Ophelia (Ophelia book 1) Read online

  "I might just accept it," he replies.

  "Then we both know where we stand," I tell him, suddenly feeling as if I might be about to burst into tears. It takes a moment, but I'm finally able to hold myself together. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go and coordinate with a couple of other departments."

  Without waiting for a reply, I turn and hurry toward my office. I wasn't even planning to speak to Greenwell today, yet suddenly I've given myself a huge ultimatum. The truth is, I have no real idea how I'm going to track down Nat and George Longhouse, but now that I've played the resignation card, I've got no choice other than to pull out all the stops. When I was younger, I used to love high-pressure moments, but over the years I've begun to pull back into more of a comfort zone. I guess maybe that was a mistake. Maybe I need the pressure after all.

  "Laura!" Tricia calls out, racing after me and barely managing to stop without clattering into me. "We've found him!"

  "Who?" I ask, trying not to jump to any conclusions.

  "Who do you think?" she replies. "Your hook man. Some council workers have found Nat Longhouse."

  Chapter Five

  Ophelia

  "So you're in a lot of trouble," Lofty says as we walk through the shadows of the underpass. "The way I'm hearing it, you're being fingered as a traitor. Been hanging out with the cops, have you?"

  "Totally," I reply, as a nearby figure, hunched on the floor, turns its back toward us. Coincidence, or a deliberate snub? I'm worried that my old paranoia is starting to creep back. "You'd think I'm a real Fifth Columnist," I add. "I never realized the lines were so fixed."

  "Fifth what?"

  "It's a term from the Spanish Civil War," I tell him. "It refers to people who infiltrate their enemies and attempt to spread sedition from within. Fifth columnists were particularly loathed because they were able to spread ideas through communities and undermine the cohesion of resistance groups. If they were caught, they were usually executed with particular glee."

  "Huh," he replies. "Sometimes you're like a fucking walking encyclopedia. Where the fuck did you go to school again? Eton?"

  "Course not," I mutter as we reach the wall that runs along the south bank of the river. "I was just helping the police out. They were struggling. Hell, I wasn't even helping the police; it was more that I was helping this one woman. There was something about her that made it seem like she actually cared. I guess it was all bollocks, but I figured it was worth a shot." Glancing over at him, I can see the look of suspicion in his eyes. "I was basically just doing it for free food," I add, hoping to make a joke of the whole thing. "I got some pretty cool stuff."

  "Except now you're not exactly popular around here," he points out. "Old Josephine's been slagging you off to everyone she meets."

  "She hates the police," I reply.

  "She's not the only one," he continues. "She's pissed with you, Phil, and she wants everyone else to be pissed with you as well. It's gonna take a long time for you to live this one down." He pauses. "Don't worry, though. I'm on your side. I mean, people like Josephine try to make all these rules for how we're supposed to live. They think we're this one big fucking bunch of people, but we're not. Every fucker's out here for himself, and there's no rules. Anyway, even if she hates you now, so what? Let the old cunt say what she wants."

  I smile, but the truth is, this whole situation runs deeper. I can handle the slings and arrows that are heading my way from people like Josephine; I've been unpopular before and I can deal with it again. What bothers me, though, is the feeling that spending time with Laura has changed me on some deeper level. I can't shake the feeling that I no longer really belong out here, that my instincts are slightly out of whack. For the first time in many years, I actually find myself from time to time idly contemplating another way of life. I really could go to a shelter and try to get things sorted, and maybe go back to the land of normality. I swear to God, I never thought I'd even contemplate something like that.

  "There you go again," Lofty says after a moment. "You're thinking about something. I can see it in your eyes."

  "There's nothing wrong with thinking about things," I tell him as we wander along the path. We're far from anyone now, which means it's just the two of us, which means... I'm not sure if this is a good idea, but I've started so I guess I have to finish. Reaching into my pocket, I double-check that the broken part of my ankle monitor is in place, in case I need to activate it, along with the scalpel I stole from the police station. "I'm always thinking about things," I continue. "Sometimes too much. There's always something to think about, though. Don't you ever feel like you've got two minds?"

  "What the fuck are you on about now?" he asks with a smile.

