Chapter 23: 'Tis here where Hell and Heaven dance¹


Up the aisle, pews on either side. It was dark around her, but she could see, as if a spotlight was following her gaze. She could see the carving on the armrests, she could feel the rising terror at the sight of glinting hinges, and she couldn't stop herself from lifting the seat, knowing what was waiting for her.

There was noise behind her. She was aware of danger creeping up behind her like the shadows on a sundial.

She wanted to get out. But she had to open the seat. She needed to say goodbye. She'd never said those final words.

She delayed it as long as possible, her hand shaking on the wood. There would be blood in the dark, the silent scream of the executed. A single gold tooth.... A chapel, a place of life and death.

She opened the seat.

There was someone there. The plastic sheeting had gone, and the body was on its side. T-shirt and baggy jeans: Paully's uniform, but the cadaver inside was bone-thin and long dead.

And the blood-soaked hair was not Paully's recognisable dirty blond dreadlocks. The hair was a mass of light brown curls. It took her a moment to identify... at one time she would have recognised the colour, she would have obsessed about the way the light played with each gleaming twist. Back in her stalker days. Her stomach turned over with the recollection. It was Tammy. Tammy from New York, who had become a distant, unpleasant memory. Tammy who had gone to the cops, whose 'betrayal' made her burn with sudden, newly-discovered anger. Tammy whose face she wanted to beat in.

She could have put her in a box all those years ago.

Was she still capable of it now?

That anger was still inside of her... simmering... threatening... she could feel it burning.

The sound of danger behind her.

She wanted to get out.

But....

She bent over, her nose filling with the musty wood and rancid stink of death, and clutched the rigid shoulder.

She wanted to get out.

She pulled at the shoulder and the body moved smoothly, almost as if it were merely shifting in sleep.

She could feel the terror rise still further, blocking her throat and filling her chest. She couldn't breath, as if the corpse had sucked the life out of her. She wanted to get out.

Hands reached out, skeletal and sticky, wanting to embrace her. She could feel the adhesive touch on her skin, leaving her ice cold where once it made her feverish.

And now the face appeared, bloodied and bruised and unrecognisable; perhaps devastated by a bullet; perhaps brutalised by a fist.

A sigh escaped from the gaping, bloody mouth: a last breath. The eyes opened.

Deep, sea green....

And Striker woke up, sweat freezing her skin.

Every single fear, doubt, terror she had came crashing down on her. Everything she'd been holding back was clawing her skin. So close to the surface.

She didn't move for the first minute; her one free hand gripping the duvet, trying to catch her breath, trying not to wake the body that was tight against her own. Her skin was cold and sticky, and the air was thick with sex. Light was penetrating the curtains, but it was early. The glow of morning was pale and fragile, making the objects in the room look unreal.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Morien was fast asleep, lying on her front, her back bare - almost begging to be touched. A simple finger tracing a path from shoulder downwards to where the covering duvet hid treasure. The tranquil contentment on her face made Striker want to scream. A gentle sigh escaped and Striker knew she had to get out.

Quietly, so as not to disturb Morien, she slid an arm from where it lay, under her lover's body. There was a quiet murmur, she shifted in her sleep, but then settled. Striker slipped from under the duvet, recovering her t-shirt and shorts, and stole to the door.

Looking back, she watched Morien for just a moment, a part of her wanting to go back, if only to give her a simple kiss. But even that would be too much, she knew.

Closing the door, quietly, behind her, she detoured into her own bedroom, collecting a fresh pack of cigarettes and lighter, then tiptoed downstairs. Each step brought back a kiss, the feel of Morien's body pressed against hers, the intoxicating smell of skin and arousal, the taste of her, the feel of Morien's mouth and tongue.... Her neck was sweetly sore, and she remembered Morien had marked her. For life.

Downstairs felt empty. Glancing into the kitchen she could see a half-empty glass of water, abandoned on the table. And she thought of licking liquid off Morien's full, pert breast.

In the gloom of the sitting room, she could feel Heriell's sleepy yellow eyes on her, his dark fur hidden from view in the depths of the sofa. There was no other movement.

She opened the curtains across the patio doors and struggled momentarily with the stiff bolts. With a bang that made her want to duck, the second bolt came loose and she stepped out into the early morning.

The air was blissfully cold on her skin, the still-damp stones cooling to her bare feet. It made her feel less sick. She sat herself on the bench, knees to chin, and lit a cigarette.

The sky was a deep summer blue, just touched by the awakening sun. The garden was wet and misty and held the memory of perfume from the night-scented stock. One by one, she became aware of sounds: the low hum of insects - bees dallying with the opening flowers; birdsong - tweets, chirps, trills and the sweet, poignant lyrics of blackbirds and larks; beyond that the waking cries of seagulls, soothed by the ever-present sound of distant waves.

The rustle of leaves.

A cat materialised from the grey mist, trotting out onto the lawn from its hiding place in the dark shrubbery at the foot of the garden. It was pure white. She remembered the cat in Morien's arms in the photograph.

Snowflower.

And now she understood the name. She was a compact cat - not as small as Easey, but not as bulky as Heriell. She seemed strangely neat for something so wild. She was ethereal, as if she could only exist in that moment, in that mist, at the very edge of morning. She didn't belong to the everyday world.

Snowflower was like Morien in that way.

Striker stayed completely still, watching, the only movement the lazy curve upwards of smoke from her cigarette. If she knew the observer was there, Snowflower showed no interest in her, paying more attention to her own not-quite-immaculate paw than to some lowly human. But then the cat spotted something, the tiniest movement in among the daisies, and with a burst of excitement, pounced. Striker could only guess what Snowflower had found - a woodlouse perhaps, some poor beetle, even a delinquent shrew, now regretting staying up late - but she watched feline friskiness pawing at its prey, batting it, jumping back as it moved, pouncing again. Playing with it. Terrifying it. Slowly killing it.

Simply because that's what she was programmed to do.

Striker shut her eyes and concentrated hard on the burn of her cigarette down her throat. But Snowflower still amused herself at the expense of her victim.

Snowflower wasn't like Morien at all.

Striker opened her eyes and blinked. She thought the cat had gone, until she saw a little wave of white, deep in the daisies. A tail, moving back and forth, back and forth.

Did Snowflower come here every morning, to tease the flowers, alarm the insects, and allow Sullivan and Morien to catch a glimpse of her... if they were up early enough? Where did she go to for the rest of the time? Was she someone else's cat, part-time? Teasing their flowers, eating their food, disappearing into a misty nowhere when there was nothing else on offer?

And, suddenly, Striker thought of her father, behind bars, alone. He had no idea she was in Britain. He had no idea whether she was alive or dead.

And a thought that she'd been hiding from for too long, pounced and played. Had she driven him to drink?

Snowflower suddenly disappeared back into the shrubbery where she had come from, and Striker wanted to follow her.

For some time, she sat, staring at the spot where the white cat had vanished - ignoring the goosebumps on her skin - until she became aware of sounds in the house. A head popped round the patio door, and Striker found herself looking up at Sullivan.

"Good morning," he said. There was a pause. His mouth moved as if he wanted to say something else: did you sleep well? Did you have a good night? How was sex with my daughter? Is that a hickey on your neck?

Striker became deeply aware that she was covered in Morien, and she flushed with it. "Good morning," she said, quietly.

"You're up early," Sullivan said, and then looked as if he wished he hadn't.

"I...," she swallowed. "It's a beautiful morning."

"It certainly is." Sullivan looked out at the garden, proprietarily, as if the morning was his.

There was a moment of silence. Striker lit another cigarette.

"Would you like some breakfast?" Sullivan finally broke the silence.

"No, thank you, Mr... Sullivan." He smiled at her, broadly, and turned to go. "I... I saw Snowflower."

Sullivan looked back at her. "Good," he said. Another pause, and Morien's father seemed to be taking in Striker's pale face, the haunted look in her eyes. And he added, hesitantly, "Did... she... seem... all right?"

"Yes... fine."

Again a pause. Sullivan regarded her over the top of his glasses. "Good," he said again. And left. Striker heard the radio turn on in the kitchen. The world was suddenly full of talk and her mind was screaming with it. She rested her forehead on her arm and lost herself in the smell of smoke and sex.



* * * * *



Morien drifted to consciousness.

She was comfortably warm, though aware her body was only half covered by the duvet. The air was thick and cosy, like an extra blanket around her. And a further rush of happiness flowed through her as the memories returned: Striker touching her, Striker kissing her, Striker's scent, Striker's taste, the way Striker looked and sounded when she came. The fact that she wasn't scared any more. Of anything.

And right now she was ready for round two... three... four.... Where had they left off? She grinned, and in joyful and certain familiarity she reached out an arm to her lover.

And found cool sheet and emptiness.

Morien's eyes snapped opened. She listened, reasoning that Striker must have gone to the bathroom. No sound of running water. She listened out for noise downstairs: the call of breakfast might have been too much. There was no sound from the kitchen.

A glance at her alarm clock told her it was approaching late morning. Her father was long gone.

And she could have sworn there was no one else in the house.

For a moment she teetered on the border of panic, but then something caught her attention. The window was open, just a crack, and through it she could smell sea, sunshine and... cigarette smoke.

And she almost laughed: a post-coital cigarette. How apt.

Wrapping her dressing gown round herself, she scampered downstairs and almost threw herself through the patio doors.

The garden was ablaze with summer: bright, full of life and singing with joy. And Striker sat, the epitome of darkness and solitude. She was staring out into the garden as if she didn't see it. She sat, her long legs curled up beneath her, her knees to her chin. A cigarette drooped from her fingers, half-forgotten. The little flower pot she'd been using as an ashtray was packed with dead stubs. She was rocking gently, backwards and forwards. Backwards and forwards.

It was obvious she hadn't noticed Morien's presence.

"Striker?"

Only now did she rouse, almost jumping, as if she had been caught asleep at her desk at school. She unfolded her body, bare feet now touching the ground. But she bent forward, resting her forearms on her thighs. She didn't turn to look at Morien, but the Welsh woman could see the twist of anxiety on her face.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," Morien replied. There was an awkward silence. Finally Morien broke it by moving, hesitantly, to the bench. She perched on the armrest, and laid a tentative hand on Striker's shoulder. She was heartened as Striker, apparently unconsciously, shifted slightly towards her. But the American's attention seemed riveted on the cigarette. Suddenly, she stubbed it, viciously, against the side of the pot, spreading ash, and dropped it onto the pile.

"What happens now?" she whispered.

Morien paused. "What do you mean? We eat breakfast, hope to God that Idomeneo and his merry band catch up with Bruce and Nigel…." She couldn't resist running a finger along the exposed skin of Striker's neck, tracing the hickey. She could feel the blood pulsing under her fingers. This woman was human catnip. She bent to follow her finger with her lips. Gentle, loving and reassuring. "We lay low and think of a way of passing the time."

Striker's face turned briefly, but her head was still bowed. Her voice was low. "Then you want this?"

Morien paused, her mouth hovering above Striker's neck, her breath tickling her ear. She was now in a position to see Striker's face, and the tall woman looked small and scared. Morien circled round the bench and sat down next to her, taking her hands, touching her cheek. Striker gave her a small, sweet, scared smile that didn't touch her startled eyes.

"Of course, I want this," Morien said. "Of course. What's wrong, Striker?" She tried to catch Striker's eye. "Is it me? Have I done something wrong?" Her voice began to sound fearful. Suddenly, she felt saturated with alarm and confusion. "Was last night...?"

"No!" Striker's voice was almost vehement. And she finally turned to Morien. "It's not you. You've done nothing wrong. It's me...." Her voice trailed off.

She looked into Morien's eyes and saw love for her as clear and pure as a spring morning. And she felt as raw as a winter night.

"I've never done this before."

And with that admission Striker seemed to relax a little. She smiled briefly, chuckled even, plucked a cigarette from the packet and lit it. And after hours of insular silence, the words started to come. Low, self-deprecating and scratchy with nicotine. "Stupid, isn't it? I lost my virginity when I was thirteen years old. I've been screwing around ever since - more than half my life. Playing with fire. I'm clean, don't worry. I might be a fuck-up, but I'm not that stupid."

They both watched the end of the cigarette glow as Striker inhaled. "Sex," she continued, "it's like smoking, you know. It's an addiction, it's a comfort. But afterwards you feel like shit." She trailed off watching the smoke dissipate on the gentle breeze.

And that was it? That was all it had been to Striker? Sex?

A million angry and frightened questions flooded Morien's thoughts, but she bit them back. Instead, she rested her hand on Striker's knee, a touch that reassured herself as much as Striker. Her voice was hesitant. "What did you mean, that you'd never done this before?"

"Last night wasn't a comfort." She caught Morien's worried gaze, and took the hand on her knee, caressing the skin with her thumb, and spoke gently. "I mean, it was more than that. I don't know what to do now. Morien, all this time and I've never had a girlfriend… a boyfriend… I've never been in a real relationship. A committed relationship." She was back to being small and embarrassed now.

"You've never had… anybody?"

Striker shook her head, ruefully, breaking away. "Never committed. Never dated. Never went steady." She said the words as if she had bitten down on glass.

"But what about Danny?"

She didn't get an answer immediately, as Striker stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, and when the answer did come it was couched in a sigh. "Danny's my friend," Striker said. "He never wanted commitment. I never wanted commitment. Sex was… a convenience." There was a glimmer of humour. "And he's not exactly hard to look at." She turned back to Morien and the words came in a rush. "I love Danny. He's my friend. I will always care for him. But you… you…."

Against the screaming of her demon judgement, she lifted a shaking hand and ran a finger along Morien's bottom lip, watching in fascination as Morien's mouth opened and her tongue slipped out to wet the tip. She licked her lips in response and took Morien's face in her hands. She wanted so badly to feel those lips under hers, to feel that tongue gliding against her own. There was a growing tension inside her - she was unsure if it was thrilling or terrifying. But she wouldn't think about it now, she needed to speak. "Morien, you make me feel…" she sought inspiration in the green depths, and found it, "…wanted."

Morien looked surprised and pleased and saddened at the same time. "Wanted? Who wouldn't want you?" She said it with a smile, with love.

But the question made the panic descend. Striker took her hands from Morien's face and turn away with a ghost of a smile. "You, for a start."

"Me?!" Morien was horrified. "Why wouldn't I want you?"

Striker reached for the half-smoked cigarette and played with it between her fingers. "It's kind of ironic, don't you think? I've never had a girlfriend, and you now have two." Morien opened her mouth to speak, but Striker bulldozed her way on. "Why would you want me? You had a perfectly good relationship before I came along and ruined it."

Morien interrupted, "And I never had a choice in this?"

"I destroy every person I get close to. That's what I do. I push them away." There was a rage in her tone that she couldn't control, and she felt it spark through her body. Her fists balled, and she could sense every punch she'd ever thrown, every kick she'd delivered, real and imagined, raging through her.

