Death & the City Book Two (30 page)

Remote influencing by audience. Like offering a reward for information, but not specifying either the information or the reward. The speaker knows a reward is forthcoming for filling their airtime in a worthy way, and the
Scheherezades
all come out of the woodwork. Kiss and tell or kill and tell, it's all filling the same awkward silence there would otherwise be instead, if everyone kept everything about themselves confidential.

I put my phone away and lean on Connor as he pulls me towards him gently, my brain wearing me out as it tries to smash holes in anything that looks like a cliché in my own present situation. Even not saying anything, I'm glad he's here, because so far he's the only person who can listen to my silences and seems to understand them.

"I think she just likes the sound of her own voice, in any given format," he murmurs. "This is just the outlet she has when there's nobody in front of her to share it with. Share whatever fantasy she's currently living in."

"Speaking her internal voice out loud, like internet Tourette's Syndrome," I sigh in return. "That's why it's so weird. It sounds like someone thinking aloud, but not with anything genuinely on their mind. Clutching at straws for things to say."

"Do you have an inner voice like that in your collection?" he asks me.

"I have an inner narrator on constant watch whose job it is to wrangle all the others, so mostly I hear that one trying to keep track of everything, and who are the real people and who are the ones inside my head," I admit. "I'm sure I did have a voice like hers, when I was about four, and thought that the Christmas Tree Fairy was a real job prospect for the future."

Connor just grins.

"Aha," he remarks. "Christmas Tree Fairy."

"What about it?"

"Nothing. Just something I was thinking about earlier."

I get another text, this time from Niall Taylor.
Fancy a drink b4 work 2nite? X

"Is it Thursday today?" I ask Connor. "I thought you lot were picking him up?"

Connor glances at the message, frowns and gets his own phone out, pressing Autodial on his last caller to ring head office. He keeps the speaker on Privacy due to the public surroundings, but considering the clamour of shoppers, and chatter of other people on mobile phones, there would be little chance of being overheard in the cacophony.

"What's the latest on Taylor?" he asks. He listens for a few moments and then hangs up without saying anything else.

"Girlfriend withdrew her complaint," he says, abruptly. "Doesn't sound good. Try to avoid him, unless you want to end up in his next photo album with her."

"Is he off the list, does that mean?" I ask.

"Unless he picks up a contract any other time he's bored, and looking for extra cash," Connor tells me, and drains the last of his coffee. "But when I'm bored, I can always pick him up for something minor and make him an appointment with the rubber-glove team. Along with the rest of those perverts you work with. Keep away from him."

He looks at his watch as he replaces his cup back on the table.

"I've gotta go, they want me back on site," he says. "I'll catch you after work tonight. Don't buy too many more shoes to go with that outfit."

He gives me a kiss and squeezes my hand, before he gets up and heads out.

"Yeah, be careful," I mutter to myself.

I put my phone away without replying to Taylor. I don't know whether I have any loyalties at all at the moment, never mind divided ones.

Alice starts texting again. On top of everything else, now I'm going to have to wade through more of her Twaddle looking for anything useful. At least this is where having been a blackmailer comes in handy. If anything has any leverage value, my past self will recognise it. But not necessarily for the reasons head office want me to.

I find the free catalogue in my shopping bag and flick through it idly, my rebel streak finding the shoe pages and skimming through them. Designer hi-jacked styles in PU and faux suede look attractively photographed but fail to thrill me much, seeing as most of what I've already collected is the real thing, and was cheaper on iBay and official sales than they're charging for their brand new plastic rip-off copies. Although I do get an idea or two for customising shoes, including corsage decorations and big satin bows, the kind of thing not suitable for work in any context. Sitting-down shoes. The most walking they do is between taxi and front door.

My phone vibrates again with the latest update, and I'm doubtful how long the battery will last under the onslaught of all the attention. It's a Tweak update.

I'm looking at my first assignment now. Tall, dark, attractive, Sicilian - possible Mafia connections. My heart is racing. He doesn't know he's being watched - just walking his Great Dane like he hasn't a care in the world. Not like I imagined a murderous crime lord. I'll have to keep my emotions cool and distant - otherwise I could be in a different sort of danger…

I look up at Alice quizzically. She too is perusing shoes in the catalogue, tapping her phone against her bottom lip and smiling to herself. She seems to have another idea and starts texting again, entirely in a world of her own.

Fuckanory, my inner teenage critic announces. She's not just a slightly brainwashed attention-seeker. She's a liar.

Head office must have something evident to want her followed, otherwise I'm on a pointless mission to read her FBI assassin fan-fiction while she sits blogging in coffee shops, like a younger Rowling planning to harvest the souls of a generation with her thinly-disguised Blyton meets Pratchett mash-ups. I text head office.
CAN YOU BACK TRACE THE CASH SHE PAID IN KITTY KITTY?
They reply immediately with:
Will do at point of banking.
I put my phone away and turn to the underwear pages, looking for a distraction. It's bad enough that I have my own alternate realities to contend with in everyday life. Now I'm going to have to deal with at least three more of Alice's - the reality, the brainwashed cult identity, and the escapist fiction.

I'm seeing Connor's point of view much more clearly now, as well as agreeing with my own vocal attitude I'm still hearing at the back of my mind from twenty years ago. I don't think close observation and analysis is the business route I want to take. Pass me a baseball bat and a stripy balaclava, I'd rather push snipers off rooftops.

My phone rings from Elaine, and I'm delighted to answer.

