Lost Souls (James Quinn Book 2), page 10
‘What? The …’
‘Domination shit? Yeah, exactly that. Anyway, I called the agency he uses, and guess what?
‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve got an appointment for you with Roxie.’
‘When you say “appointment”, what exactly do you mean?’
‘Promise you won’t be mad with me?’
‘No, I won’t promise. In fact, I can probably promise the exact opposite.’
‘Well, as I’m sure you can appreciate, I couldn’t exactly tell them you’re a detective, a former copper …’
‘Molly?’
‘Look, as far as Roxie’s concerned, it’s your birthday on Thursday. You’re lonely and you need cheering up. I told them you’ve not been having much fun since your wife died. I said the pair of you used to be into all that kinky stuff. You know, whips, chains. Nothing too erotic. A bit of harmless, common or garden bondage.’
‘Bondage? For fuck’s sake, Moll!’
Jason/Jayden suddenly stopped scissoring and his mouth fell. James glared at him and motioned for him to butt out.
‘Look, don’t worry, Jimbo, I told them you’re shy. And a bit rusty. You might need some limbering up, as it were. She’ll go easy on you. Besides, it’s only a thirty-minute appointment. It’s all I could afford. You should see their prices! And that’s before they add travel expenses.’
‘Travel expenses?’
‘Yeah. Anything outside the M25, they whack on mileage. She’s coming to your house.’
‘For Christ’s sake! You gave out my home address?’
‘What would you have preferred? A seedy motel on the A1? A disused car park? A dank alleyway?’
He was too annoyed, too shocked, to speak.
‘Look, all you have to do is go along with it for a bit, get her relaxed, press her buttons. Then find a natural segue to Urtė.’
His lips moved, but no words formed.
‘Or should I just cancel the whole thing, Jimbo? Kiss goodbye to the best lead you’ve had in years?’
Nothing.
‘Thought not. Let me know how you get on.’
He shook his head.
‘Jimbo? You still there?’
‘You … bastard.’
‘Catch you later, birthday boy,’ she said and hung up.
As he returned the phone to his pocket, Jason/Jayden enquired, ‘Everything okay, pet?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ James snarled, then added, ‘pet.’
EIGHTEEN
Rosa got to Kayleigh's house just after nine. In the cold light of day, the street looked different; far scruffier. The majority of the gardens were a mess of overgrown weeds, but this house had a freshly painted fence and a tidy front garden with a square patch of lawn and neatly tended shrubbery.
Rosa pushed the doorbell and waited. Nobody came. She tried again, pressing her thumb on the bell and keeping it there.
Eventually, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a dressing gown, her hair up in curlers. Rosa wasn’t expecting a woman. Kayleigh’s grandmother, perhaps? Although she couldn’t see any familial resemblance.
‘Well?’ the woman sneered, looking Rosa up and down with a sneering look.
Rosa took the phone from her pocket and held it out to the woman. ‘It is Kayleigh’s. She leave it behind.’
‘Who?’
Maybe Kayleigh had lied about her name?
‘Skinny, black hair, lots of piercings. Fourteen, fifteen years old … Your granddaughter, maybe?’
‘How dare you! I’m not old enough to be a grandmother.’
‘I do not understand,’ Rosa said. She checked her bearings. This was definitely the street. The same pretentious car was parked in front, she was sure of it. ‘Kayleigh say she live here. I drop her home last night. She went round the back, through the gate.’
The woman’s hand flew to her chest. ‘What?’ She turned back into the house and hollered, ‘Ted! Get down here!’
‘I am sorry,’ Rosa said. ‘I think I make terrible mistake. This must be wrong address.’
The woman calmed. ‘Well, I’m sorry, too. For my tone. Perhaps I’ve overreacted. We were burgled the other night, you see. While we were asleep. Can you believe it? They made such a mess. It’s not like anything was worth a great deal. Some jewellery, ornaments, that kind of stuff. But it’s the sentimental value, isn’t it? And the worst thing is the invasion of your own private sanctuary. I don’t think I’m ever going to feel safe again. I’ve barely slept since. My husband, on the other hand, he can sleep for England …’
‘You called, dear?’