And she saw it again. Morien's face, barely recognisable, blood and bone and terrified green eyes. The stalker was still inside her. That person who could bring fear and hurt and pain. And she felt the horrifying destruction inside herself bubbling up like nausea. She turned away covering her mouth.

And Morien took it as disgust. She couldn't contain her anger any longer. "So that's what this is about? You fucked me, now you're going to dump me?"

Striker got to her feet, her head spinning; anger and love a maelstrom inside.

But Morien's words hit. "That's it, isn't it? You're too scared to be with me. You don't want to be saddled with some no-hoper epileptic." Morien almost laughed. "But you can't get out of here, because you can't be sure that if you step outside this house you won't get your head shot off. So you're stuck." Her voice, usually so soft and melodic, was suddenly as biting as acid. And Striker felt burnt.

But the pain was self-inflicted.

Striker looked down the length of the bright garden, seeing only the darkness inside. "Maybe you're right," she said, quietly. Maybe that was the answer. Let Morien believe that. Let Morien hate her. Hell, it was only a matter of time before Morien hated her anyway. She would hurt her, like she'd hurt everyone else. Was it any wonder that no one had ever wanted to be with her? It could be so easy: walking away, risking the death threats and getting out of Lleuadraeth, getting a train to London, getting the hell out of it. Going back to the familiarity of being alone.

The familiarity of stalking.

Her stalking past. Her stalking present. It would be so easy. Treat this as a longer-than-usual one-night-stand and leave. And return to the ease of fantasy - inventing her lovers as she watched them from afar, and hurting them when they became real.

And now what she had with Morien had been made real.

And now she would hurt her.

And she felt a touch of a hand on hers. Warm fingers twined round her own. A voice as soft and lyrical as music.

"Striker, you're frightening me."

And there was the problem. Morien didn't believe her own accusations. She didn't hate her. So she was going to have to break Morien's heart. For her own sake. And she would break her own heart in the process.

She remained standing.

"Please, Striker…," her hand was squeezed… pulled. "Striker, please… please don't go. Please don't leave me."

Please don't leave me. Words from years ago.

But she had left and now Striker was about to do the same thing. She looked round. Morien was staring up at her, disbelief vying with horror in red-rimmed eyes. Tears flooded down her cheeks.

And gone was the nightmare image.

It was as if she was looking at Morien again for the first time. Beautiful and pure with a wild-sea gaze.

The memory of the hospital - she had been afraid to know Morien's name, recognising it was the key to a different reality to the one Striker had invented for her. Now she knew that it was the other way round. She was afraid of Morien knowing her name - she was afraid of Morien knowing her.

Without the stalking, the violence, the solitude - she didn't know how to be.

Striker was aware of tears now pricking at her own eyes and slowly, hopelessly, she sat down. "I don't know who I am any more," she said in a voice that barely rose above her own imagination. "I thought I knew. But... but... I've been blind for years. I don't know how to be any more."

Morien answered. Her voice, choking down a sob, was thick with sadness, but surprisingly strong. "Striker… I don't know who you are. I've learnt so little about you in the last few days. I don't even know what your name is…" Striker closed her eyes. "You frighten me sometimes. Our relationship almost started with you frightening me."

Striker's head was down again, her words muffled by a hand. "Morien, I'm sorry, I've never meant to hurt you. I never…."

"I know you'd never hurt me. Not intentionally, not consciously. The one thing I know about you for certain is that you're one of the gentlest people I've ever met."

Striker laughed, a hollow dead laugh. "I'm not gentle. I'm capable of some really nasty shit. There's stuff inside me that scares the crap outta me."

"There's stuff inside me that'd scare the crap out of you, too.

Striker shook her head. "You're a princess, Morien. I'm a fuck-up."

"You're a gentle fuck-up." She reached a hand out, and briefly her thumb connected with Striker's cheek. "You're so gentle. Last night, when you made love to me… I've never felt like that in my life. Ever. No one's ever touched me quite that way. It makes what I did with Sophie seem…."

"Please don't talk about Sophie." Her voice was caught somewhere between vehemence and pleading.

"Striker, I'm not going back to her. How can I after this?"

There was a pause, balanced somewhere between hope and despair. "Because you deserve someone better. I'm not right for you. You deserve someone who will look after you, someone you can trust."

"No one looks after me better than you. Despite it all… I know who you can be, Striker. I'm not that stupid. You're so capable of violence. I don't understand what makes you tick. I don't understand who you are. But I want to take my chances...."

"You shouldn't have to take chances...." Striker said, anger in her voice. "You should be with someone who you can trust not to hurt you."

"I know you won't hurt me."

"How the hell can you be so sure, when even I don't know that?"

There was a confidence in Morien's answer that seemed to reverberate against the hum of summer. "Because I know. You've protected me from the start, Striker. You've had every chance to hurt me in the last week and you haven't. I even hit you, for God's sake, and you didn't respond."

There was a sigh in her voice now. But it was a sigh that betrayed a thrum of hope and the anticipation of possibility. She lifted a hand, tracing the sweep of Striker's jaw, brushing a lock of hair to one side. Simply touching. "You're gentle... kind... so sweet.... You're beautiful to me, cariad. I want to know you… I want to spend my life getting to know you." Her voice fell a little… it sounded encouraging, a little frightened... it mirrored the look on Striker's face. But before Striker could say anything, Morien continued. "No. A lifetime is too long, maybe. For now, anyway. How about a day at a time? We'll take it day by day, okay?"

"Day by day." She spoke in a tiny voice that seemed to suggest she could barely make it to the next hour.

"Oh Striker." Morien put her arms round her, resting her head on a broad, tense shoulder, her words caressing skin. "You call yourself a bad girl, but you read fairy tales and children's books. You couldn't bring yourself to talk to me at first, but you can approach people, talk to them… pick them up even… give your body to them. And your job makes you mix with ordinary people every day…."

"It's role play," Striker interrupted.

"What do you mean?" Morien's voice was so soft, so loving.

"I play the part of the bad girl. I play the role of hospital porter. I play the seducer when it means nothing… and the real me hides."

Morien raised her head, and caught Striker's cobalt gaze. "So who is the real you?"

Epiphany erupted inside Striker, called by the longing and kindness in Morien's gaze. And for the first time in twenty years, it wasn't violence or anger that emerged, but a childhood of tears that suddenly burnt her eyes and spilt down her face. Striker sobbed. "I'm… I'm a ten-year-old girl who wants her mommy."



* * * * *



Deep in thought, her eyes followed the lines of the paving stones beneath her feet. Here and there a weed found a breathing space in the cracks. Here and there, a weed gave way to a flower, lifting its face to the sun.

But Striker's thoughts were captured by the plain, straight lines of the paving stones. The sunshine was too bright for her tired eyes. She felt like she was crawling through the aftermath of the biggest bender of her life.

She had cried for what felt like hours. It had physically hurt to cry after all this time, but Morien had held her, rocking her, whispering words of love and pride.

"It's not your fault," she had murmured. "It was never your fault."

Hearing those words had hurt too, but in a different way. For twenty two years she had been clinging to a tower of guilt, terrified of falling, terrified of moving. She had been hanging on for so long that her fingers had melded with the stone. With her words, Morien had started the painful process of prying her away from her guilt. Slowly, together, they had started to win her freedom, but she ached with it.

She had felt a little better after a shower and another hug… and another.

But now she needed a cigarette, and her final packet was empty.

So Striker made her way to the newsagents on the corner of the street, leaving Morien for just a little while. And although she felt her lover's absence immediately, the air felt good on her face, in her lungs.

Her lover. Damn that sounded so good. Damn, it had been so good. Best sex ever.

A hesitation over the cracks. No, not sex. Love-making. Passionate, intense, giving, satisfying - several times - damn-fucking-hot love-making. Her body flushed with the memory... and smugness. She wanted to go find some teenagers to boast to. She wanted to show off her hickey. Even more, she wanted to turn on her heel, go back, and find Morien in the shower. There were certainly a few things she could think of doing with wet bodies and soapy hands and….

She took a deep breath of air and concentrated on the grey of the pavement. She wanted to give Morien some space. She had spent the last few hours taking care of a thirty-two-year-old baby.

Give Morien her own breath of air, for fuck's sake. You don't need to hang on her apron strings. Give her half an hour.

Just half an hour.

That was new too. Learning to let go, give space… trust that when her back was turned someone she loved wasn't going to disappear.

It wasn't your fault.

Striker sighed.

The fact is, Morien's right. Whatever she says, she knows you better than you know yourself. Get used to it, fuck-up, Morien will always be right. She's the brain, you're the brawn. Just shut the fuck up and do as she says.

So, she was right. This was new, this was different for both of them. And if this situation was different, and Morien was different, then maybe… just maybe… she could be different too.

She walked into the newsagents and asked for cigarettes.

"Ten or twenty, love?" the shopkeeper asked.

Striker avoided his eyes. It still hurt to look at anyone. "Twenty, thanks."

There was a man sitting by the counter. He didn't seem to own the place, or even work there, but he gave the impression he'd be sitting there, propped up against the counter as if it was a bar, until the shop closed. He had a white, clipped beard, but no moustache, and he wore a white, cotton sun hat, which made him look like a gnome on vacation. He was looking at her with a hooded gaze - weighing her up. "You staying here long, love?" he asked.

Striker checked the urge to swear at him. She hovered between giving him a what-fucking-business-is-it-of-yours? look or merely ignoring him. And then she remembered what Idomeneo had said all that time ago - less than twenty four hours ago.

I can be different.

And she gave the man a small, shy smile and met his eyes. "Probably just for a few days," she said.

The man was obviously happy with her response and gave her a beaming smile back. It warmed her. "Here on holidays, is it?"

"Kinda. I'm staying with some friends."

"That's lovely." Again a warm smile.

"And what do you think of Lleuadraeth?" the shopkeeper asked in a rich tenor, his hand lingering as he placed the cigarettes in Striker's grasp.

"It's beautiful," she said, handing him money. "I like it here."

"That's lovely, isn't it, Dai?" the gnome said.

"Certainly is, Ianto. Here's your change, love. Do call again while you're here. We sell more than cigarettes, you know. We're a Post Office too if you need to send any postcards."

"You get any American papers?" Hell, it was worth a shot.

Dai looked a little downcast. "Sorry, love. I could order something in though."

"I'll get back to you," Striker said with what she hoped was an impish smile. She was beginning to enjoy this charm thing.

"All right, love. You have a nice day now!"

Striker laughed. "You too." She tipped a finger in a casual salute. And a word came to her. She'd heard it enough in The Half Moon... little half-comments between Morien and her father. "Diolch," she said with a smile, and left the shop to a tinkle of bells, leaving satisfaction and gratitude in her wake.

Stopping outside, she wondered. Dai? She looked up. Above the Post Office sign, the shop name was emblazoned proudly: Dai News.

They're all fucking nuts.

She was feeling a lot better. The sun was warm on her tired body; the buildings pretty and glowing white against their green hill background. The sea air caressed her face with a mother's touch, soothing her tired eyes.

Maybe everything could be different. She wandered down the main street towards the harbour square, looking in shop windows, dawdling.

There was a bakery, the aroma from which made her stomach rumble; a boutique full of clothes that seemed to hark back to the sixties; a jewellers - Striker stopped at the window display, imagining herself buying some trinket for Morien: a necklace maybe, a brooch, a ring.... One day. One day at a time. She stopped again outside an Indian restaurant, considering the menu in the window, wondering if Morien liked curry.

She certainly liked it spicy.... Striker grinned, remembering the night, and visualising ways of passing the afternoon. She felt a little frisson sparkle through her body, but...

Just a little longer....

It was quiet, wonderfully relaxing, only the gentle beat of everyday life touching her consciousness. For the first time in… in… so long… her mind seemed to switch off to everything but the feeling of glorious, fulfilling, unbelievable love which was peacefully exploding inside her. It made her feel excited and scared and, strangely, serene. All that remained was the slight hum of traffic: a van passed, a car; shoppers flitted from doorway to doorway - greetings and goodbyes - footsteps tapping along the pavement, a beat to the play of the wind in the trees and the wash of the waves. Somewhere there was a radio playing: a slow climax of pop music, punctuated by the chatter of quickfire Welsh, then more music. A sappy love song. She caught herself singing along to it.

Maybe, just maybe… this would work. She was beginning to picture them living here. A quiet retreat for herself and her princess. Maybe Lleuadraeth could be their happily ever after.

She reached the harbour wall. The sea was a warm blue. White horses paraded across the tranquil plain in a timeless, natural choreography. Seagulls flapped their wings and cried encore. Striker pulled a cigarette out of the new packet and lit it.

The harbour square reclined in the clement weather. A couple of people walked across to The Half Moon. Two men, boys really, walked out of The Ship Inn. Striker couldn't help chuckling. Wannabe rapper trolls on E. They glanced across at her, obviously talking about her, then went back indoors.

Cool. No need to antagonise the locals.

So it remained quiet. Beautiful.

Once upon a time - just a few hours ago - she would have shut herself off from the rest of the world, when she found this kind of quiet. She would have sat on the harbour wall, chain-smoking, and only seeing the landscape inside: a grim, dark wasteland. But now it was different. Now she no longer craved that loneliness or that landscape. Now all she wanted was to share it all with Morien.

Down to the right she could see the white-sand curve of the beach. They hadn't been there yet. There was no sign of any trouble. Surely it wouldn't hurt if the two of them went for a quick walk? She could imagine it now: the soft sand under their toes, the tickle of the tide against their bare feet; the gentle pressure of Morien's hand in hers. She could picture it: she and Morien hand in hand, followed in close procession by a romantic promenade of policemen.

She almost laughed out loud when...

Striker blinked.

Where the fuck were the police?

Yesterday, they had been everywhere - Sullivan had said so. Constable Smith had been parked at the end of Sunny Hill. She hadn't even thought to look as she'd made her way to the newsagents. She had been so fixed on the cracks….

Nowhere had she seen the telltale white and blue of a police car.

Something had happened. Had they caught them?

Striker tossed her cigarette away and crossed the harbour square. Quicker now. Maybe Morien had heard something. Maybe Idomeneo had called. There might even have been something on the news.

Up the hill. No police anywhere. Something made her walk faster. A thought like a flash of lightning made her break into a run. She wished she'd stayed with Morien.

No traffic on the road. Much further up the hill she could see a flash of silver behind a Post Office van, turning off the road in the distance. She turned the corner into Sunny Hill. The road was quiet, still.

Nothing had changed from a half hour earlier. And Constable Smith wasn't there.

She pelted up the pavement, sneakers slapping on the stones, and juddered to a halt outside the cottage.

Quiet, still... nothing had changed.

Nothing, except a little, innocuous tabby sitting on the front porch, licking a paw; the front door open just a catsize crack behind her.



Chapter 24: And the wind gave up in despair


Striker crashed inside, the echoes of her own cry already bouncing back at her.