"Are you in town by any chance?" she asks, sounding breathless. "Martha and I are out Spring Sales shopping and we're going for lunch, if you can meet up. You should see what Martha has bought, the dirty minx."

"I'm in Lighthouse Kissaten's at the moment," I say, wishing I could get away, and knowing that head office are listening in, drop a hint. "Upstairs at the front. Come in here if you're passing, and I'll have a minute to let my late elevensies carrot cake settle before lunch."

"Awesome. We're about two minutes away, see you shortly."

I get a call waiting tone just before she hangs up, so I switch lines to head office.

"We've called Drury to take over your babysitting job, you can break for lunch," they tell me. "Any news so far?"

"No, just catching up on the latest Mills & Boon future releases."

"Thought so. Drury's on the same leads as you so if anything is verified or she picks up a real live contract, you'll hear about it. For now it's just sifting out the actual press releases from the coffee table light entertainment reading, then?"

"Yup." Coffee table-leg prop, more like, I think. For some reason I get an image of the Honda Prelude crushed into a small cube, holding up a table at how I imagine Warren's place looks, and shudder. Korean dog food.

"Cool. Soon as Drury is on site you can head off. Have fun. Apparently there's a sale on in
Ann Summers
."

"You wish," I chuckle, and disconnect, sitting back and relaxing with my coffee. Alice is still texting. I dread to think what epic drivel I'm going to have to read next. With any luck, she won't have finished and posted it before I go off duty.

Around us, other people are leading their own normal everyday lives, including whatever degree of voluntary or involuntary fiction they contain. Girls in full shopping war-paint thrashing out their boyfriend rival issues. Older women sharing the latest hypochondriac news. Men mostly in their own world, reading car magazines or the FT, or catching up with the latest on Blueberry networking. One or two still in work mode out of office, on the phone or in small coffee meetings. Gay couples and their vegan lattes, almost indistinguishable in number of shopping bags and conversational tone than the younger girls. One or two mums stopping for a baby-breather break. Aside from the common need for refreshments and somewhere to rest for half an hour, I don't see anyone else mutually preoccupied with either the imaginary FBI, brainwashed hookers, or contract killers.

It's a strange world we live in. When you're either chatting online, in a relationship, watching soap opera, browsing celebrity gossip pages, or watching the
News
, you think the rest of the world is caught up in the same dramas and obsessed with the same stories that you are. When actually we're not. My mum's nearest neighbour spends his life harassing the Council and discussing hedges and trees and verges that need cutting. He's only heard of Madonna in the Biblical context, and is at least five years younger than the celebrity version. On the other hand, my Godmother Miss Haversham blames the British female youth culture of today on the
Carry On
films, and wouldn't know a 'Laddette' if one threw a pint over her. She'd think it was one of those teenage New Romantics boys with long hair and make-up on. It's the individual realities of the population, that means the world outside of the Media actually works and exists and gets things done. People obsessed with clean toilets and functioning utilities and buses that run on time, safety and security and the law. Not how many orgasms
Cosmo
readers should get in a lifetime.

My phone vibrates apologetically as the update arrives, and Alice is tucking her phone away, looking smug. She asks the passing table waitress if she could have a refill, and hands over some of her change for the server to pocket in her apron, as her cup is whisked away for her.

I can't help imagining what more there might be to gain in a more intimate setting. Not hidden watching from a distance. To be close enough to be his confidante, to hear his every breath, to watch him as he sleeps, to use my fairer sex skills instead of cold metal…

"Is anyone sitting here?" a voice interrupts me, and I look up like someone caught reading a pornographic Manga novel, to meet Drury's secretly amused gaze, as she gestures at the adjacent seat.

"No, help yourself," I say, and she plonks down her rucksack next to my shopping, and her regular pot of tea and scone on the table. She's wearing a ski jacket and trainers, looking suitably civilian, and takes her own phone out as she pours her tea, evidently reading the same update I've just received. I hear her sniggering softly.

…
I still fantasise about the Bad Boy I could one day change, make him turn his life around - be my protector instead of my nemesis. Maybe this one will be The One. If I can hold off the inevitable long enough for him to fall for me. As they always do. I know what men want. Most can't handle that. Preferring to stay in denial rather than succumb to the Beast only I can tame. Even the Midnight Beast, and its insatiable appetite for living blood. Like a snake charmer, I can get closer than no-one else to the Darkness within.

I give a slight shudder as I put my phone away. Sounds like she was in the same reading group as Miss Haversham, growing up. That, and other porno bloggers. Just emulating Anne Rice and her alter ego doesn't make you parallel in her field. A Rice by any other name… but what of any originality does Alice have to exploit in her repertoire?

The waitress returns with Alice's refill, and behind her I hear the unmistakeable approach of Elaine and Martha giggling their way up the stairs. Both have a small Espresso and bottle of water, the cheapest option in Kissaten's when not armed with a voucher from one of its retail allies.

"Hellooooo!" Elaine greets me, and both plop into the sofa opposite. "So glad you're here. What brought you into town today, anything fun? Any Man Rendezvous? Good idea to come in by bike, the traffic is just awful today. It's worse than pay weekend, seasonal sale shopping."

"No, just work stuff, CCTV and paperwork," I tell her, as Martha leans over to give me a greeting kiss on the cheek and Elaine picks up my crash helmet idly, to look at it and inside it for a moment. "Where are we going for lunch? I'm free until three o'clock, then I have school run."