The voice belonged to a dishevelled-looking man, now standing behind the woman.
‘False alarm, Ted. I thought for a horrible moment that our burglar friend might have returned last night, through the side gate. The gate I’ve told you time and time again to secure with a decent lock.’
The man started to stammer apologetically.
The woman sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter. Go back to your golf or whatever it is you’re watching on that box.’ She shooed him away, as if he were a bothersome fly.
‘I’m sorry I disturb you,’ Rosa said.
The woman shot her eyes to the sky. ‘Men! Who’d have ’em!’ she said as she closed the door.
‘Daisy?’
Rosa heard the name, but it didn’t register as anything relevant to her. She was too deep in thought, her mind in knots about Kayleigh, as she made her way back to the caravan. What was she up to? What game was she playing?
‘Daisy?’
This time, she turned towards the croaky old voice.
‘Oh, hello, Nancy. I did not realise. How are you?’
Nancy Patterson stood, stooped and slightly breathless, at an open gate. Behind her, at the end of a long, overgrown garden path, stood a three-storey, ramshackle house. It was weatherboarded, with dormer windows in the roof. Totally different to anything else in the street. To Rosa, it brought to mind all those American horror films she’d watched as a teenager and the tropes of the genre: rocking horse in the attic; creepy portraits; rickety staircase …
‘Is this your house?’ Rosa had pictured a little bungalow, or a retirement apartment, or an old people’s home.
‘Of course it is. Whose else would it be?’
Rosa smiled to herself.
‘Daisy, dear, will you help me open this damn box, please? My fingers have gone all stiff.’
‘Sure.’
Nancy opened her palm to reveal a tiny key. Rosa took it and used it to turn the lock in the mailbox. The small space was stuffed to capacity; it clearly hadn’t been emptied in a long time.
‘Are there any letters?’ Nancy asked. There was excitable hope in the old woman’s rheumy eyes. ‘I check every day.’
Rosa rifled through the mail. ‘There is many junk mails … some bills … Wait! What is this?’
A handwritten envelope.
Nancy clasped her hands together. ‘Will you open it for me, dear?’
‘Okay.’
Rosa opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. She held it out for Nancy.
Nancy raised her palm. ‘Will you read it to me? I’ve left my reading glasses in the house somewhere.’
‘Okay. If you are sure?’
‘It’s from Father, isn’t it?’
‘Your father?’
‘He’s fighting the Italians in North Africa. Don’t you remember anything I tell you, Daisy?’
Rosa offered a plaintive smile. ‘Of course. Silly me. I forget.’
‘I haven’t heard from him in such a long time. I check every day to see if he’s written.’
Rosa looked at the letter. Her reading ability in English was poor and the handwriting was elaborate. She recognised some of the words, but struggled to piece them together to form coherent meaning. For a moment, she contemplated humouring Nancy and pretending the letter was from her father, but that seemed unnecessarily cruel and, besides, Rosa lacked the mental agility. She scanned the letter, taking in the signatory. ‘I am very sorry, but it is not from your father, Miss Patterson.’
‘Oh?’
‘It is from someone called Molly Tindall.’
‘Molly Tindall? Never heard of her!’ Nancy turned and started back towards the house.
Rosa watched, feeling both pity and respect, while the old woman made her laborious journey along the path, each tiny shuffle a monumental human effort. ‘Have a nice day!’ she called out. Nancy didn’t respond. Then Rosa realised she was still clutching the letter. ‘Miss Patterson!’ she shouted, waving it above her head. ‘Your mail!’
Nancy took an age to turn around. ‘My mail? What mail?’
‘This.’
‘You’re late, postman! Put it in the box where it belongs!’ Nancy turned and resumed her epic trek. ‘It can wait till tomorrow. It won’t be anything important.’
NINETEEN
OCTOBER 1940
It was gone three in the morning, barely five minutes since the all-clear, yet Mother was out in the front yard, dressed in nothing but her peach cotton nightgown, sweeping the debris from the path like a woman possessed.