"Morien!"

Nothing.

The silence seemed to taunt her: she's left you....

"Morien!"

The television was flashing images to a deserted sitting room. Morien's bag - still dirty with mud - lay by the sofa. Her purse... her keys... her mobile phone....

"Morien!"

The washing up still sat in the kitchen sink. The only life in the garden was a lounging Heriell.

Striker took the stairs three at a time, her heart in her throat. Morien's bedroom. The bed had been made, but the sheets, the room, the very air was still infused with the night. Except Morien was only there in memory, and that memory was suddenly almost too much to bear.

Sullivan's bedroom… the bathroom… empty. The shower dripped. There was medication on the shelf above the sink. Surely Morien wouldn't have left that behind?

"Morien!" she shouted at the top of her voice, knowing that there would be no response.

Her own bedroom was as she had left it. She sat, for a moment, on the bed, struggling to breathe. Panic was descending like a thunderbolt. Her chest ached with it. But she couldn't let it stop her.

Could she have missed something?

Think.

Concentrate....

There were two issues here. Morien was missing. There was no sign of any kind of struggle. But, she would not have left the door open. She would not have left her medication behind. She certainly wouldn't have gone out without her keys. There was no sign of forced entry... she let them in. Could they have threatened her? Could they have hit her?

Oh God, sweetheart....

All she could think of was the way Morien had held her that morning. The way her arms had felt around her body. How much she loved her. And that what they had was suddenly gone.

Striker's whole body was shaking. She folded her arms across her chest, tightly. Her fingers dug into her sides. The pain made her concentrate.

The second issue... the second issue.... For some reason, the police had suspended their surveillance. That could only mean one thing: there was no further need to watch them. The Toussaints had been caught. But then... where was Morien?

Fuck....

Striker slammed back downstairs. Maybe Idomeneo had phoned while she was out. She picked up the phone, dialled 1471. A mobile number... fifteen minutes ago. Could that have been...? There was a discarded letter from the morning's post sitting by the phone. She scribbled the number down on the open envelope, then dialled it, nervously, and was rewarded with a tiny flicker of hope when it was answered with a brief, "Jones."

Thank God. "Idomeneo, it's Striker."

"Striker, they're about to make an arrest. It's not a good time."

"You've got them?"

"Didn't Morien tell you? The car was found in front of a house in Caernarfon. There are two men inside, they've identified themselves as...."

"Morien's not here."

There was a pause. "What?"

"Idomeneo, the door was open when I got back. She's left her purse, her keys...." She tried to control the sob that threatened to break out.

There was a long pause from the other end of the phone.

Then.... he erupted.

"Shit, I told him we shouldn't.... Bob, turn this car round." He was barking orders, presumably into a radio. "Evans, Griffiths, Taylor, Rossi, back to Lleuadraeth now. The rest... carry on here. Smith, where are you?" There was a garbled noise in the background. "Go to Sunny Hill. Meet me there." More distorted words. "Sir, can you hold on...? Striker...," his voice was loud in her ear, "stay there. Don't move from that house. Don't answer the door unless you know it's me."

"But...."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

The phone went dead.

An insignificant part of her realised that she'd never heard Idomeneo speak so fast.

The house resonated silence.

Striker took a few deep breaths and heard her heartbeat bouncing off the walls. She closed her eyes. Hold on, sweetheart. We're coming....

But....

If he was in Caernarfon, she guessed that Idomeneo was at least thirty minutes away. PC Smith was obviously closer, but….

Striker wracked her brains, desperately trying to think where they would have taken Morien. But what hope did she have?

It was so quiet. The town seemed to be holding its breath.

We look out for each other, she had said.

Striker went back into the sitting room and took the keys and the mobile phone from Morien's bag.

And left the house.

Standing at the gate, she looked up Sunny Hill. There was no sign of life. But it was worth a try. Hell, she'd spent her entire time in Britain pursuing exactly this type of search. Misplaced people: her specialty. She raced down the neighbours' path. Her impatient knocks on the door only earned her sore knuckles and silence from the empty house.

So she tried the house on the other side.

And her knock was answered almost immediately by a small, slim woman with greying hair and bright eyes.

"Yes?"

Keep calm, fuck-up. Don't antagonise the locals.

She remembered a name and took a guess. "Hello, are you... Mrs Jenkins?"

"Yes."

"My name's Striker West, I'm staying with Morien and Sullivan next door."

The woman seemed ten years younger as her face broke into a smile. "Oh, hello. Can I help you, love?"

Calm. Her nails bit into her palms.

"Ma'am, I'm a little concerned about Morien. I went out for a walk and when I got back the front door was open and Morien was gone. I'm concerned something might have happened to her. Have you seen her?"

The smile fell from the kindly face, replaced by a twilight of wrinkles. "Oh my goodness. I'm sorry to hear that, love. I'm afraid I haven't seen a thing. I've been out shopping most of the morning, only just got back, see? Are you sure Morien hasn't just popped out to the shops?"

"The front door was open. She's left her keys behind…." The sentence was finished with a dry sob, and Mrs Jenkins saw the fear in her face.

"Oh my dear…. Should you phone the police?"

Striker calmed her breathing. "Yes, ma'am. I've just phoned Idomeneo Jones."

"Oh, that's good. Idomeneo will help."

"I thought I'd ask around, see if anybody has seen anything. Would you mind looking out for the police if I'm not around when they arrive?"

"Yes, of course, love. I've got a spare key to next door. I feed the cats when Sullivan's away. I'll let them in."

"Thank you, ma'am, that's good of you." Her voice was beginning to wobble.

"Not at all, love. Don't worry, I'm sure she'll turn up. And please let me know if there's anything else I can do."

"I will. Thank you, ma'am."

Striker turned to go as the front door started to close. But was stopped by a call. "Oh, I tell you what, love. You could try Mr Maguire at Number Five opposite. I think he's been gardening in the front all morning. He might have seen something."

Hope reawakened.

Mr Maguire at Number Five. A beautifully-tended garden. A varnished wood front door. Two grey-blue eyes peering from the gloom of the house. "Hello, Mr Maguire. I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Are you selling something?"

"No, sir. My name's Striker West. I'm staying with The Llewelyns across the street."

"Oh." He opened the door a little more, but the eyes were still suspicious. "Yes?"

"Sir, I'm concerned about Morien. I went out for a little while and she wasn't home when I got back. I was wondering if you'd seen her leave, or if you saw anyone else go into the house?"

"No." His face crumpled into a frown. He stared beyond her at a hydrangea bush in full flower, apparently lost in thought.

Fucking hell, come on!

"Have the Llewelyns had any parcels today?" he suddenly asked.

"I don't think so." She had seen nothing but the few ready-opened letters.

"There was a Post Office van parked just outside the house. It can only have been there for a short time. I went out to the shed to get my clippers and it was just going when I got back."

Something prickled in her memory.

Post Office van.

It had been Smith, hadn't it? Someone stole a Post Office van in Llithfaen. Everyone was looking for the BMW, so they'd acquired an innocuous vehicle. And it had been driving up the hill... she'd been so close....

Striker didn't know whether to hug him or cry. "Thank you, sir. Thank you." She rushed back up the path and hared down Sunny Hill to the junction of the High Street.

Then wondered where to go next.

In the distance, fast approaching, she could see the white and blue of a police car coming down the hill. Smith.

She ducked into the newsagents, the shop bell's nervous jingling sounding her fear, as she watched the car career round the corner into Sunny Hill.

Dai News and Ianto the gnome looked startled at her sudden reappearance.

"Hello, love," Dai said. "You changed your mind about those papers?"

"No... I...."

"You all right, love?" Ianto looked genuinely concerned.

"No... no, I'm...." Her throat was burning with tears and she took a couple of deep breaths to try and calm herself. And in a brief moment of clarity, she remembered. They were a Post Office as well. Would they know about vans....?

"I was wondering if the mail had been collected yet. Has the van come?"

"No, love, not 'til later. Why? Do you want to post something?" Dai answered.

"No.... Look, I need to track down a particular mail van. I think I saw up go up the hill not long ago. Is there any way I could track it down?"

"A particular Post Office van? You'd have to contact the main depot, love."

"No... I...." She calmed her breathing again. "I… I think the van may have been involved in a crime."

There was a pause. Both men looked puzzled. Then suddenly: "Are you a friend of Dean Powell?" Ianto asked.

Striker blinked. "Dean Powell?" Dean.... "Pizza-faced guy?"

The little man chuckled. "Pizza-faced. I like that. Yes, that's him."

"What about him, Ianto?" Dai asked, becoming as interested as Striker.

"Just something he said, that's all."

"What did he say?" Striker's voice was low with anxiety.

Ianto looked as if he was under interrogation, rubbing his head through his hat. "Yesterday, I was over at The Ship, see. Go over there on Tuesdays for the darts. He was in there with all his mates, boasting about doing a favour for some chaps up from London by playing a trick on some poor postman up Llithfaen way. Taking his van for a ride, see? A couple of his mates were trying to hush 'im up, but you know what that lad's like. Always got to be the Big Man."

"That's right, Ianto," Dai encouraged. "D'you remember when...."

And they were off.

And Striker was on the pavement, the bell barely registering her exit. He'd yelled at Morien, "You'll get yours." Had he willingly helped the Toussaints knowing that Morien would get hurt?

Well, Dean fucking Powell was about to get his.

Back down the hill - people staring at her flying form as she pushed past - back across the harbour square and straight into the shadowy doorway of The Ship Inn.

It was dark inside in comparison to the bright, white dazzle of the square. There was a murmur of voices that paused as she paused, trying to make sense of the shadows. And then the Welsh started around her.

This time Striker ignored it. She didn't have time for their petty politics. She made out the shapes of bodies against the dim light of the bar. None of them seemed familiar.

But then against the background of Welsh and laughter came a familiar tone: "Gone and lost your girlfriend, have you? Come looking for a man?"

That was fucking it.

Striker turned towards the sound, her rage giving her direction. He was there, as she thought: Dean Powell and the trolls.

He didn't know what hit him.

He was up against the wall of the pub before he could fully register the six foot hellcat of furious, terrified woman crashing towards him.

The pub went quiet again as Striker's gaze bored into Dean. She caught from somewhere: "Excuse me, we don't want any trouble in here."

Too fucking late. You've already got it, mister.

But she said nothing to the landlord. Her only words were meant for Dean and Dean alone. "The way I see it is this," she hissed. "We can go outside, nice and quiet, and you can give me some answers. Or we can stay here and your friends and these people can watch the Big Man being beaten up by a woman. And you fucking know that I'll do it as well."

To his credit, he didn't shy away from her gaze. He stared back, his chin jutting with defiance, despite the fact he couldn't move from the weight on him.

There was a tense silence. Someone coughed behind them, but the sound did nothing to break the tension.

Then: "Want to go outside with me? Any time you want, hwran." His voice was loud and mocking.

Striker let go of him, allowing him his bravado, but couldn't resist giving him a little push as he lead her through a side door into a small yard. Both blinked, again adjusting to the change in light, and Striker briefly made out rubbish bins, empty beer barrels, a stray crisp packet dancing across the ground.

Before she was pushed from behind, and found herself following the crisp packet. She looked up at Dean from her position on the concrete. He stood behind her, his stance foursquare, his eyes narrow, his grin smug.

The misery she was feeling seemed to pin her to the ground, but she heaved herself up, wincing, and he didn't stop her. She'd landed heavily on her knees and she could already feel bruises developing under the skin.

"That make you feel better?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Just tell me," she said, her voice quiet.

"Tell you what?" He leant against the wall and folded his arms across his chest.

The rush of anger was as familiar as an old coat, and as heady and dangerous as crack. Just a few hours ago she'd fled her lover's bed in fear of it. But now the old part of her welcomed it with open arms. She wanted to beat this boy until his blood was spattered on the white wall behind him. And the new part of her - the Morien part of her - felt sick. Her whole body was shaking with the battle inside and out. She moved towards him, but managed to stop before she put a hand to him. Her words, though, spat venom.

"Okay, you little shit, you want to play with me, do you?"

"Name the game, hwran."

His grin was becoming maddening.

She wheedled a knee between his legs, rubbing it slightly against a denim-covered thigh. "This is the game," she said, her voice low.

And she put a hand round his throat. It was a loose grip, but his eyes seemed to bulge, not from her actions but the belated, fear-filled comprehension that she wasn't playing. His face was an inch away, his cheeks pale, his scant puffs of breath a mixture of beer and dope.

Her voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. "You're gonna fucking tell me what you know, or I'm going to knee your dick so hard you're going to be pissing through your mouth. Do you understand?"

She jerked her knee up just enough, and he nodded, quickly.

"Good. Now tell me where they are."

He shook his head.

She squeezed his throat.

He choked, and she loosened her grip.

And some of the fear dwindled in his eyes.

This was the game: and she'd just blinked. Another rush of anger hit her, this time at herself, and she gripped his throat again, half strangling him, holding him hard against the brickwork.

And it reminded her of the alley wall, of cold steel pressed against her forehead.... She let her hand fall, now pinning Dean to the wall only with her presence.

"You've met Bruce, huh?" she asked, conversationally.

His eyes narrowed, the change of tack puzzling him.

"You know who I mean. Big guy. Broken nose."

Dean didn't answer, but Striker saw the recognition in his eyes.

"He's one tough guy, isn't he?" Still no answer. "Suits him, though, doesn't it? He's got the cool look, the muscle, the gun.... He show you his gun?"

Dean didn't move or speak, regarding her suspiciously.

"What did he offer you and your friends to take the van? Money?... Drugs?" She searched Dean's face, looking for a reaction, but received only wariness. "Did he threaten you?"

Still nothing.

"You wouldn't want to mess with him, would you? Is that why you're not talking?"

"Why would I want to talk to you?"

She smiled at him again, ignoring his question. It was a smile that had nothing to do with joy or humour. "Funny story: you know how Bruce broke his nose?"

Oh, there was interest there, all right.

He waited, breathless, for the punchline....

...and she delivered it with a lupine grin. "I did it."

And she watched the realisation explode into Dean's eyes.

"I don't know nothin', see" his Welsh accent sputtered against her skin.

"The fuck you do. I know you're involved."

"I ain't done nothin'."

"You stole a van for them. Where'd you take it?"

"I didn't take it nowhere."

"Don't fucking lie to me, boy, I'll hurt you bad."

"And he's got a gun. You said so yourself."

Fuck.

Striker grabbed his collar with one hand, pulling him forward into the yard then ramming him back against the closed door. She punched him hard, a balled fist connecting with a cheekbone, ricocheting his head off the wood. He cried out as his pallid skin suddenly blossomed pink. "You don't understand how serious I am, do you?" She punched him again. Harder. Putting every ounce of her fear, sorrow and anger into the blow. Again, his head bounced back against the door and his eyes contracted with pain. She drew her fist back, ready for number three.