  "There's the mind that thinks in words," I continue, "and that's the one that you can manipulate and control. But deeper down, you've got a second mind that thinks in more abstract terms. It works behind the scenes, even when you're asleep, and it's that deeper mind that provides things like inspiration and dreams. And somehow these two minds kind of wrap around each other and they have this kind of mutual relationship that helps you to be smarter."

  "You on something?"

  "And sometimes the deeper mind has an idea and offers it up to the other mind," I tell him. "That's how you make little logical leaps. It's how you make connections between things that you'd never ordinarily connect at all. You end up with this interplay between your two minds, one logical and one abstract, and sometimes..." I pause for a moment, turning to see the look of doubt in his eyes. "Sometimes your deeper mind remembers things and offers them up, and it's like..."

  "Like what?" he asks after a moment.

  I stop walking suddenly.

  "Phil?"

  "Eureka," I say calmly, fixing him with a determined stare.

  "You reek too," he says. "Get it?"

  "It was when I saw you at the police station," I continue. "You wouldn't give them your name, would you?"

  "Never give the pigs anything," he replies. "Make 'em work for it."

  "You were like me," I add. "You invented your own name. Lofty. That's what everyone's always called you, but it's a nickname from childhood, isn't it?" I wait for him to reply. My mind is spinning as I try to work out if I'm genuinely onto something here, or if I'm stretching too far. "Lofty," I add. "It's not your real name, though, is it?"

  He stares at me, and it's clear that he's starting to wonder where the conversation is headed.

  "They called you Lofty in the playground," I add, "and everyone still calls you Lofty, but I remember one of the first times I met you, you mentioned your real name. Lofty's a contraction, or at least a distorted contraction. Your first name is George, isn't it?"

  "So what?" he asks uncomfortably.

  "I should have worked it out sooner," I whisper. "Why the hell am I so dumb?"

  "Worked what out?"

  "Lofty," I continue. "Longhouse. That's your name, isn't it? George Longhouse. I wasn't sure, but I had to check." I pause for a moment. "That old man I saw you hanging around with a few times. He's your father, isn't he?"

  Staring at me, Lofty suddenly seems very different, as if he finally realizes that I'm onto him. Reaching into my pocket, I fumble for a moment, trying to reconnect the two parts of the ankle monitor's beacon system. If I'd worked all of this out sooner, I'd have been better prepared.

  "What you got in there?" Lofty asks.

  "Nothing. Just -"

  Suddenly he lunges at me. The beacon still isn't connected, but I let it go and pull out the scalpel, flashing it wildly toward him. The blade hits the side of his face, but the edge slides harmlessly across his skin as he slams me against the wall with such force that I feel a jarring pain halfway down my back. I try to use the scalpel again, but he grabs my wrist and crunches it against the edge of the wall. As the scalpel falls to the ground, Lofty hauls me away and throws me face-first against the concrete floor, before adding a kick in the guts with his steel-capped shoe. A sharp pain bursts through my body, as
if he's done some real damage, and after a moment I spit out a little blood.

  "What the fuck was that about?" he asks, standing over me.

  I stare at the scalpel. It's close, but not close enough. I thought I was safe as long as I had a weapon.

  "Eh?" he continues, using his boot to roll me onto my back. "What the fuck, Phil? You been digging around a bit, have you? I figured as fucking much as soon as I heard you'd been off with the cops. I really didn't want to believe it was true, but I guess they really turned you, didn't they? I guess that fucking bitch thought you'd be her eyes and ears on the street, yeah?" He reaches over and picks up the scalpel, turning it over a few times in his hands before looking back down at me. "I thought we were friends," he says darkly.

  "We are," I gasp, still barely able to breathe after the kick to my belly. "I was just messing about."

  "Were you?" he asks, crouching next to me. "Is that was you were doing, eh? Messing about?" He pauses. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

  I stare at him, desperately trying to work out if I can outrun him. Of course, I'd have to get to my feet first, and right now I'm not convinced I can do that. Still, I'd just need to get to a place where I could attract attention. Even though everyone hates me right now, I know someone would come and help me.

  "Everyone knows you're smart," he continues, "but you know what I think? I think some people are very smart and very dumb at the same time. That pretty much sums you up, doesn't it? Smart and dumb. It's like you said, you've got two heads in there, bashing against each other. I guess it's pretty confusing, huh? Just when you think you're pretty fucking clever, that's when you go and do something totally fucking stupid and you're right back where you started. Like talking to the cops, or letting someone get a jump on you."