Nancy stood, propped against the wall, numb, surveying the scene. On the opposite side of the street, there was a gap in the terrace where only an hour ago two houses—numbers thirteen and fifteen—had stood. Both had been reduced to rubble now, not even a piece of furniture visible; only piles of earth, loose bricks and broken timber beams. Number eleven—old Mrs Prentice’s—was ablaze, sparks and burning embers spitting out onto the road. An AFS unit was tending to the fire, their hoses carpeting the street, and a stretcher party scrambled over the rubble. A strong smell of gas hung in the air, and the acidic stench of powdered brick and cordite stung Nancy’s lungs.
The omens weren’t good, but Nancy prayed they’d all be rescued. She didn’t know the occupants of the obliterated house particularly well. The woman from number thirteen —unlucky for some, Nancy shuddered—was as pretty as a picture; never seen with so much as a hair out of place; always smiling. The sort to say a cheery hello whenever they passed in the street.
‘Are you just going to stand there gawping, or will you help me out here?’ Mother complained. ‘The place is in such a state.’
‘Shouldn’t you get some sleep, Mum? All this will still be here in the morning.’
Mother shifted her gaze to the rubble across the street, then back to Nancy. She raised her brow and said sceptically, ‘Will it?’
Right then, as if in response, Moaning Minnie began to wail.
Mother sighed and shook her head in despair. ‘I should finish up here. You get to the shelter, Nancy.’
The discordant noises of war were upon them once more: the undulating drone of the German bombers; the ack-ack barrage; the screams of falling bombs; the rumbles and reverberations of distant explosions.
‘Come on, Mother!’ Nancy shouted to be heard. ‘I’m not leaving you here.’
A whistle blew, and Mr. Elmswick’s voice boomed: ‘Get to your shelter, quickly!’
Mother seemed not to notice or care. She just continued to sweep, muttering unintelligibly under her breath.
Nancy leapt towards her mother and grabbed the broom, but Mother refused to relinquish her grip.
The sight of two women fighting over a broom would have looked such a spectacle to any onlookers as the incendiary bombs rained down about them.
‘Shelter!’ Mr. Elmswick hollered.
Eventually, Mother relented, throwing the broom to the ground. ‘Fine! Have it your way. Like always!’ She turned on her heel and headed back into the house. Nancy followed, keeping her distance.
They marched through the parlour, ignoring Grandma in her armchair, knitting away blissfully. Weeks ago, she’d set out her stall in her own mute and steadfast way. Nancy supposed her grandmother was reconciled to whatever fate God had in store for her. Like many people in the East End, her grandmother had decided that if she was going to be killed, it might as well be in the comfort of her own home.
When Mother and Nancy stepped out the back door, incendiaries were clattering down the slate tiles, hitting the ground around them, bursting and showering the garden with white magnesium fire. ‘Hurry, Mum!’ Nancy urged, starting to panic.
In the scramble to the shelter, Mother’s nightdress suddenly went up in flames in a great whoosh. She screamed blue murder and started to frantically run around in circles, patting herself to no great effect.
Nancy had to do something. But what? She was paralysed by indecision. Just as she was about to turn and head back out to the street to seek help from the AFS crew, Jack vaulted over the fence with a pail of water. Absurdly, the nursery rhyme Jack and Jill flashed through Nancy’s mind.
Jack hurled the contents of the pail over Mother, extinguishing her at once. He wrapped his arm around her and helped her to the Anderson shelter.
Mother’s screams subsided to distressed whimpers as she sipped from the flask of tea Jack had retrieved in a heroic dash to his house.
Nancy raked through the first aid kit—nothing more than an assortment of odds and ends stowed in a battered old biscuit tin—and found a tube of ointment. Lacking a label, Nancy had no clue what it was for, but she supposed it couldn’t do much harm, so she smeared it liberally over the burns on her mother’s legs and hands. Mother flinched slightly, but otherwise didn’t complain. That wasn’t a good sign, however; her mother could complain for England.
‘Why don’t you have a lie-down, Mrs. Patterson, till this raid is over?’ Jack encouraged, motioning towards the lower bunk. Mother had had a couple of men come round a few weeks back to help build the shelter’s new bed. It had thin, narrow mattresses and scratchy, damp blankets, but it was infinitely more comfortable than sitting for hours on end on the hard bench with a sore behind.