And a voice came from the other side of the door. "You all right, Dean bach?" The landlord's voice. He was trying to open the door. Striker pushed Dean back again, using him as a barricade. Her fist still hovered before his face. Her eyes spoke volumes.

"I'm fine, Steve, we're just chatting," Dean called back. His voice sounded shrill and distorted.

They could hear the landlord's disbelieving grunt. But he seemed to go, leaving Dean to his fate.

And Striker had him. No longer was she looking at the swaggering, know-it-all jerk who had bullied Morien. He was torn between a gangster's bullet and a loaded fist.

Striker drew her arm back.

And then, in his scared eyes, she saw something that made her stop dead.

Another teenager: not knowing her place, desperate for attention.

Ten... fifteen years ago, she had been Dean Powell: looking for trouble, determined to find it. Wanting to be noticed, only to be noticed by the police time and time again. Even now, there was still a lot of Dean inside her. She'd walked a good few miles in his trainers.

She reeled back, letting him go, and his head went down, his body banging against the wall, his knees giving way entirely. He coughed, retched, spat to one side and Striker could see blood in the saliva, hear the tap of a tooth hitting the concrete.

She turned away, her back to him, fighting the wash of grief that threatened to overwhelm her. She put a hand to the wall to support herself. She didn't know how to continue. The violence that she'd relied on for so much of her life had deserted her. But what else did she have? But she had to continue, for Morien's sake. For Morien's life.

Her voice was quiet again, and she wondered if he could hear the despair. "Is this honestly just a game to you? Does it honestly not matter to you that a human being's life is in danger?" She glanced at him. "Someone you know, whose family you know?"

Dean blinked, his face swelling already, her fingerprints raw on his throat. She turned, and he flinched at her action, but she didn't move any closer.

"You do understand that, don't you? You do know that right now you are involved in a kidnapping? And it could get a hell of a lot worse. You are up to your neck in shit, man, and there's no way you're gonna come away smelling good. Not to the Toussaints, not to your friends. Right now, you're looking at prison. You really want to go down for those bastards? What have they ever done for you? Did they make you feel that good about yourself that you'd be willing to serve time for them?"

They stared at each other. Cracks were appearing, but she wasn't sure whether it was in her or him.

And then she all but fell to her knees in front of him. A hand reached out, touched his shoulder. And a new question: "You got a mother, Dean?"

His head went up. His brow creased. "Yeah," he winced as he spoke, "course I have." His hand flew to his mouth.

"You love your mom, huh?"

He paused at the question. Unsure of where this was going. Then said, quietly, "Yeah."

"She proud of you?"

She watched his face closely. He didn't seem to be able to meet her gaze. He didn't answer.

"Can she look her neighbours in the eye?"

His head went down.

"Dean, you really want to be the Big Man, huh? You want to make your mother proud? How's this for being the Big Man? How would you like to go home tonight and tell your mom that you saved someone's life today? Because that's what you can do."

Again, a pause, as if he didn't know how to respond. As if he had started to think.

Then: "I don't know nothin' about them. I swear." Despite its wheezing roughness, his voice sounded child-like, and for a moment she was almost inclined to believe him. But she didn't. There had to be more.

"When did you meet them?"

Dean's eyes darted, as if he was expecting Bruce to step out from behind the pile of beer barrels. Words came, finally, as if dragged from his throat. "Monday lunchtime."

"Where?"

"Pub. In Pwllheli."

"When you stole the van, did you take it back to Pwllheli?"

He shook his head. "Met them just outside Llithfaen."

So they'd been moving around.

"Did you know what they were going to do with it?"

He shook his head, glanced up and was momentarily trapped in her gaze. "No... I swear."

Striker had to believe him, now.

"In the pub, they must have talked to you. What did they say?"

He even looked like a small boy now. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, causing the already inflamed flesh to bleed. He was absent-mindedly scoring the dirt beneath his fingers.

"Please, Dean. Did they ask you anything?"

He didn't speak.

"You grew up here, didn't you? You must know this area well."

He glanced up. Nodded. She rewarded him, rubbing his shoulder in encouragement.

"So what did you tell them?" Her voice was so gentle it caressed the air.

Dean sighed. "That guy, Nigel, he asked about...." For a moment, his face flashed the recognisable smirk, but was buried behind a grimace.

"What?"

"Chapels."

Striker went cold. "Chapels?"

"Yeah. Somethin' weird about his uncle liking the local architecture."

"And what did you tell them?"

He sighed again. "I told them about the Salem Chapel."

"What did you tell them?"

And it seemed that Dean was finally resigned to spilling the information. "Where it was. Where they could get the key."

Striker closed her eyes, let out a breath. "I guess you've got to appreciate their sense of irony," she murmured. And then, suddenly, she felt rejuvenated by the information. "So, where is the Salem Chapel?"

"Off the Old North Road."

Of course. And had seen it, that familiar architecture through the curtain of blinding rain. The homely little roofs of a Welsh chapel, whether it was off the Old North Road or on Tumblety Street. And Bruce and Nigel had been looking for the chapel when they had found them.

She got to her feet, reached down and pulled Dean up, ensuring he could stay on his feet without help. He leant against the wall, eyeing her suspiciously.

One more question. She half-smiled it. "Point me in the right direction?"

And now Dean grinned in response, then winced, rubbing his jaw. Somewhere, somehow, they'd come to an understanding. And he gave her directions.

Striker let herself out of the gate at the side of the yard, looking back just the once. "Dean," she said, "thank you. I appreciate what you've told me." He nodded and put his hand on the inside door. "But, I swear, if anything happens to Morien, and I mean anything, then I am going to come after you."

An understanding. A mutual disrespect. But it was something to work with.

Striker closed the gate behind her, finding herself on a road parallel to the harbour square.

There was no guarantee they were at the Salem Chapel.

They had the whole of North Wales to choose from. They might have taken her back to Pwllheli. They could even be taking Morien back to London.

Except for one thing... and this was what kept Striker running... they didn't just want Morien, they wanted her too. And for that, maybe, they would stay close.

So she ran.

The little town suddenly seemed big. Street after street of anonymous houses, whitewash and red brick and sagging grey in the sunlight. It was mid-afternoon now. The sun was moving, leaving them for the cool sea.

She was jogging downhill. The houses were becoming fewer.

Maybe if they got out of this alive, they could go and see the sunset again. They had to get out of this, there were too many things she wanted to do with Morien, wanted to say to her....

If they were going to get out of this, she had to give them a fighting chance. She slowed a little, drawing the mobile phone from her pocket and the crumpled envelope, emblazoned with the smudged telephone number. The little display showed the failing signal. But she had to try.

The answer was gruff.

"Idomeneo?"

"I thought I told you to stay in the house?!" The voice was purple with rage and concern, every word clear, despite the signal. "Smith's there now. Go...."

"I have a lead on where they might be."

The further downhill she moved the more tenuous the link became. "Go back... Sunny Hill.... Now! We'll meet...."

"If you can still hear me, Idomeneo, I'm going to the Salem Chapel."

"You're breaki.... ...can't hea...."

She enunciated every word: "I'm... going... to... the... cha...." The line went dead.



* * * * *



The sun was on her face.

She blinked, trying to get her bearings, and shook her head. Only then did she notice that her hands were warm and scarlet. They were in her lap, one partially covering the other, and were patched with red against the background of aquamarine cotton. She moved them, and the red patch stayed where it was... contrasting with the colour of her dress.

Her sandaled feet were blue. Her left elbow was grass green.

She looked up to the stained glass window above her, depicting an expressionist vision of heaven - green hills and blue skies, flowers and animals. Wales.

She blinked again, stretching the crick out of her neck, and looking around her. She knew exactly where she was: the tiled floor beneath her feet; hard beneath her backside, the uncomfortable wooden pew, uprooted from its former row and now joining others round the walls, leaving the main space free. Sometimes this building was used to stage art exhibitions, but at the moment the walls were bare, save for the colours shimmering from the few coloured windows. Sometimes it was used as a meeting place for local societies, a practice hall for the creative in the community. It was exactly as she had wanted its Tumblety Street equivalent to be.

But it seemed that on weekday afternoons in late June, the Salem Chapel was left to its own devices.

Or the devices of those who used it solely for private purposes.

Her head hurt. She had been hit again, she thought. But not so hard. She hadn't lost consciousness. But from the time she had opened the front door expecting Striker, to the moment she became aware of her surroundings, the journey had been a giddying blur of dark, light, rough hands and voices.

Morien sat on a pew, to one side of the main hall. The room seemed bathed in shades of grey and wood, except for the few dancing colours. She risked further movement, stretching her arms, her legs... they weren't tied. She sat up straight to stretch her back, and halted.

She wasn't alone. The door was open into the small porch, air from the outside stirred dust in the sunbeams. She could sense rather than see the presence of two large individuals enjoying the afternoon. She could smell cigarette smoke on the breeze.

And suddenly she became aware of movement. It wasn't fast or threatening, merely the patient movement of a man rocking forward on the soles of his shoes.



* * * * *



The lane was narrow, with ragged hedges on either side, interspersed with trees. Striker dodged from cover to cover to avoid being seen. She was hot and exhausted; a blend of fear and sunshine made her sticky with sweat. She wished she'd thought to tie her hair back into its usual plait as it yet again pasted itself, uncomfortably, to her face.

But none of that mattered.

The Salem Chapel had become a guiding light to her. She had thought that, at least, she could find another clue to Morien's whereabouts at the chapel, but the recent, distant peep of metallic red between twisted branches had made her heart pound with anger, love and adrenaline.

She could see the break in the hedge ahead. Moving an inch at a time, pressing herself into the leaf shadows of the overhanging bushes, she crept towards it. And from a patchwork of glimpses through moving leaves, she gathered her scattered wits and her bearings.

No wonder Morien had been drawn to the Tumblety Street chapel. This was the same shape and design as its London counterpoint: small and sturdy, the windows high up on the walls. Except this was the developed photograph. This building was bright and whitewashed, concealing its stone-armoured walls. It was surrounded by a gravel parking area. The Post Office van peeked from around the back of the building, seemingly taunting her. The entrance was to one side, sheltered by a porch, and she could see Nigel and Bruce, sunning themselves, smoking. They were talking quietly, throwing comments backwards and forwards, but she couldn't hear what was being said.

But she could see the gun that Bruce held in his hand, and wondered if it was the same one she could still feel pressed to her forehead. From time to time he tried to spin it on his finger like some latterday cowboy. He wasn't succeeding and Nigel's taunting laughter drifted to her on the slight breeze.

Beyond were fields. Further up, the lane turned and she knew now that it came to a halt with a bridge and a phone box.

What the hell was she going to do? Crouch under this hedge while ants crawled up her shorts, and her grazed knees stung? They had Morien. They were armed. If she surprised them, she could be shot. Worse still, Morien could be shot. She couldn't break in without alerting them: the crunch of the gravel would see to that.

They might be taking a chance by being this close to Lleuadraeth, but they were here for more than irony. They couldn't have found a better building to hide in. The basic layout of interior would be safely familiar to them. They could see who was coming for miles. They could hear who was coming because of the gravel. And should they choose to barricade themselves inside, anyone outside would be hard pushed to break the siege.

She had only got herself this far because she was one person.

One desperate person.

And there was only one course open to her.

Besides, if it worked on two London cops it would work for them, wouldn't it? Though she was going to make it a little harder for these bastards.

Carefully, she felt around in the grass beneath her feet, and under the hedge, and her hand closed on a rock... big enough, heavy enough to hurt like hell with the right speed, but light enough to throw some distance. Baseball weight.

Striker took a couple of deep breaths, murmured a heartfelt prayer to her red-haired, green-eyed destiny under her breath, and moved. She had the perfect target: the bandage across Bruce's nose was large and prominent. She hit it dead on. Still got it.

An anguished cry was carried away by the breeze.

While his brother was bent over, grasping his face in agony, Nigel's eyes flashed towards the road, his own gun ready. And she stepped out into his sights.

"Hey, guys," she said, "you didn't think I was going to give myself up without a fight, did you?"



* * * * *



"Are you all right? You're not hurt, are you?"

The man was average height, middle-aged, slender, with cropped, grey hair and a bald patch. He too was dressed in a suit, but it seemed a little too big for him. And it was old. He would have seemed dapper once, but not now.

Morien felt dizzy. She sat back heavily, her hands clutching the edge of a seat.

The man continued to talk. His voice was quiet, pleasant even; his accent carefully refined, but with a bass note of Cockney. "I'm sorry about the boys. They seem to have a proclivity towards aggression. Conversation is far more civilised, don't you think?"

Morien looked at him. Expressions fought on her face. Puzzlement, anger, fear….

"I'm sorry," the man repeated. "I should have introduced myself, Miss Llewelyn." He held out a hand. "I'm…."

"I know exactly who you are, Mr Lamprey." She did not take the proffered hand. "The police have been watching us, you know. They're probably on their way already."

Gilbert lowered his hand. "Ah, yes. The police. They're very enthusiastic up here, aren't they? I've organised a little slight of hand to keep them occupied elsewhere. A rather convincing slight of hand, as well." He smiled and sat himself down next to her, leaving a polite distance between them. "You and I… we've got a little history between us, now, haven't we?"

Morien didn't answer. She couldn't look at him. She held her head up, though, taking in the familiar surroundings of the chapel; so similar and yet so different to its London cousin.

"You tried to get in touch with me a little while ago. With hindsight, perhaps we should have talked then. It would have avoided so much unpleasantness, don't you think?" Again, Morien didn't reply. "But then, hindsight is twenty-twenty. Isn't that what they say?" He looked at the silent woman, the strain on her face. "I'm truly sorry for what has happened to you, Miss Llewelyn. What happened in February was unwarranted, and without my approval. The men responsible have already been punished."

Morien swallowed, concentrating on the wooden beams crossing the ceiling.

"I deeply regret the… difficulties… you have had as a result, and should you need any financial support for medical bills…."

Now Morien looked at him, her hand unconsciously fingering the day's headscarf. "How the hell do you know about that?"

He looked genuinely apologetic. "I do know a lot about you, Miss Llewelyn. Unfortunately, it has been rather necessary to keep an eye on you over the last few months. You stumbled into a rather sensitive operation."

Suddenly, he reached round behind him, and Morien caught herself recoiling, expecting a gun. Instead, he pulled out a thermos flask. He unscrewed the plastic cup from the top and poured out some brown liquid. "I'm sorry," he said, "where are my manners? Would you like some?" He held out the cup.

Morien shook her head.

"It's only tea." He saw the fear in her eyes. "Look, I'll show you." He took a little sip from the cup and held it out to her again.

Morien shrunk back.

Gilbert shrugged and took a larger mouthful of tea. "As I was saying, we've had to keep an eye on you; watch your movements, if you will, and I have learned a lot about you. It is a pleasure to meet you properly, though; have a chat face-to-face."

