until she decided to put her out of her misery. "Martin, David, Nicholas and Philip…."

Striker let out a breath. "Shit… and I thought there was some poor kid out there called Uriah…."

"His daughter's called Bella, if that helps. And Philip really is known as Pip. And, at school, because every year had at least two David Joneses, let alone Davids, Idomeneo's David was always referred to as Dai Dickens."

"You're kidding me?!"

"No. In the end it became a game whenever a new David arrived. There was Dai Manchester, Dai Tardy - cos he was always late - Dai Crispy Duck…."

"Okay, now you really are kidding me…."

"No, really. His actual name's David Wong. His family run the Lotus Flower restaurant on Glyndwr Street."

"You guys are nuts. You're telling me there was a guy at your school named after Chinese food?"

"What's the difference between that and being named after sporting ability?"

Striker felt the brief dulling of anger, and her voice quietened to a hiss. "You're never going to let this go are you? I'm just Striker, okay? Drop it!"

"But why?"

"Because it hurts."

"It's only a name."

"Not to me it isn't."

The bus groaned to a halt.

Morien suddenly got up, grabbing her bag. "This is our stop." She made her way down the aisle, Striker at her heels, and they found themselves on the grass verge of and otherwise deserted crossroads. As the bus drove off, Striker wondered if that was the last sign of civilisation.

"I told you we had to walk the rest of the way," Morien said, watching the final belch of exhaust from their transport.

"You did," Striker sighed. And then saw the concern on Morien's face. "What?"

Morien pointed and Striker looked.

"Oh shit."

Behind them, north towards Caernarfon, was deceptive blue. In front of them, in the direction of Lleuadraeth, the sky looked bruised. Greys, purples and an unhealthy looking yellow decorated the clouds which cascaded down to touch the hills. The rain was coming and coming fast.

"Oh shit," Striker said again, her face paled. "Um… Morien…."

"What?"

"I… um… kinda left the umbrella at the castle." Morien looked round at her, slowly. Her eyes were sharp green and unreadable. "You've got your cellphone, haven't you? Couldn't you call a cab… or won't your dad be home by now… or something?"

Morien smiled, grimly. "You can't get a signal out here… the hills."

Striker looked down at her boots, as they toyed with a clump of grass. "Sorry."

"You're an idiot," Morien said.

"I know."

Morien grabbed her arm and pushed her forward. "Come on then, idiot, let's go get wet."


* * * * *


They walked in silence for a while along the rough, grass verge. A low hedge ran along the right side of the road. Beyond it was a grass field, devoid of its usual sheep. Sensible buggers, they've found themselves some shelter somewhere, Morien thought. She couldn't figure out where. There wasn't a tree or a building that she could see. To their left the grass verge dropped to a steep bank at the bottom of which was a stream, sluggish in the yellow light. In the distance, on either side, rose hills, grey and hazy and in front of them, imagined rather than seen were the remote roofs of Lleuadraeth.

The world seemed silent: a strange, alien expectation. The calm before the mother of all storms.

Morien glanced up at Striker as she lit another cigarette. The hiss of the flame seemed to echo in the still air. She wondered what the tall woman was thinking. She wondered if she still felt the touch of their lips, a touch that had possessed Morien through the sticky night.

Friends kiss each other, a voice had argued. It was just a peck. Friends kiss each other. It was just a peck. Just a peck… just a peck….

It meant nothing.

Mixed messages.

Striker isn't attracted to me, the voice had said. Why the hell would Striker be attracted to me?

But sometimes… Morien imagined… the way she looked at her…. The way her lips had felt…. The way her hands feel on me….

Striker isn't attracted to me. She said so.

And she would wake with a start, her body hot with sleep and want. And her hands shook with the need to touch herself and the fear of simply feeling.

She still felt tired, with the weight of the sky on her shoulders. She looked up at Striker again, lips wrapped round the cigarette. Her pale cheek showed the slightest discoloration in this odd light, and Morien realised with a judder of shock that that was not a reminder of Bruce; it had been made by her hand.

She wondered about Striker's anger, about her gentility, about the words that she had been speaking as Morien had drifted to sleep on the castle gate.

"Striker," she finally said, "I'd like to help you find your mother."

Striker around at her. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to help, please let me."

"I don't know what you could do…."

"Well, what have done to find her so far?"

Striker sighed. "When I first arrived I placed an ad in a couple of national papers. Here…." She pulled her wallet from her jeans and unfolded a fragile piece of newspaper.



Seeking Judith Helena Bailey West, wife of Edward Clayton West of Philadelphia, U.S.A., daughter of the late Gerald and Elizabeth Bailey of Wimbledon, London. Last located in south-east London. If you have information, please contact….



Morien handed the advertisement back to Striker who refolded it and placed it, carefully, back in her wallet.