Mother smiled weakly, groaned, then flopped onto the mattress. Jack tenderly lifted her legs and pulled the blanket over her, up to her neck.
‘Suppose I’d better be going, then,’ Jack said.
Mother remained silent, her eyelids drooping.
The ground rumbled beneath Nancy’s feet and, outside, she heard the distant sounds of bombs wreaking their havoc. ‘Stay, please?’ she asked meekly.
She hugged her arms, trying to generate some heat. The makeshift candle-in-a-pot heater was hopeless. The thought of the Blitz continuing through the winter was almost too much to bear.
‘Well, if you insist.’
Nancy smiled inwardly. ‘Mind if I get into my bunk? I’m freezing.’
Jack’s eyes glistened in the dancing candlelight. ‘Want a hand?’
‘I think I can manage,’ Nancy said, clambering up the little wooden ladder. She snuggled under the blanket. ‘Sorry, we don’t have any spare covers.’
‘It’s okay, I don’t feel the cold. Ma says I’ve got hot blood running through my veins. Take after my old man.’
They listened in silence to the booms, whistles and grumbles outside. Then, when there was a moment of relative quiet, Nancy enquired, ‘How much longer do you think the Huns are going to be bombing us for?’
‘I dunno, but I reckon Mr. Churchill will send them packing before long. Wish I was old enough to fight.’
‘Me, too,’ Nancy said.
Jack laughed. ‘You’re not a typical girl, are you?’
‘Suppose not.’ She heard the faint sound of her mother snoring and leaned over the edge of the bed to steal a look. ‘Can’t believe she’s flat out. Must be the shock.’
‘Or these,’ Jack said, brandishing a brown pill bottle and grinning from ear to ear.
‘What are they? Where did you get them?’
‘They’re Ma’s. She gets ’em from a man on Fenton Street. Barbiturates. They help her nerves. Reckon they could knock out a rhino!’
Nancy giggled. ‘Your mother couldn’t get me a year’s supply, could she? I fancy a bit of peace and quiet!’
‘You’re a funny one, Nancy.’
‘Funny ha-ha or funny weird?’
‘Ha-ha, I mean.’ Jack smiled, then cocked his head to one side. ‘You’re pretty, too.’
Nancy felt herself blushing. ‘Bet you say that to all the girls.’
‘You’re the first, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’ He brought his hand up to his chest. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, Nance.’
‘Don’t say that!’
‘What? Nance?’
‘No! Die, you idiot!’
Outside, there was an almighty crack, as if the sky had split in two, followed by the dull thud of something or other falling onto the thin layer of earth above their heads.
Jack’s smile dropped, and Nancy saw that his teeth were chattering. His breath was fogging in the cold, damp air. ‘You can stop the tough man act. I can see you’re freezing.’ A new confidence fizzed in her veins, and she raised her blanket with one arm and shuffled to the back edge of the bed. ‘Why don’t you join me up here?’ God, her mother would kill her, if only she wasn’t out like a light …
Jack didn’t need to be told twice. Before she’d had time to blink, he had sprung from the bench, scrambled up the ladder and nestled in alongside her, his face inches from hers. She felt a sudden warmth.
A thought flashed into her head. What if this has been his plan all along?
She smiled to herself and wagged a finger at him. ‘No funny business, okay?’
‘Cross my heart, Nance.’
TWENTY
APRIL 1941
It was a beautiful evening; biting cold, but clear and still. A new moon gleamed bright and clean in vivid contrast to the filth of the city. The sky was disturbingly quiet.
After almost two years at war, the quiet felt unnatural.
By the time Nancy and Jack arrived at the bomb site, all the expected parties were already there: bomb disposal; the rescue squad; the stretcher team; an AFS unit; a pair of mortuary vans.
They’d been told that an aerial torpedo had hit Whitwell Road, wiping out several houses and the hairdressers on the corner. Chunks of masonry and sections of iron railings were strewn haphazardly all around them. The bomb had fractured the main water pipe in the road and water was cascading everywhere.