Morien looked down into her lap.

"I was hoping to speak to your friend too. I had hoped the boys would bring her along. Miss West, isn't it?" Morien looked up and he smiled, obviously grateful to have caught her attention for just that moment. "I haven't really had a chance to see her yet, except from afar, of course. She seems like a special lady." Gilbert smiled again. The light in Morien's eyes betrayed the chink in her armour. "You and she… your friendship is very new, isn't it?" Morien clasped her hands together on her lap.

"But she's very precious to you. You're very lucky, Miss Llewelyn, to have a relationship like that. I sometimes think…."

He trailed off, and the unfinished sentence made Morien look up again. And now he was looking away; his expression reflective. He had a delicately handsome face, a little rounded by years. She would have expected him to be hard, predatory, not this softly-spoken… gentleman.

He looked up and caught her eye. "Strange about Miss West. We haven't been able to find out much about her. Obviously, we've had very little time since she appeared on the scene, but…. It was easy to find out where she lived, but she's not a registered voter. Her local council don't seem to know of her existence…. I half wondered if she was an illegal alien. She's an American, isn't she? It's the name, I suppose. There are an awful lot of Wests in London. And Striker. That must be her nickname, surely?" He glanced at Morien. "Do you know her given name?"

Morien looked away, gazing out of one of the plain glass windows; staring at the blue sky beyond.

"But, of course, you wouldn't tell me. Your loyalty is admirable. I would like to meet her, though. The boys say she's very beautiful, or words to that effect." He grinned now, almost chuckled. "They're very… taken with her. She has a great deal of spirit, your Striker."

And there it was, the tiniest glimmer of a smirk on Morien's face. She hid it well.

"Unfortunately, she seems to bring out the worst in the boys. They've never learnt restraint… subtlety. They take after their father." He sighed. "You know, when they were little, when Charlie was… away... I'd help my sister out, babysitting, you know? I remember telling them the Aesop's fable of the sun and the wind. Do you know it?"

Morien gave him the ghost of a nod.

"Persuasion is better than force. They never did understand it. I seem to remember Nigel snatching the book out of my hands and hitting Bruce over the head with it."

Morien stifled a smile.

"As I said, no subtlety. Stopping you on the road, for example: a stupid thing to do. Although, they are learning: planting drugs on your friend. That was good. A gamble, but good. And the phone calls, of course, they worked on a number of levels, I thought. That was the boys' idea."

"You scared me. You broke into my home."

"Yes, we did. Again, this was a necessity. We realised that you still had evidence, you see. A certain erroneous printout in your proposal. My name appeared by accident on the council database for only a few hours. It was removed as soon as one of my associates spotted it, but you had already...." He smiled. "All this trouble for a silly piece of paper.... Can you confirm, Miss Llewelyn, you have given it to the police, haven't you?"

Morien nodded.

"Hmm." It wasn't an angry sound, simply a sound of thoughtfulness. He pursed his lips. Then gave a quick, decisive nod himself. The smile reappeared. "I understand your proposal was wonderful, by the way; an awful lot of potential there. I wanted to be an architect when I was younger, you know, and then business got in the way, so to speak. Had the circumstances been different I might have helped you at Tumblety Street... fascinating architecture there, isn't it? And now that I see this place, and can understand why you were so drawn to it. But we all had to concentrate on the Woodhall Estate project. I'm a great believer in these regeneration projects, you know, especially when they take the whole community into consideration."

"You reduced crime on the Woodhall Estate for the Council...?"

"Not difficult, considering most of the dealers on the estate were ours in the first place. And we were able to offer a little friendly persuasion to the others... And, of course, in return the Council gave us redundant buildings for our own purposes. It was a nice, neat deal. No one had to get hurt. No one should have got hurt. The people of the Woodhall Estate were happy. The Council would have received universal praise for their accomplishments in regenerating an inner London estate. Certain council members could now afford a holiday home in the sun, a nice new car, the kids' school fees. And me and my colleagues had premises from which we could continue with our other interests and expand our client base beyond the East End. No one should have been hurt."

"What about the Boom Shack?"

"Ah, now that wasn't connected. Unfortunately, Miss Llewelyn, that's a reality of the business I'm in. In financial parlance they call it a hostile takeover. Some businessmen practice their hostility on paper in a boardroom. Others have to be a little more... physical." He finished his tea. "I don't like that side of it at all. As I said, conversation is far more civilised."

There was a pause, until Morien ventured a question. "Mr Lamprey, why am I here?"

Another sigh. "Oh," Gilbert said, "down to the matter in hand, then? I suppose we must." He screwed the cup back onto the flask and put it away. "I suppose we're here to ensure your silence, Miss Llewelyn."

Morien's eyes widened.

"Admittedly, much of what has happened over the last week has not been well handled. Mistakes have been made which have been more than detrimental to yourself and Miss West. I appreciate just how upset you must have been. I would like to make amends…."

Again he trailed off.

"Amends?" Morien blinked. "You're bribing us to keep quiet?"

Gilbert looked uncomfortable. "Bribery's an unfortunate word. It has such unpleasant connotations. I'd prefer to see it as a little commercial transaction for our mutual benefit."

"What's the point? The police have already raided Tumblety Street. That's all the evidence they need, surely?"

Gilbert shrugged. "I accept that that particular venture can't be salvaged, and sadly some of my associates will no doubt serve some time at Her Majesty's pleasure, but there's always ways and means. And you and your friend are key to the police investigation, especially when it comes to the boys. Your co-operation with us will not go unrewa…."

Morien almost laughed. "Your boys made our lives hell - there's a man dead, for God's sake, another in hospital - and you expect us to help them?"

"I can understand your concerns, Miss Llewelyn. The boys have not always behaved as I would have wanted, and for this I can only apologise. But it will be in your interests to co-operate with us."

Morien stood up as if she could go. "Mr Lamprey, perhaps I ought to thank you for your offer, but I don't care about money. I have everything I need. And even if I didn't, the answer would still be the same. No."

Gilbert sighed deeply and his shoulders slumped. "What a pity. I was really hoping you would say yes, Miss Llewelyn, please believe me. It's all so needless."

Morien stood her ground, and looked him straight in the eye. "So… you're going to kill me?" She was stunned at just how calm her voice was. Her heart was crying out. She wondered if Gilbert Lamprey had a gun. Or whether it would be Bruce or Nigel who would put a bullet in her head. Probably the latter. Gilbert Lamprey didn't get his hands dirty.

Perhaps it was the best. Maybe if she offered herself to them, they would leave Striker alone. Maybe this would end it all.

But such a short time with Striker, when she'd dreamed of a lifetime. That thought made her heart bleed.

"Oh, goodness, no," Gilbert interrupted her thoughts. "I think that would be a little inappropriate. I told you, Miss Llewelyn, I'm a subtle man." He smiled, his face friendly. "And please remember, I know a lot about you. I know where your brother lives, for example. I believe you have two little nephews, is that right?"

And Morien's blood froze.

"Don't you touch them!"

"I have no intention of touching them, Miss Llewelyn, because I know you're an extremely intelligent woman and we will be able to come to some agreement…."

How could he sit there, that calm, kind expression on his face, and threaten the lives of two children?

Morien sat back down, despair washing over her like plague. "Mr Lamprey…."

The door banged open, and they both jumped. They could hear swearing beyond. Gilbert's soft face crumpled in puzzlement, interest... a flash of anger? The back of the chapel was in shadow, now. The sun had moved. They both blinked into the darkness.

"Sorry, unc," a voice called, "but we found…."

"I found you, you fucking asshole," an unmistakably American accent responded.

"Shut the fuck up, you bitch."

There was a sound of spluttering in the background. "She broke by fucking dose…."

"Again," Striker said, as Nigel pushed her into the chapel hall.

Morien was on her feet, rushing towards her. Nothing mattered any more. All she needed was Striker. Striker's arms round her. Striker's kiss. Striker's body against hers. And a million guns and a million gangsters were never going to keep her away.

She threw her arms round her, burying herself in the soft smoky smell of the woman she loved.

"Sweetheart," she heard whispered into her hair. "Sweetheart, did they hurt you?" A hand came up and lifted her face, and she rose like a lark into sky blue.

"No, I'm okay, cariad. I'm okay," she said. She caught Striker's hand. "You've got blood on your hand." She ran a careful finger over grazed knuckles, then put her lips to them.

"It's nothing," Striker whispered and reached down for a kiss. A little caress of benediction, a sweet touch of thanksgiving, and then, not caring about their company, soul-deep devotion.

They barely heard from behind them Nigel's murmured comment, "If you two are going to get a room, can I come?"

"Nigel, a little respect please…."

This voice Striker didn't recognise. She finally peeled herself away from Morien and turned her attention to the man at the other end of the chapel. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Miss West," he said. He seemed small as he stood in the last remaining sunbeam, his hand held out in greeting. He smiled, welcoming.

And Striker strode up the room, her hand still clutching Morien's, pulling her on. "Are you Gilbert Lamprey?"

"Yes," he nodded, encouragingly, as the woman broke into the light, "I'm…."

And then his expression changed. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. Then "Oh my God" as if it had come from air. The colour seemed to drain from his face before their eyes. He stared at Striker as if he'd seen a ghost. "Who are you?"

Striker stopped. "What the fuck do you mean?"

He seemed to almost sway where he stood, his hand unconsciously raised to his chest. Then he said a single word that lingered in the chapel like a mote of dust in the dying sunbeam.

"Judy?"

Striker looked as if she'd been slapped.

"What did you say?"

Gilbert's lips were trembling. "You're the spit of her."

Striker took a step towards him, and he seemed to brace himself rather than take a step backwards. Unsure of what was going on, Morien kept a firm hold on Striker's hand. She could feel the muscles tense as steel under her fingers.

"Who?" The word was like a barest breath of air.

"Judy," he said. "Judith Bailey. No, no… maybe you are a little different from her. You're taller, darker. But you look just like her."

Morien looked at Striker and saw tears glimmering in her eyes.

"How… how do you know her?"

And Gilbert Lamprey's smile was back. Even more calm, even more gentle. His eyes gleamed with memory. "She was a friend of mine, a long time ago now. Years ago." He looked at her, his eyes clearing like the sky after a storm. "You're Rosie, aren't you? Little Rosamund. You must be. Of course, Rosamund West, the daughter in America. She used to talk about you all the time. She had photos of you…."

Striker closed her eyes. The use of that name was both a torment and a balm to her. She hadn't heard it in years.

"Where is she?"

"What?"

"My mother… where is she?" She sounded like a child now. There was an edge to her voice that made Morien's heart break.

"You… you don't know?"

"I haven't seen or heard from her for over twenty years." And then the anger came. It coursed through Striker's veins: hot, desperate and terrifying. The very walls seemed to fortified themselves in readiness. Morien felt Striker shift under her hand and she jumped at the movement and at the burst of rage that burnt her like an electric shock.

The shout echoed around them like a gunshot: "Twenty years not knowing… WHERE IS SHE?"

The reply was as gentle as the question had been violent; the voice almost conciliatory. "I could ask you the same question."

"Tell me. Tell me where she is. Tell me…!"

It happened too quickly.

Striker launched herself forward, reaching for Gilbert. She was taller than him, stronger than him. She took his arms in her hands and shook him. Hard. His eyes were wide, staring up at her. He braced himself against the onslaught. It didn't matter that he was the crime boss and she was his victim. She had the power.

"Stop," his shouts were as loud as his assailant's. "I don't know! Stop!"

He staggered back, breaking free from her. Now Morien moved forward reaching out for her. But Striker hadn't finished. She pushed on, her outstretched hand more beseeching than threatening…

…when she was stopped by a blast that echoed around the room.

She stumbled, almost tripping, but caught herself before she fell. She stared at Gilbert Lamprey, his eyes mirroring her own shock. Again she tottered forward, unable to stop herself…

…and another blast.

And a voice, nasal and spluttering, "Don't you fucking hurt my uncle."

Striker wheeled round, her mouth was open. She could taste blood. She looked at the brothers, standing in the shadow in the doorway; the glimmer of the gun in Bruce's hand.

She looked down at her hands. They were warm, scarlet….

And the pain blossomed inside her until there was nothing left of her except pain. Without thinking or feeling, her head went up, her eyes closed. She had no control any more. And somehow her eyes pared themselves open, and she was caught…

…in the greenest gaze.

My love.

My life.

"Morien?" Her voice sounded strange. It bubbled. Hot liquid spilled up from her throat. It tasted of metal. Her mouth filled.

And another blast.

And the force of it carried her to the floor.

It was dark in the chapel. From somewhere, someone was shouting, "No!" A man's voice. She thought… she thought she could hear sirens…. Then there was a soft touch, a gentle, sweet, loving touch.

"Striker." Morien fell to her knees.

All was chaos around her. There were voices behind her, shouts, "Fuckin' hell, bruv, we gotta get out of here." Doors banging. Gilbert Lamprey, had slumped against the wall, his cheeks bright with tears.

But nothing, nothing was worthy of her attention. Only Striker.

Cariad….

Blood was seeping from her chest, her abdomen, everywhere. She tried to stop the flow, putting her hands over a possible source. It was as if she could feel the slowing pulse of Striker's heart under her fingers.

Oh God, please no.

"Morien…." She could barely hear her voice now. It seemed to ooze out of her mouth, saturated in blood.

"Don't talk now, cariad, save your breath."

The almost imperceptible shake of a head. She had to say this. If it was with her last breath, she had to say this. There was no pain now. Beyond pain, her body felt numb. She tried to move her arm and was surprised when it rose, almost despite her efforts. Morien caught it in her own, kissed the palm. Don't do that, sweet thing, you'll get your beautiful face all bloody.

It felt as if she had the weight of the world on her. So much left to do. And she'd failed. She wasn't a knight. She was a fuck-up kid meeting death on the floor of a strange building in a strange land. And the only thing she'd ever done right was fading in front of her.

Gimme time, please… give… me… time.

One more thing to do right.

Her chest seemed solid. No room for air, no room for life, it was filled with blood and love and that was all. But, she had to say this.

And before Morien left.

It was like she was fading away. Her eyes felt heavy with sleep. That would be good: to sleep, curled up with Morien. That was what she wanted.

Morien reached down, trying to wipe some of the blood from Striker's face with her hand. Striker wanted to kiss it.

"Morien…," she said.

"Striker, don't…."

"Morien," her voice a whisper. She clutched her hand, felt the sinews of muscle and bone in her fingers. Each word now. An effort. Pushed. Almost trapped. She looked into that beautiful sea-green gaze, filled with tears, and said it:

"I…

…love…

…

…you…."

Morien's breath caught in her mouth.

And Striker's eyes closed.



There was no sound in the chapel.

No sound.

Morien realised the heartbeat she could feel in her fingers was her own.

"Striker?" Her voice seemed small in the silence.

The woman before her was quiet and still.