"I got a few leads, but they came to nothing. I placed ads in the local paper in West London where her family lived. I've placed ads in the Surrey papers where her parents retired. Again, a few leads, a few time-wasters, but nothing. I place an ad every few weeks… somewhere…. You never know, right?" She shrugged, thumbs in pockets, cigarette clasped between two fingers. "And for a while I've just been phoning. I've called every West in the London telephone directories. I'm now most of the way through the Baileys. When I finish them I guess I'll move on to the Surrey directory."

"And nothing?"

"Sometimes I think it's making a difference. Sometimes I think I'm getting somewhere. Sometimes someone will say, 'Oh, yeah, I know a Judith Bailey'; except it'll turn out this Judith married a Bailey and her birth name was Morgenstern. Or her second name was Ethel. Or she was born in some tiny town in western Australia." She blew out an annoyed lungful of smoke. "Then there are those who just put the phone down. That's tough, you know? I'm left with a dead line and the thought… could the woman I've just spoken to… could she be my mother? Could I have spoken to my mother and not even have known it?" She sighed. "Or maybe I've just been fucking with myself all this time and she's been dead for twenty two years." She glanced at Morien. "She sure as hell didn't die in London though."

And then, with a sizzle, her cigarette went out…

Morien laughed. "Good shot!"

"Fuck, is everyone trying to make me quit?!" Striker said, staring up at the dark, wet sky.

And the heavens opened.

It was as if someone had overturned a divine bucket of water on the landscape. In barely a minute, both of them were soaked, hair and headwear plastered and clothes wringing wet.

"You know," Striker said above the downpour, slicking overlong, dripping bangs back from her face, her voice a crescendo of frustration, "I knew it was too good to be true. It's been three days since it's rained. It had to rain. It always fucking rains in this stupid, godforsaken, fucking country."

"May I remind you who left the umbrella at the castle," Morien said.

"Stop fucking nagging," Striker said, sulkily and handed her jacket to Morien. Morien was tempted to take it, but she wasn't cold and she was already too wet for it to make a difference. She waved it away, something for which Striker couldn't help but be grateful, not because the jacket offered protection, but merely that Morien's white blouse was beginning to turn beautifully see-through. The rain sculpted her body, breasts seeming to swell further against the translucent material, two enticing tips straining beneath. She wore a delicate white bra, decorated by a restrained touch of lace. A picture of demure sensuality. Suddenly, Striker wanted to run her hands where the rain was running and she took a step forward.

A splash of water and a car hurtled towards them, sleek silver out of the storm. Its lights illuminating the rainfall like English arrows, and Morien, automatically, put her hand up to hail it. It slowed. Striker didn't move.

"Come on," Morien said. "This is not the main road into town. It's way past rush-hour. There won't be another chance of a lift."

Striker didn't move.

Morien started towards the car, which lay droning at the verge, a little way ahead, red tail-lights blaring in the green and grey. She looked back.

Striker didn't move.

Why did this seem wrong?

It was a Beemer.

A brand new, silver BMW.

And it reeked of money and power.

"Come on…."

She had a feeling, a deep-down, gut feeling that chilled her soul in the warm rain.

"Morien, don't…."

Ahead the car door opened, flooding the interior with light. A shape pulled itself out of the car, almost shaking itself in the downpour.

"Morien, for fuck's sake…."

Striker was running now, towards her friend, knowing that that way lay violence. Morien turned, looked towards the car, saw the man, wide-shouldered, barrel-chested, and in the silvery sparks of rain, the glint of steel being pulled from his tailored suit. She stopped, backed up, her sandals almost failing to grip on the wet tarmac.

She could feel her heart stopping. She could hear her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. She backed up against something hard. And suddenly she was falling sideways, dizzy and rolling hard down the grass bank, held tightly in Striker's grasp, her bag pressed sharply between them.

They landed almost at the stream, the grass angled beneath them, greasy from the sudden drenching. Striker looked up. She could see the bulked shadow of the at the top of the slope. And he could see them.

Sitting ducks.

She grabbed Morien's hand and pulled before the gun went off, a big, echoing bang in the noise of falling water. Something splashed in the stream behind them.

They dashed along the stream, hearing the muted sounds of voices and footsteps above them. Striker ahead, losing her grasp on Morien's wet hand. She could hear her friend behind her, her breath bursting from her.

Then she heard a gasp, and she turned to see Morien drop like a stone.

There had been no second blast, but it was a moment before Striker realised that Morien hadn't been shot. This was something different.

Oh my God, not now.

Morien's mouth opened and let out a low cry, and Striker crashed to her knees at her side as the woman's body started to convulse. She wanted to gather her in her arms, but she had learnt better than that.

She didn't move her; the ground was soft, made softer by the rain. She only kept a loose hand on her arms, to ensure her body didn't slip.

