number tally to her data sheet. Rebeccah is an illegitimate, pay-as-you-go SIM.
Josie calls the technicians, feeds them the number, says she’ll hang on while they get into the network. It is dark out and the snow glows, neon orange in the street’s lights. It is a night to sit by a fire with a lover and a glass and conversations that reach for a better life. But it seems such things are sliding away.
She could go out to the Butcher’s Hook and join coppers’ corner, laughing and joking about the cases, flirting and winding up. But lately, it is not what she wants. Looking back into the hot summer, she thinks about the fling with Pulford and was she right to finish it. At least they are friends, still. And as for Staffe …
The technician comes back on the phone, says, ‘Too late, Josie darling.’
‘Cheers, Conor. Let’s hope the next one calls when I’m at the station.’
‘You going down the Butcher’s?’
‘Got to go.’ She hangs up and calls Staffe to let him know about the call from the youngish woman called Rebeccah with her Bow Bells twang and her talk of Tender Petting. But the ether is a vacuum. Staffe’s phone rings and rings and rings and when she clicks off, her flat is deathly quiet.
*
Darius chops out lines for them all. Six thin ones from a bag he was going to mix down and sell off, later at the Conti in Borough. But needs must. Arabella and Rebeccah are on the sofa and thank God Mitch isn’t in. The girls have been crying and talking about Elena and crying and drinking and talking about Elena, but without really talking about Elena, just trying not to be afraid.
He does his lines and calls the girls over, swigs from the Absolut and lights up a joint, sits himself down in the corner and tries to work out why he hasn’t cried, reckons it must be a mechanism to protect Arra.
Arra looks up at him from doing her lines. She seems absolutely lost and he knows it is time to get her back to the fold.
‘Poor Arra,’ he thinks. She and Becx haven’t got a prayer: the blind leading the blind and now the one-eyed queen is dead. What the hell will they do? He takes an almighty draw and wonders if he’ll ever really know exactly what Elena was playing at.
‘What you thinking?’ asks Arra.
Darius gives her a hurtful smile. She ought to know he hates that question.
Becx says, ‘I can’t believe she’s not going to just come in and tell me what she’s been tricking. She’d have a bottle, wouldn’t she, Arra? And a little something. She always had a little something.’
‘A little something to get her into trouble,’ says Darius.
‘And what would you know?’ says Arra, wrapping an arm around Becx.
‘A lot less than you,’ says Darius. ‘Three fucking witches.’ He laughs, isn’t proud of himself. Something outside of his body tells him they should be making a better fist of mourning Elena.
‘I’ve got to get away,’ says Becx.
‘Sshh,’ says Arra. ‘Don’t talk like that. Not now.’
‘The Great Escape,’ says Darius.
Arra takes the joint off him.
‘Didn’t your father and Elena …?’ says Becx, taking the joint off Arabella. She staggers back, steadies herself on the table. ‘I forget how we all met.’
‘Don’t you have to phone in, Becx?’ says Darius. ‘Reb-beck-cah. That’s how she said me. Loved that. She was the only one knew how to say me.’
‘You should call,’ says Darius.
‘Leave her alone,’ says Arra.
‘And now they’ve killed her,’ says Becx.
‘You don’t know how she died, or why,’ says Darius.
‘We know fuck all, that’s for sure,’ says Arabella. ‘They won’t come bothering us, will they, Darry?’
‘You should go see your father.’
‘I should call Vassily,’ says Becx. ‘Let him know. Bastard!’
Darius pulls Arabella onto his knee and she kisses him hard, lets him put his hand up her skirt, doesn’t know that all the time his mind is racing, trying to map what is best for him. And doing the
Josie calls the technicians, feeds them the number, says she’ll hang on while they get into the network. It is dark out and the snow glows, neon orange in the street’s lights. It is a night to sit by a fire with a lover and a glass and conversations that reach for a better life. But it seems such things are sliding away.
She could go out to the Butcher’s Hook and join coppers’ corner, laughing and joking about the cases, flirting and winding up. But lately, it is not what she wants. Looking back into the hot summer, she thinks about the fling with Pulford and was she right to finish it. At least they are friends, still. And as for Staffe …
The technician comes back on the phone, says, ‘Too late, Josie darling.’
‘Cheers, Conor. Let’s hope the next one calls when I’m at the station.’
‘You going down the Butcher’s?’
‘Got to go.’ She hangs up and calls Staffe to let him know about the call from the youngish woman called Rebeccah with her Bow Bells twang and her talk of Tender Petting. But the ether is a vacuum. Staffe’s phone rings and rings and rings and when she clicks off, her flat is deathly quiet.
*
Darius chops out lines for them all. Six thin ones from a bag he was going to mix down and sell off, later at the Conti in Borough. But needs must. Arabella and Rebeccah are on the sofa and thank God Mitch isn’t in. The girls have been crying and talking about Elena and crying and drinking and talking about Elena, but without really talking about Elena, just trying not to be afraid.
He does his lines and calls the girls over, swigs from the Absolut and lights up a joint, sits himself down in the corner and tries to work out why he hasn’t cried, reckons it must be a mechanism to protect Arra.
Arra looks up at him from doing her lines. She seems absolutely lost and he knows it is time to get her back to the fold.
‘Poor Arra,’ he thinks. She and Becx haven’t got a prayer: the blind leading the blind and now the one-eyed queen is dead. What the hell will they do? He takes an almighty draw and wonders if he’ll ever really know exactly what Elena was playing at.
‘What you thinking?’ asks Arra.
Darius gives her a hurtful smile. She ought to know he hates that question.
Becx says, ‘I can’t believe she’s not going to just come in and tell me what she’s been tricking. She’d have a bottle, wouldn’t she, Arra? And a little something. She always had a little something.’
‘A little something to get her into trouble,’ says Darius.
‘And what would you know?’ says Arra, wrapping an arm around Becx.
‘A lot less than you,’ says Darius. ‘Three fucking witches.’ He laughs, isn’t proud of himself. Something outside of his body tells him they should be making a better fist of mourning Elena.
‘I’ve got to get away,’ says Becx.
‘Sshh,’ says Arra. ‘Don’t talk like that. Not now.’
‘The Great Escape,’ says Darius.
Arra takes the joint off him.
‘Didn’t your father and Elena …?’ says Becx, taking the joint off Arabella. She staggers back, steadies herself on the table. ‘I forget how we all met.’
‘Don’t you have to phone in, Becx?’ says Darius. ‘Reb-beck-cah. That’s how she said me. Loved that. She was the only one knew how to say me.’
‘You should call,’ says Darius.
‘Leave her alone,’ says Arra.
‘And now they’ve killed her,’ says Becx.
‘You don’t know how she died, or why,’ says Darius.
‘We know fuck all, that’s for sure,’ says Arabella. ‘They won’t come bothering us, will they, Darry?’
‘You should go see your father.’
‘I should call Vassily,’ says Becx. ‘Let him know. Bastard!’
Darius pulls Arabella onto his knee and she kisses him hard, lets him put his hand up her skirt, doesn’t know that all the time his mind is racing, trying to map what is best for him. And doing the
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