"Striker… can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Striker… please, sweetheart…. Striker…?"

She put her hands to Striker's face. Pushed away a lock of hair from her forehead. It was stiff with wet blood.

She bent down trying to catch a breath. There was nothing, only the bubble of scarlet at Striker's mouth. She felt a sob begin to tear her apart. She stifled the cry that threatened to slash its way up her throat.

Maybe if…. Her hands still cradling Striker's face, she bent down and captured the drowning mouth with her own. The full lips were wet, warm and salty beneath hers. She could taste metal on her tongue. "Sweetheart…," she whispered against the still mouth. "Live for me, cariad, please."

"Come on, love, let us take her."

There was a woman at her shoulder. A man behind. And suddenly the chapel was full of people and sound and noise and Morien felt as if something inside her had snapped. A connection… a lifeline….

The paramedics were there, crowding round, police everywhere; Gilbert Lamprey was led away, blood splashes on his old suit, his hands cuffed behind his back, his face as grey as the eyes trained on Striker. He was saying something to her…. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…."

There were hands on her shoulders. "Come on, Morien, love." Idomeneo was here.

She had moved without even knowing it. There was distance now between herself and Striker. She couldn't see her. They had hidden her. And then she heard a noise, a strange, unearthly keening noise that seemed to ring all around her.

And she realised it was coming from her.



Chapter 25: Branwen's starling²


She was a shadow covered by the night.

She was the silent corner in a storm of midnight noises.

She was the dead centre of a nightmare vortex.

Gently, Sullivan led his daughter through the front door of the cottage.

At least she had stopped shaking now.

Carefully, he sat her down on the sofa. He kept his voice low and soft. "Can I get you anything, cariad?"

There was an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

"Not even a cup of hot chocolate? Just to warm you up?" He gave her bare arms a rub. She didn't answer, so he took it as a 'yes' and went to put the kettle on. He then took his place again, crouched down in front of his daughter. He placed his hands soothingly on her clasped fists. "I think you ought to have a wash and get into some clean clothes, sweetheart, all right?"

Finally, Morien took in her father's words, and looked down at herself. Her cotton summer dress, once aquamarine, was now brown and stiff with dried blood. A nurse had bathed her face and hands at the hospital, but her arms and legs were still coated.

"I'll get a bath running, okay?"

Morien looked up, and Sullivan was swallowed by the loss in her eyes. It was a feeling he recognised; had almost forgotten. And the searing pain that had diminished over the years almost resurfaced. He felt tears block his throat, echoing his daughter's sorrow and remembering his own grief. But he needed to be strong. He buried himself in the mundane.

It had been terrible when Idomeneo had come to the school to find him. The policeman had arrived just after the last class, with students still a chaos in the hallways. Sullivan had seen him through the throng. He had known the moment he saw the big man that something was terribly wrong. He had been wearing a raincoat… on a fine day… hiding the blood on his shirt. Sullivan had heard the quiet, professional words in his ear, "I've come to take you to the hospital. Morien needs you," and the world had contracted around him.

Pale and shaking, he had left with Idomeneo for the hospital, to find his daughter inconsolable.

She had been sitting in a shadowed corner of the waiting room, as if the light would damage her. A policewoman sat nearby, on hand, but not too close, seemingly concerned that the woman's silent anguish was infectious. Sullivan had lifted her face and in the twilight of dark neon he'd seen the brown blood clinging to her skin, and he had thought it was hers.

She had let words drift over her, of explanation, of condolence, of instruction, yet all she could hear were those three words in the blast of sound: I love you.

She hadn't seen Striker again. They hadn't let her. So she was left with the recurring image of gunshots ripping through her lover's body. Of dusk falling on blue sky eyes. The blood red of their lives. Those words...

I love you.

I love you.

I love you, too...

She clung to the phrase as it bridged life and death.

And slowly, like dripping reality, annoyances started to crack through. They were talking at her... over her.

"There's nothing you can do here."

"You ought to go home."

"It's best for her… consider her own health."

"There's nothing she can do here."

Nothing I can do….

"Daddy, I need to stay with her."

"Morien, love, come on…."

"No."

"For your own good."

"I don't care about my own good."

"Please, cariad…."

"I'M STAYING HERE!" Her own voice unreasonably loud in the hush of the hospital. People she didn't know or didn't recognise in the haze of darkness, standing round, telling her what to do.

"You can't stay here. Please, Mo, there's nothing you can do now." And she'd watched the tears fall down her father's cheeks. So, she'd cautiously accepted the drink which had been sickly and made her gag and….

A journey as blurred and incomprehensible as the one in the back of the Post Office van.

Now, Morien sat on the sofa.

It had been something to help her relax. It made her body feel heavy and her mind feel numb. Now, she couldn't think. She didn't want to think of what had happened. Her thoughts were a kaleidoscope.

So she sat.

"Come on, sweetheart," she heard her father say. "You'll feel better after a bath."

It was as if her mind was trying to zoom in on a single thought, but wouldn't focus. A thought struck her. "I ought to phone…."

Her father interrupted, "It's too late to phone anyone tonight. We'll sort things out tomorrow."

"You've got work tomorrow."

"No I haven't. I'm taking some time off. You need me right now. And I'll phone anyone that needs phoning, you just give me the numbers, all right?"

She nodded, half understanding what Sullivan had said. "Asha," she said, "so she can tell Danny…."

"Okay…," Sullivan said, letting her go on. There was a pause that even Morien noticed. "Cariad," he ventured, "should we be phoning anyone in America? Do you know anything about Striker's parents?"

Her brow creased. Striker's parents. In the brown confusion of her thoughts, her mind fixed on a single fact. She looked at her own father, concern shining in his eyes. "He knew her," she said. Her voice was faint and searching.

"Pardon, sweetheart?"

"He knew her… he knew her mother."

Sullivan shook his head slightly, not quite comprehending what his daughter was saying. "I'm sorry, my love, I don't understand…."

And then the expression on Morien's face changed. Her gaze grew grass-soft and faraway. "Striker's name is Rosamund." She half-smiled. "Isn't that a beautiful name? Rosamund West." Then blind confusion creased her face. "Daddy, I didn't want to leave her. What am I doing here? I need to get back…"

Sullivan's voice stayed calm despite the fear that was beginning to invade him. "Mo, my love, there's nothing we can do there. It's best we stay here and get some rest."

Morien looked at her father - the familiar hazel eyes, the worried gaze behind the shining glasses. He really did need a haircut. Her voice was barely a whisper. "This is hell, isn't it, daddy?"

She could see his throat move as he swallowed. "Yes, my love, it is."

Morien's shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes, then seemed to make a decision and nodded. She stood up slowly, as if every bone was creaking, and moved out of the room. Her father heard each careful step upstairs and then heard the bathroom door close.



* * * * *



Her senses were pervaded with the scent of smoke and roses.

Her body was on fire, hands touching, teasing, almost as if they were under her skin. It was as if she could see fingers moving beneath her stretched flesh.

She reached to meet the fingertips, touching her own skin, brushing her body, feeling the nerves jump. Something warm and wet and liquid electric trickled between her thighs. She could feel strong fingers slide between her folds, teasing at her entrance. She could feel herself rising, her hips instinctively lifting off the sheet to meet and guide the probing digits, her body heat increasing, her arousal reaching fever pitch. She could feel the weight of a body on top of her, craved that feeling, and slipped a finger inside.

And her whole body and soul screamed out. Striker.

Her cheeks were wet. She didn't think she could cry any more.

Striker, you stopped me from being afraid. Now I can't feel anything else. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to be without you.

It was 2.30 a.m. Too late to sleep, too early to wake.

The clock ticked, but time had given up passing.

She lay on her side, her face buried in the pillow that still smelt faintly of her lover. She felt stiff material under her fingers. Her father had wanted to take her blood-soaked dress away, but she couldn't part with it. It was rigid with Striker's life.

Her mind was an empty ballroom - echoing with dancesteps of thoughts. There had been a Cinderella once. A prince, tall and dark and beautifully female, who had embraced her, swept her away and turned her head-over-heels in love.

But the other slipper had dropped. And peace and her princess still didn't come.

All she had left was a bloody dress and the faintest scent…

…that brought back the devastation of her desire.

She could still sense Striker in her mouth: the way her release had vibrated against her tongue, the final gush of arousal, tangy, smoky and rich, as it flooded her mouth, the taste of blood….

Her body ached with need, weariness and grief, but it made her unable to rest. She needed to do something, and she thought, briefly, about calling a taxi and going back to the hospital. Taking the Volvo, even….

Torpidly, she played back the events of the afternoon. Her mind's eye saw Striker lying there, blood pooling on the floor around her. She saw Gilbert Lamprey, led away in handcuffs. She heard the brothers' voices from somewhere. She heard Gilbert's velvet tones: You're the spit of her….

She remembered the woman in the photograph, so like Striker, but so different too. Striker had asked her to paint her mother.

Nothing I can do….

That thought like a lightening bolt.

Striker had asked her to paint her mother.

She lifted herself out of bed and, still with the dress clutched to her, she tip-toed into Striker's room. It would always be Striker's room, now.

She closed the door and turned on the bedside light. Nothing had changed. Striker's clothes were still piled untidily around her spilling suitcase. The bed had been made, but there was an indentation in the duvet where, perhaps, she'd sat. Morien put a hand to it.

Easey was curled up on the bed. She lifted her head as Morien approached, blinking in the light. Just beyond the little cat was Striker's leather jacket. Morien felt her throat tighten at the sight of it. She found herself sitting by Easey, running a hand over the leather. It still felt warm, as if Striker had only just tossed it on the bed and left the room… just for a moment. It was almost too much to touch it.

Morien went to the suitcase, running her hands over the clothes, the books peeking out from under the material. The back pocket. That was where the secrets were kept. She dipped her hand against the silky lining, her hand immediately touching paper. A lucky dip of Striker's life. It was a bundle of letters, cards, postcards, tied together with ribbon. Morien wondered, for just a moment, whether she was intruding. But she needed to do this. She pulled the bow apart and picked out a card. It had two hugging teddy bears on the front.

The handwriting was neat, careful and easy to read, obviously written with a cartridge pen rather than a simple biro. Written by someone who cared about what she was writing - the way it looked, the way it read.



My darling Rosie,

Thank you so much for your letter. It was such a joy to hear from you. I'm so pleased that you're getting on so well at school. I am so proud of you.



Sentences, paragraphs, mixed up on the sheets of paper:



I have a job. I work as a secretary for a businessman who buys and sells all sorts of things. I put a photo of you on my desk and everybody who passes asks me who you are and says how pretty you are.



And more:



I think you'll like the apartment. It's small, but just the right size for two people. I hope you like your room. You can decorate it any way you like, although I was thinking about trying to find something like the dragon freeze you've got at home. Would you like that? Or would you like something new?



A postcard - a picture of the Tower of London.



I can't wait to bring you here! We can see how it compares to all those castles we read about!



A paragraph from a letter jumped out at her:



Please believe that your father loves you very, very much and is every bit as proud of you as I am. He shouldn't have shouted at you the way he did, that was wrong, but I'm sure that underneath he's very sorry. He's very sad right now and he needs your love as much as you need his.



Another letter:



I miss you so much, darling. I carry your picture round with me. I'm working very hard to get to see you.



And:



I know it's hard, but Dad and I and the lawyers are trying very hard to sort out when you can come and visit, sweetheart. Sometimes these things take time, because we both love you very much and we want the situation to be the best it can for everybody, but especially you.



Another card:



I've almost got enough money saved for you to come and stay, my love. And just remember, if your father won't let you come here, then I'll come and visit you. Either way I will see you soon, Rosie. I promise.



More and more and more, bundle after bundle of cards and letters, until Morien was surrounded by a sea of paper. And from the patchwork waves, there was always the end:



I love you, my beautiful girl.



All my love, always

Mum xxx



And at last, Morien reached into the suitcase pocket and pulled out the worn copy of Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, and the photograph of Judith Bailey West fell into her lap.

She picked it up from where it was resting on the blood-soaked dress and stared at the face. "What happened to you?" she found herself asking out loud. "How does Gilbert Lamprey know you? Did he have something to do with you going missing?" The faded image held its secret. "Your daughter loves you. You would be so proud of her. She's the most amazing person…."

But, now, she couldn't finish that thought.

She looked at Judith's blue eyes, the light in them almost extinguished by time. She wouldn't let that light go out. "I'll find you," she whispered. "If... if she can't, one day I'll find you... for her."

And she got up, gathering the photo and the dress and leaving Easey curled up in a cradle of letters.



* * * * *



It was 5.15 a.m.

Sullivan blinked in the daylight peering through the gap in the curtains, although it hadn't been this that had woken him. He had fallen into a deep sleep when he had finally ensured that his daughter was resting, but was now aware of movement in the house that was more than feline.

He heaved himself out of bed, becoming aware of the light in Striker's room as he opened the door to the landing. But he was drawn downstairs. The sitting room was glowing.

All the lamps were blazing and the morning streamed through the open patio doors. His daughter seemed oblivious of the brightness and his presence. She was standing at her old easel, the frame supporting a canvas. She was sketching: positive, determined strokes from a charcoal pencil decorated the surface. Each time she added another mark, she would caress the line with her thumb, smoothing, changing. It looked like Striker, but….

Her face was so close to the canvas she only needed to purse her lips to kiss the outlined cheeks. However many dark lines she stroked onto the surface, however black the charcoal was, the sketched face seemed to radiate brightness.

On this most despairing of nights, she could only create light.

Every muscle in her body ached. She had been working through pain and exhaustion for hours, but none of that mattered any more. The only thing that mattered was the mark of charcoal on canvas. Lips on skin.

"Morien…."

She jumped and turned. "Dad…."

"How long have you been awake?"

She didn't answer, simply shrugging, then turned back to the canvas, regarding it through half-closed eyes. She added another line, another touch.

"You should really get some sleep, cariad…."

"I can't sleep, dad."

"Rest, at least. This is not resting. Think of your…."

"Please, don't…. I need to do this."

Sullivan watched another line, another caress. He sighed. "It's amazing, sweetheart. It's going to be just like her."

Morien half-turned, a tiny steel-glint of amusement in her eye. "It's not her, it's her mother." She watched her father's puzzled face as he gazed at the picture. "I promised her I'd do this. I won't let her down on this."

"You've never let anyone down, Mo."

Morien sighed and stood back a little, staring into the black and white eyes on the canvas. "Yes I have. I've let myself down." She looked back at her father. Her own eyes, she knew, were wild, red-rimmed and exhausted. They felt it. "I've let you down. I've let Striker down…."

Sullivan moved over behind his daughter, putting his hands on her shoulders. "You haven't let…."

Her voice was thick with sorrow and self-hatred. "Dad, if I hadn't been so stupid, Striker might be…." Her right hand suddenly jerked, the pencil flying across the room. "Daddy…."