Striker could hear the sounds of pursuit above them. But then she discerned that the sound was too far away. The brothers had overshot them, not realising that the two women had stopped. She and Morien were still in the open, although partly concealed by the slope of the bank. She pulled them back against the grass as tightly as she dared, but knowing that if she held on to Morien she could hurt her. If the men leant right over the edge of the slope and looked down, they would be seen. They were still sitting targets.

But the rain, the rain that just moments ago she had been cursing, would, perhaps, go a little way to hiding them.

Morien's breath was coming irregularly, her eyelids fluttering, but she was making no sound. Her eyes were closed, her skin had taken on a slight blue tinge. Stroking her face, Striker bent down keeping her mouth close to Morien's ear, whispering as quietly as air, "It's okay, honey. We'll be okay, don't worry. Sshhh, now, it'll be okay."

"They came this way," a loud voice shouted almost directly above, and as startling as a bullet. "I heard something."

"Can you see 'em?"

Striker bent lower, trying desperately to cover Morien's lighter clothes, hoping against hope that the dark leather of her jacket and her dark hair would help to hide them in the shadows of rain. She was shaking almost as much as Morien now, from the downpour and from fear.

How long had it been? It felt like hours that they'd been crouched on the bank, Morien's seizing body covered by Striker's long frame. It was only minutes, wasn't it? Only a few minutes. But Striker knew enough that if the fit lasted much longer, Morien was in trouble.

"Can't see a bloody thing. Fuck, I'm soaked." The voice was moving away.

"Let's go back, Nige. We know where they're going."

"Yeah, hopefully a nice warm pub. Fucking Taffland."

"Gil'll fucking kill us for losing 'em."

Barely turning her head, a flash at the corner of her eye, Striker thought she caught the bleached lightning of Nigel's hair in the silver gloom.

"Gil can fucking come back and look for them then." There was a laugh. Retreating. "Besides," she caught, "it was pure fucking luck that we saw them. The plan's the…." A car door slammed, then the muffled sound of an engine bursting to life.

And Morien stilled under her. Striker thought she could hear her breathing, though it seemed impossible with the sound of the rain and the car above. The tyres peeled themselves off the wet road and swished away.

She sat up a little and looked down at Morien's face. Morien was catching her breath and she looked back at Striker with clear eyes, now brimming with tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Striker couldn't stand to see the pain in her eyes. She wanted to hug the pain away, but instead, she gently turned Morien onto her side and, positioning herself alongside her on the wet grass, wiped saliva away from her mouth, and stroked sodden auburn hair away from her cheek. Morien sobbed, great gulping sobs that shook her already strained body.

"I'm sorry," she mouthed, barely able to get the words through her tears.

"Hey, there's nothing to be sorry for," Striker said, brushing rain and tears from Morien's face. "You're fine, you're okay, sweetie, you're okay."

Morien reared up suddenly, her eyes wide, "Striker, the men…."

Striker coaxed her back down. "They're gone. Now, lie down for just a little longer, okay? Just breathe."

Morien lay down again, her head too heavy to hold up. She was shivering. Not from cold, but from fear and shock and deep, terrible shame. She felt the heavy weight of Striker's jacket placed on top of her and welcomed its warmth and scent. She hid her face in its folds, and listened to raindrops drumming on the leather.

"It's wet," she finally said from the depths of the jacket.

Striker stifled a laugh. "Yeah, honey, it's wet. We'll go in a minute. I need you to take a moment, okay?"

The rain was easing, or so Striker thought. Maybe it was just her fear easing. Either way the world was looking just a little lighter. She listened. Nothing but rain. No voices. No cars. There was a distant roll of thunder. Nothing else. She looked at Morien again; she was so still, and for a dreadful moment thought she was unconscious.

"Morien?" She rubbed her shoulder through the jacket

"Mmm?"

"How're you feeling?"

"Tired and headachey. I want to go home."

"You think you can get up?"

Morien answered by shakily getting to her feet. She held the jacket out to Striker, but the American shook her head. "No, you keep it."

"But you're soaked."

"So, it isn't going to make much difference now."

Morien looked up the steep slope. "We'll have to get back up to the road."

Striker followed her gaze. "I think we ought to keep off the road, just in case. Is there anywhere we can shelter round here?"

Morien rubbed her head. She was pale and had dark streaks underlining her eyes. "Not really. We may as well go into town."

"How far is it?"

"Not far. Mile and a half, maybe a bit further," she said with a weak smile.

"So we stay here and get wet, or walk it and get wet."

"And at least if we walk it we're closer to home."

"Do you think you can make it?"

Morien had spent her childhood roaming the hills and coast around Lleuadraeth, but never had a mile and a half seemed so far. Her head was pounding. Every single muscle in her body was aching and was aching more each minute with the drumming of the rain.

She pulled her muddy, soaked bag onto her shoulder. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I can make it."


Continued in Chapter 20….