"What's wrong?" He clutched at her shoulders.

She leant back against her father, grateful for his support. She could feel her knees trembling. Her arm jerked again. "Fucking hell!" The expletive was sobbed. "Seizure."

Sullivan felt a wave of panic go through him. He was aware his hands were digging into his daughter's shoulders now. "Do you need to sit down? Do you need to lie down?"

"Sit down… sit down." Sullivan backed them both onto the sofa.

"Do you need anything? A glass of water?" He could feel Morien shaking under his fingers. She was breathing heavily.

"No…." She was crying again. Huge gasping sobs, brought on by physical shock as well as mental anguish. She was losing everything: her sanity, her lover, her body…. If she slipped under this time, if this turned into more than a partial, if she lost consciousness… this time she didn't want to recover.

She could feel the muscles in her neck stiffening, unsure of whether it was tension or the overtones of a tonic seizure, she tried to move her head and managed to look at the canvas.

Striker, my love, help me. I can't live without you. You make me feel alive. I want to be alive again.

And her entire body went warm.

She was blazing, as she had been in Striker's arms. She was blazing like a fire on a winter's day. She could hear her father say from a distance, "God, Mo, you're burning up…" and everything went black.

An Underground tunnel... pitch black, the breeze strengthening from the oncoming train. But all she could feel was the warmth behind her, and she turned to see a tall woman in t-shirt and jeans - a black leather jacket thrown casually over her shoulder. The woman glanced up and, for eternity, she lost herself in the bluest gaze she'd ever seen.

There was a voice - as she'd always imagined.

Know that you're not alone.

She wasn't alone. She never would be.

Her breathing eased.

It felt as if she had been holding her breath for the entire night, her entire life, and now she could breathe again. She inhaled slowly, taking in the blissful fresh air that was flooding from the tunnel, flooding through the windows.

She opened her eyes.

She had dropped onto the floor, her backside and wrists now feeling the impact of the sudden descent; her body throbbed with the neural rush. The rug was rough beneath her fingers. Through the patio doors she could see Snowflower dancing with a butterfly on the lawn. She took another breath of fresh air.

Then exhaled and turned her head to greet her father's terrified face on the sofa above her. In any other circumstances his expression would have been funny. She reached up a weak hand and rested it on his knee. "It's okay, dad," she said. "I think it's over." She breathed again. "It's over."

She could still feel tears running down her face but they didn't seem to matter any more. Sullivan reached down and she put her arms round his neck, grateful for his presence. And he drew her up into his lap, and held her like a baby.

"Daddy," he finally heard, whispered against his shoulder. "Please take me back."

And he nodded.

Chapter 26: Giving Up Smoking³


She had made it through the night.

Morien sat in the passenger seat of the Volvo, listening to the engine muttering about the hour. Her father sat hunched behind the wheel. A dull light reflected onto his spectacle lenses, making them and his thoughts impenetrable. The sun had risen, colourless and subdued behind a bank of cloud. The Welsh countryside glimmered under a covering of dew. Birds wavered between grey sky and green landscape, the haze of purple mountains in the far distance standing vigil.

Everything seemed to be veiled and quiet, unwilling and unable to face the onslaught of the coming day and reality.

She had made it through the night. Her body echoed with pain and exhaustion, but she forced her body out of the car, barely stopping to talk to the doctor, half-running down the now-familiar hospital corridors, as they echoed in turn with her footsteps. Sullivan was left far behind.

These corridors seemed as reverent and still as a church. No, Morien thought, a small, country chapel compared to the cathedral that was St Vincent's. And in her headlong rush she felt as if she was the only living thing remaining.

But she needed to see her… whatever state she was in now, she needed to see her.

By a miracle, she had made it through the night.

It was a quiet room, small, containing only a few beds, making room for equipment. Machines that hissed, machines that beeped, machines that dripped. That morning, beyond the nurse's station, only one bed was occupied, in the corner.

There was a chart at the foot. Not much of it made sense, but one thing caught Morien's eye at the head of the page.

Name: West, Rosamund Sarah Bailey.

Rosamund West. Why had she hidden herself away for so long?

She walked round the bed, conscious of her own heartbeat keeping time with the EEG, conscious that it wasn't that long ago since Striker had crept into her hospital room and watched and wondered. Had she felt like this: so reverential, so in awe, as if she'd come in to confess her sins?

Gently she sat herself down, her head bowed for a moment, and then she reached out and wrapped her hand round Striker's still fingers.

Her lover's hair seemed so dark against the white of the pillow. Her skin was ashen, as if every drop of blood in her had haemorrhaged through Morien's fingers to stain the floor of the Salem Chapel. Her chest and abdomen were a mass of bandages, too thick to disclose any movement. She looked entombed. Tubes punctured her skin, her arms, snaking past her head like a hidden Medusa. Morien could hear the hiss and click of the machine that supported her breathing. A plastic mask covered her nose and mouth, clouding with air.

She squeezed the hand in hers and opened her mouth, but was suddenly unsure of what to say. Words that had only been part of the drone the night before, this morning, finally came to the fore.

Vascular surgery, they had said. Transfusion. Blood. So much blood. And a lifetime of thoughts and expressions and phrases - procedures, surgery, discussed, dismissed, pursued, imagined, until Morien could feel the scalpel parting her own skin. And all now condensed to a single word.

Critical.

"Hi," she started. "It's me. I... I...." She took a breath. This was Striker. "How did you do this? How did you do this for someone you didn't even know?" She gazed down at the quiet face. "You're a remarkable person, Rosamund West. But then, you said yourself, you've got a way with more than words." She squeezed her hand again.

Striker was unresponsive. The machine hissed and clicked.

"I took a leaf from your book, though. Almost literally." She pulled a book out of her bag, and held it up for Striker to see. But her eyes remained closed - lashes resting long and dark against her cheeks. "I hope you don't mind."

She placed the book on the edge of the bed and, briefly, brushed her fingers over the worn cover: Sleeping Beauty and Other Fairy Tales.

Then she picked a tale.

"'Once upon a time, in a country a long way from here, there stood a flourishing city, full of commerce; and in that city lived a merchant so lucky in all his ventures that it seemed as if fortune waited on his wishes.'"⁴

And to the beat of the cardiograph, the expectant hush of the ventilator, the room bore witness to the merchant's downfall, his beautiful daughter, and the Beast with whom he made a dreadful deal.

The room seemed still quieter as Morien's voice died away on the happy ever after.

She closed the book and put it to one side. Still clutching Striker's hand, she rested her chin on her own outstretched arm simply to watch her lover breathe; watch the breath cloud the mask; willing her chest to rise and fall.

It was still touch and go, they had said. Words bandied around from last night, this morning and in-between still flittered in her head. Laparotomy. Organ donation. Love. Miracle….

Words from a lifetime ago:

"Hello, love, can you hear me? You're in hospital."

"Can you tell how deep that wound is?"

"We almost lost her early this morning," a consultant had murmured at her as she'd made her entrance. "We'd almost given up on her. But her condition started to improve just a little while ago. Nothing we did. She wants to live. She's still unconscious, but she's stable. However, I must warn you, it's still…."

Touch and go….

She touched a finger to an alabaster cheek. In a moment in time, she'd changed from a knight to an Arthurian lady.

My Lady Rosamund.

MY lady… Rosamund.

"Hold on," she whispered.

The EEG beat strongly. The ventilator hissed in regular time.



* * * * *



She soon came to know the hospital as if she was following a thread through a labyrinth. However far she strayed - the canteen, the toilets - she'd always find her way back to Striker's bedside. But she would never stray for long. Mostly she sat by the bed, one hand resting on a motionless arm, the other propping up a sketchpad, a jotter, a book. Sometimes she'd read out loud, sometimes simply to herself, sometimes the book was forgotten on her lap and she'd simply stare at the cool marble of her lover's skin. The gentle planes of her face. She'd talk to her, about everything and nothing. Sweet nothings in the unhearing ear. Ideas, plans, wishes. And all too often she'd find herself drifting off, falling into sleep next to Striker as if she could reach her there. This way, minutes stretched into hours, stretched into... but here time had no meaning.

But she'd find herself awakened by an abrupt Welsh voice, or a soft Welsh voice, depending on the shift. And she'd wait outside, listening to the voices of the consultants and nurses talking in hushed medical tongues. Or she'd find her father waiting to take her home, talking of food and rest and things that didn't seem important.

Home, now, was only a blur of hot restlessness and waking dreams in the dark. Counting each clock tick until it was time to go back to the hospital. In the dawn hours she'd find herself padding downstairs to the sitting room, unveiling the canvas, touching the picture; a mark here, a stroke there. No colour.

No colour in life or art.

But now the room had started to change from the first time the nurse had shaken her awake and shooed her out on that first day of vigil. It was still too quiet, but in that quiet there was a new spring. Vase by vase, almost bud by bud, flowers started to bloom; creeping round the walls, transforming the still church into a living arbour. From Idomeneo, from Kishen, from Drake.... Messages of support, hope, love.

Still too quiet. Just the hiss of the ventilator, the beeping of the EEG.

She took the book out of her bag, flicking through the familiar stories. Such a lot had happened since the American bad girl had turned storyteller for a friendless stranger. She remembered sitting on a train and thinking of her voice before she'd even met her. What was the poem?

Morien closed her eyes and recited:

"'Gweld y more gynta
yw'r agosa yr awn
at ddarganfod gwir ryfeddod.

Saif yno'n arlais, i'n didol,
yr amlinell rhwng nef
a daear, gofod a dyfroedd.'"

Language like a magic spell.
And a sound beyond the silence.⁵

"Striker?"

The slightest movement under her hand. Fingers slowly curled up to touch her own.

Something mumbled, incomprehensible under the plastic mask.

"Cariad?" She was on her knees now. The EEG picked up the beat, the ventilator wheezing.

Another hand inched up and touched the mask, gripping it just enough for it to move.

And the rusty whisper of a voice, barely more than a movement of cracked lips, allowed a single word.

"Ow."

"Oh God, Striker." Morien's utterance was as tiny as her lover's, muffled by a sound - half-sob, half-chuckle.

And the first light of a blue gaze through half-closed eyelids.

The first glimmer of dawn, as the sun cracked the horizon.

The first slight curve of her mouth as that gaze met green.

And Morien was speechless.

Until....

Striker's hand shook on the mask, fighting against the tough elastic, and for a moment, the opaque plastic obscured her mouth again. The ventilator hissed briefly. And then the fingers moved again, regaining strength for just a short time.

Morien glanced back at the nurses' station. "Should you be doing that?"

There was the tiny flash of humour in the lidded eyes, like brilliance through clouds. "Fuck it."

The nurse was coming. Morien could feel the disturbance in their air.

Striker's mouth moved, a touch of a dry tongue on drier lips. "Where... am I?"

Morien placed a gentle hand on Striker's forehead. It felt lukewarm, clammy... alive. "You're in hospital, my love, in Caernarfon."

Striker's eyes momentarily closed, the mask slipped back over her face. Morien could feel the puzzlement under her fingers, and a jolt of cold worry ran through her. The nurse was at her shoulder. Others entering the room.

"Cariad," she whispered. "You know who I am, don't you?"

The nurse persuaded her to her feet. A doctor took her place at Striker's side.

A single connection left, hands still touching.

And, just for a moment, Striker opened her eyes again. As blue as the sky over the bay. Her fingers bent under Morien's, a single finger lingered on her palm.

Always, my love, that finger said. Always.



* * * * *



Gentle moments of consciousness. Growing longer. Now time mattered more than anything.

Morien would find herself staring at Striker for hours; just watching and waiting. Roles reversed - the irony wasn't lost on her. Watching her stillness, broken only by the tiny movements of sleep as insignificant and beautiful as cloud-shadows across a dormant land. Watching for the signs of waking - the flex of a muscle, a muffled sigh, a blink... once... twice....

The slightest movement of a tubed arm, and the mask would be pulled off.

"You're still here."

"Where else would I be?"

A breath so deep she almost moved the bandages. "Out havin' fun."

"No fun without you, cariad." Morien clutched her hand to her, cradling it in her own. "How are you feeling?"

Striker looked at her, an eyebrow raised slightly. "Like I've... been shot." She put the mask back on her face, just for a moment, breathing as deeply as she could.

Morien smiled down at her. "Okay, so that was a stupid question."

"Are you okay?"

The question was soft and muffled, but still caught Morien by surprise. "You get shot three times, almost died and you're asking if I'm all right?"

The mask came off again. "Are you?" came out as a wheeze, a noise that made Morien's chest constrict.

"Cariad, please put that back on."

Striker put the mask back on, but her hand grasped Morien's, asking the question that her blue eyes echoed.

"No. I'm not all right. I almost lost you."

Striker lifted Morien's hand, placing it on her own cheek, nuzzling it gently; a strange mixture of soft skin and cold tubing to Morien. But the skin was warm, and Striker was alive. That was all that mattered. She looked down at her love's face: her eyes dark, shuttered rings against white marble.

There was silence in the room again, and again the machines filled the void. But neither woman seemed to hear them.

Morien eventually spoke: "I don't know what to call you anymore."

Striker looked at her, her eyes unfathomable - gauging Morien's thoughts. And then away. The mask covered her face, until: "Striker."

"But your name's…."

"Striker." She struggled for breath. "No one calls me… Rosie anymore." She glanced beyond Morien. The nurse was approaching. Striker held out a hand, wanting just a few more moments alone with Morien and the nurse seemed to relent. She clutched the smaller woman's hand to her, and captured her eyes with her own, needing to explain. "Rosie died twenty two years ago."

Morien's own breath caught in her throat. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the bleakness in Striker's gaze. Unable to bear the thought of the pain this woman had endured over the years. But she remembered what Striker had said just a few days before. Somewhere inside her was that ten-year-old girl. She opened her eyes again, wondering whether to say what she was thinking, unsure of whether it would hurt this woman she loved. She licked her lips and spoke. "You're wrong, you know. Rosie's only been asleep." Striker's brow creased a little, as if she was thinking, as if she was troubled.

Morien continued. "I want to call you Rosie," she said.

Striker seemed to be examining their joined hands; slowly she entwined their fingers. "We'll see," she finally said, and slipped the mask back on her face.

She looked so tired. So pale. So strange that a woman of such height and presence could look so small and fragile. Her eyes drifted shut.

"You need to sleep," Morien said, brushing an errant lock from the damp forehead. There seemed to be an answering smile behind the mask: the laugh lines deepened around Striker's closed eyes. Morien shifted, intent on leaving her to her rest, but Striker still held her hand.

And then that breathy whisper came again, muffled behind the mask. "Morien…."

"Don't speak, cariad, sleep."

A hand came up again, the mask was removed and Striker regarded her from under heavy-lidded eyes. "I love you." A breath. "Just had to say it."

And then the mask was back on, her eyes closed and her face relaxing into slumber. And again Morien watched her, warm breath rising like mist against the plastic covering her mouth.

"Damn it, Rosie… Striker… whatever the hell your name is… you don't half know how to get a girl."

But here, at the end, she couldn't say the same words in return. Not yet. There was something she had to settle first.

She put her head down on the bed - a cheek resting against bandage. Striker didn't smell smoky any more - too clean, too clinical - but still there lingered the faintest scent of musky roses. She closed her eyes and listened to Striker breathing.



* * * * *



Night had risen like a tide.

Morien had fallen asleep on the sofa; her mind full of noise: beeps, hisses, and three words that filled her life, which followed her into her dreams. And each time she opened her eyes - awake or asleep - Striker would be there, until she wasn't sure whether she was in the sitting room in the cottage, the work-in-progress on the easel to one side, or in the Intensive Care Unit next to her lover.

But an alien noise punctured the rhythm, dragging her into alertness and to an upright position.

She got to the phone a few seconds before Sullivan, aware that the call could be from the hospital. She was getting better, wasn't she?

"Hello?" Morien said, her voice thick with nerves.

There was nothing but crackle on the line.

"Hello?"

Was that someone breathing? An old, forgotten fear reared up inside.

Another crackle. And then: "Mo... it's me."

Morien paused.

Me? Who the hell was 'me'?

"I've been trying to get hold of you for days. I phoned home, but there was never any reply. What's happened to the answerphone?" The voice was familiar: a soft-plum voice that she remembered from somewhere, some time years ago. "I got hold of Drake in the end. He told me you were spending some time in Lleuadraeth. Are you okay?"

Oh. Morien blinked. Recognition soaked into her like a warm cup of tea. "Sophie?"

"Yes, Mo. Sorry, the line's not brilliant. You sound a little...."

"Where are you?"

"Er... somewhere near Cuzco. Listen, darling, there's been some stuff going on here and I really need to talk to you. But... Mo... I need to know if you're okay. Not being able to get hold of you has really freaked me out."

"I'm fine, Soph, I'm...."

Morien looked up at her father. His face was a soft cloud of concern. He didn't say a word, merely regarded her with a questioning gaze. Heavily, she sat down on the chair.

Crunch time.

"Actually… I'm not all right. So much has happened, I...." She was aware that, despite herself, tears were starting to fall again and her voice was shaking. But she looked at Sullivan, smiling at him reassuringly, and he smiled in return and nodded and turned back upstairs. "Soph, how much time have you got? We really need to talk."



* * * * *



Early morning: the dark still clinging to the corners. She'd woken up in pain and alone. The way the light fell in the room, the mechanical fritinancy, and beyond the sudden patter of raindrops on the windowpane... she was back in London.

Waking up in pain and alone.

The strange underscore of Danny's sound experimentation in the next door bedroom, she would reach for the cigarette packet, the bottle she'd left under the bed, and a book. Fairy stories, myths, poetry... reading to someone in her head - Shakespearean sonnets - dedicating them to her desire, wreathed in smoke and misery.

Or was it Vinnie's? Catching forty winks on the settee in the staff room on a quiet weekday night. Listening to the sounds of the medical world. But something had happened, hadn't it? She'd been woken by the sound of a siren....

A woman, unconscious, close to death.

Half-awake, half-asleep, barely-alive and wondering if the EEG was going to shoot her.

The clack of shoes roused her, and the mental jolt made her cry out with pain, except the sound she made was barely a murmur.

Then there were drugs, and a calm Welsh voice, and daylight coming through the windows. But there was still a part of her that wanted nicotine and alcohol and literature. But most of all...

She wanted Morien very much.

Her body was asleep; numb from the waist up. It was hard to move her arms. The tubes that attached her to the various pieces of medical equipment felt like chains. But her mind seemed to be painfully awake.... Aside from the hisses and beeps, and the familiarity of a waking hospital, she kept hearing voices, sirens, gunshots. Morien whispering her name... except it wasn't Morien. "Rosie," the voice said. "Rosie."

Nurses would come in and out (or maybe it was Striker who came in and out). Some would be chatty - if they saw she was awake. Some would be informative. Some would be quiet - if they thought she was asleep. They would bring soothing words and medical equipment and more flowers and doctors....

More drugs.

She must have been asleep for hours.

Or minutes.

Or days.

How long had it been now?

Time to cut out the hard stuff, fuck-up.

She gathered her strength, and pulled the mask over her head, merely holding the plastic in her hand, if she needed it. No more dependencies...

Except... She held the mask to her mouth.

There was a quiet and gentle bustle at the door. Friendly greetings passed at the nurses' station. An auburn vision with a smile like sunrise.

The room suddenly seemed brighter.

Morien felt like running to her when she saw Striker, overjoyed to see her already awake. She was propped up, the head of the bed had been raised slightly, and pillows stacked beneath the patient's head and shoulders. She still seemed gaunt and pale, as if she was in shadow. As if she was still bathed in the dark light of an Underground station, shades playing across her skin.

But the sparkle in her eyes was pure summer sky.

She moved forward struggling not to throw her arms, and thus her baggage, round the sick woman.

As if seeing her dilemma, slowly, Striker reached out a hand to Morien, and Morien grasped it, but the blue eyes moved to the bags Morien was clutching. She removed the mask. "Watcha got?" she asked. Her voice was still a rough whisper, but the tone was unmistakable Striker.

"Nice to see you too," Morien said, and taking advantage, she bent down and gave Striker a lingering kiss on the cheek.

Her eye was caught by a new vase of flowers standing on a table near the bed: a rainbow of carnations, chrysanthemums and freesias.

"Who are they from?"

Striker fumbled, finally plucking the little florist's card from where it rested by the pillows, and Morien understood why she kept it there. The two-word message would have meant the world to her lover. It simply said: Satta, sis.

Morien smiling, carefully placed it back by the pillows where Striker could see it.

"What does that mean?" she asked, sitting, trapping a hand.

"Relax... chill."

Satta. It meant she was all right. They were all right. There was nothing to worry about. It meant she had one of the best friends… no, two of the best friends a woman could have.

It meant Morien was here.

"They're beautiful," Morien said, but she was looking at the light in Striker's eyes as she said it.

But then she let go of Striker's hand, and reached down to the plastic carrier bag that had come to rest under the chair. Carefully, she drew out a single hydrangea bloom. "Mr Maguire called me over as I left the house, handed me this."

Striker looked shocked. Puzzled. "Mr Maguire?"

Morien smiled. "Do you think it'll fit in here?" She tucked it into the closest vase, where it contrasted handsomely with the other flowers. "Oh, and I ought to warn you, Mrs Jenkins is knitting you a bed jacket."

"What?" Striker almost choked. Morien gripped her hand as she took deep breaths from the mask.

"Don't worry. It'll probably be very tasteful. And pink. She wasn't sure of the size, so she'll most likely get Dad to try it on first."

Striker spluttered into the mask, and Morien caught a hiss from beneath: "Don't make me laugh. Please don't make me laugh."

Morien gave Striker a moment to recover before saying, "I've got some other stuff too." She reached into her tapestry bag, pulling out a pile of papers. "That's from Dai News." She placed a neatly folded copy of USA Today on the table. "It's actually USA Yesterday, we always were a bit slow up here. And this arrived this morning." She handed Striker an envelope, which the invalid opened with numb fingers. Inside was a card showing a fine art print and pronouncing best wishes from Drake and Kerensa and Get well soon, because we want to meet you properly.

"And there's this...." Morien opened this envelope, to Striker's relief. Another card showing a cartoon cat tucked up in bed. Inside was written, in a spider-like, teacher's hand, a greeting that made her breath catch:



To a woman with real guts

Get well and come home soon,

Sullivan x



"And this is from Dad, too," Morien continued. She handed Striker a pile of what looked like computer hardcopy. "That's right, isn't it? Philadelphia Phillies? He used one of the school computers and printed as much as he could off their website: news and results and match reports...." She looked at Striker, expecting an answer, but was startled to see her crying. "Striker?"

"I don't believe it," her voice barely a whisper almost lost in her breathing. "Everyone's so...." She winced in pain as a sob shook through her.

"Hey...." Morien reached forward, gently, resting her cheek against Striker's shoulder. Placing a gentle hand over her arm. "It's okay. You're a hero, you know?"

Striker shook her head, a tubed hand covering her face.

"Striker, you saved me. In so many ways. You'll always be my hero." Morien reached up and removed the hand from Striker's face, kissing the palm. "My protector." Another kiss. "My knight in worn-out sneakers." Another kiss. "Besides... I haven't finished yet." Again she reached into her bag. "I brought you some books.... I thought you'd like to read." A couple of paperback novels from Morien's own collection, Striker's copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and a book of Shakespeare's Sonnets were placed carefully on the table.

This woman was a miracle....

"And this...." She fished into the carrier again and brought out a red rosebud. "It's not as impressive as the other flowers, but I saw it in the garden and...."

Striker looked at her: green catching blue. Tears were still running down her face. They seemed to be doing that a lot lately. She clutched the rose in her hand.

"It's beautiful, I love it," she whispered. "I love you."

Morien smiled, feeling like crying herself. "I took the thorns off. I didn't want you to...."

Too much blood had been spilled. Too much sleeping had been done.

Striker took a few breaths with the mask. Then, "Morien...."

There was a pause, which made Morien worry. Striker couldn't meet her eyes.

"Tell me they got them," the whisper finally came.

"No one told you?"

She shook her head.

"They got them."

Striker closed her eyes and seemed to sink further into the pillows.

"It's over, cariad, you needn't worry."

"No it's not," was the hushed reply.

Morien caught her unveiling gaze and held it. "You can't contact him."

Striker looked away, lost in the rose's closed petals.

"You'll be a witness against him. It could prejudice the case if you did."

The slightest twist of her mouth.

"Striker, this man is ultimately responsible for everything that happened - to Danny, to the Boom Shack…."

And Striker's lips moved. "Paully." And there was tiniest ghost of a nod. A sigh that seemed to have come from the ventilator, had it not been for the telltale slump of Striker's head.

Morien pulled her chair even closer. Her tone was light when she spoke. "But who says we need Gilbert Lamprey? There's always electoral rolls."

"For which region." It was less a question and more the resigned statement of someone who had been there, thought of that.

"How about the online register? That covers the whole country."

Striker glanced at her. "I can't... get on it."

Morien lifted an eyebrow. "Maybe not, but you might know someone who can. I don't know... someone who works for a council, say...."

Striker's eyes widened. "Morien...?"

"There's no guarantee…."

"I know…."

"But maybe… we'll get a lead…."

"A lead…."

"But only when you're better. When we're home."

It seemed to take a conscious effort for the American to tamp down her excitement. But then she seemed to relax into the pillows, almost for the first time. She smiled, took a breath, and looked around at the gestures of strangers, acquaintances, friends... her lover.

Home? I think I am home.

She sniffled, then her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Nothing from Dean."

"Dean?" Morien's forehead creased as she frowned. "Dean Powell? What's he got to do with anything?"

"Doesn't matter."

The EEG beeped.

The ventilator hissed.

Finally, Morien spoke.

"Striker... I've been talking to Sophie."

There was a long pause. Suddenly, Striker seemed to find the EEG's screen very interesting. "How's she doing?" she asked.

"She's fine. We had a long chat, sorted a lot out. It was good to talk to her."

"Good," Striker said. Her voice was high, and breathless. She rolled the rose stalk between her fingers, holding it as if it was a cigarette, and hoped that Morien couldn't see her hands shaking.

Morien's eyes twinkled - little flashes of inner starlight in the deep green sea. "She's met someone."

Striker's head spun round, her mouth fell open.

"She's getting married," Morien continued.

"What?!"

"His name's Arturo."

"Arturo?" Striker felt the breath she'd been holding bubble loose and she winced as she stifled a ridiculously girlish giggle.

"I know, even Sappho was married. He's a local artist. He helps local children find themselves through art."

"It certainly worked on Sophie." Striker said in an ebullient exhalation. Suddenly, she couldn't seem to stop grinning.

Morien laughed. "I told her about you."

"You did?" Striker's grin faded.

Morien took back one of Striker's hands, and slowly drew little, teasing circles on her palm. "I told her I was in love with you."

The EEG beeped.

The ventilator hissed.

A warmth spread through Striker's body that she'd never known before. Suddenly she felt as if she could breathe unassisted. Suddenly, she felt like tap dancing round the ward.

But the slightest attempt at movement reminded her that she'd been shot three times.

And that she'd never taken tap dancing lessons.

Her chest was heaving, the EEG was skipping, the nurse at the station was looking worried, and she could feel her own ridiculously big smile stretching her face.

She took a breath: "You are?"

"Mmm hmm. I'm crazy about you."

Striker slammed the mask back on her face, gasping for breath, but shining blues never losing contact as Morien threw her head back and laughed a laugh of total joy.

"Hey, sweetie," Striker breathed at last.

"Yeah?" Morien's eyes crinkled at the endearment and caressed Striker's hand with her thumb.

"Say 'Arturo' again."

"Arturo."

"Again…"

"Arturrrrrrrro…."

The sigh this time was one of pure contentment. Striker couldn't resist reaching up and touching a soft auburn lock with a finger. Running another down the line of Morien's cotton headscarf. It was navy again… this time with small red roses round the edge. But none so beautiful as her own lady of flowers.

"You're weird," her lady smiled. "I can't believe you're getting off on me saying my ex-girlfriend's fiancé's name."

"Your fault... for sounding the way you do." The rose positively waltzed between Striker's fingers.

Morien leaned forward, her mouth tantalisingly close to Striker's ear. Her lips tickled Striker's earlobe as she said, "There's a much nicer name I could say."

"Yeah?"

"Rosamund."

Striker closed her eyes.

"Rrrrrrrosamund."

Striker gave a breathy groan. "You trying to kill me?"

"That's not funny."

Striker smiled. Her eyelids dipped. Morien reached out and stroked a lock of dark hair from her pale forehead, and watched as the blue gaze drifted shut. As inevitable as sunset.

"It's a beautiful name."

"Thank you."

Morien pulled back and Striker opened her eyes only to lose herself in the tenderness that was shining in her lover's gaze.

But sleep was coming, and she fought against it, even though she knew Morien would be there - gentle, sweet, loving - when she woke up again. There was one last thing to say. Something she'd wanted to say from the beginning. She took a deep breath from the mask. "Morien, I've been thinking…."

"What?" Morien looked worried.

"Maybe this is crazy..." a breath, "...after all that's happened. But I want to start again."

"What do you mean start again?"

"I mean…." She clutched Morien's hand in her own and took a gulp of air. After all they had been through together, how could this still be so terrifying?

She looked Morien in her beautiful deep-ocean eyes.

"Hi," she said, "my name is... Rosamund West. I've seen you around and… and I think you're… so beautiful. I was wondering… maybe… if you'd like to come out with me some time?"



THE END



For now.