  "I just -"

  Before I can finish, he slashes my face with the scalpel. I try to call out, but he puts a hand over my mouth and pulls me tight against his chest. No matter how hard I try to kick out at him and get loose, he's got me held too tight. I try to wriggle free, but finally I fall limp. Better to save my energy for a moment when I actually have a chance to get away. Still, it's hard to fight the terror that's spreading through my body.

  "Shut the fuck up," he whispers. "You hear me, Phil? I thought you were a smart girl, but you shouldn't have tried playing cops and robbers, should you? I don't know what the fuck's wrong with you, but I don't really need to figure it out. My Dad was right. People like us, people on the streets, we can vanish and no-one gives a fuck. I mean, literally, no-one gives a goddamn shit what happens to us. So when in doubt -"

  He lifts the front of my shirt, exposing my bare belly, and finally he presses the blade of the scalpel against my flesh.

  "Struggle, and I'll kill you," he continues. "Call for help, and I'll kill you. Piss me off in any way, and I'll kill you. Refuse to suck my dick if I ask you, and I'll kill you. Are you starting to spot a pattern here, you fucking genius?" He pushes the blade harder, slowly starting to break the skin. "You can be as smart as all hell," he continues, "but it doesn't really help you in the end, does it? Not when real life is starting to get to you. No matter how smart you might have been in the past, Phil, you're gonna die like just another dumb bitch. Clever people and dumb people... They all bleed, and they all look the same when they're dead."

  Trying not to shake too much, I force myself to stay still. There are tears in my eyes and all I can do is wait to see what he does next. I usually have plans, but right now I'm terrified and I have no idea how I'm going to get away. I thought I was smart, but I've stumbled right into this situation with my eyes open.

  "It's the old man," he whispers, leaning close to my ear. "He's the one who knows how it's done. Maybe I should keep you alive and wait 'til he comes. Then we can get to work on you properly." He moves the scalpel blade away. "Then again," he adds, "maybe I should show him that I can manage without him. That's been the whole point of all this bullshit all along. What do you think, Phil? Should I wait for him and his hook, or should I finish you off right here and now? The old duffer might like it if I show a little initiative, eh? It's probably exactly the kind of thing he's been waiting for me to do."

  I try to say something, but he's got his hand clamped too tightly over my mouth. His flesh stinks of tobacco and whiskey and dirt.

  "I couldn't agree more," he replies.

  There's a pause.

  "Sweet dreams," he whispers. "It's gonna hurt."

  Suddenly he drives the scalpel straight into my belly, with such force that his hand follows through and pushes down on the skin. I can feel the blade deep inside my body, but he quickly pulls it out and holds it up so that I can see my own blood dripping down from the metal. I try to get free, but the sight of blood almost seems to mesmerize me.

  "All that fucking hook bollocks was a waste of time," he sneers, as I desperately try again to get free from his grip. "You don't need a fucking hook. The old man was obsessed with stuff like that, but I reckon each new generation has a right to take what they learn and make improvements. That's the only way progress is ever gonna happen, yeah? It's, what, like evolution or something, innit? You take the old stuff and you make it better."

  With that, he stabs me again, on the other side of my belly this time. I try to struggle free, but he's got me held too tight. He stabs me a third time, then a fourth, and I can feel blood running down the side of my stomach and across my bare waist. I try to elbow him out of the way, to bite his hand, to do anything that might get him off me, but it's hopeless. He just keeps stabbing me over and over again until the pain becomes too much and, despite the fact that his hand is still clamped over my mouth, I try to scream.

  There's no point, though. No-one's coming to help me. No-one cares.

  Part Eight

  And Those We Leave Behind

  Chapter One

  Laura

  "Two council workers called it in," says Nick Jordan, leading me into the flat. "They were sent to strip the place out and redecorate after the last tenants trashed the place. Didn't take them long to spot the old geezer on the sofa."

  Heading through to the front room, I find several crime scene operatives examining the dead body. Tim Marshall is taking a look at the old man's hands, while one of his colleagues is taking samples from the souls of an old pair of boots.

  "I wouldn't get too close," Nick adds, leaning toward me. "The old guy pissed himself after he died."

  "It's a normal bodily reaction," I reply.

  "Yeah, but still..."

  I turn to him, and I can't help but notice the juvenile grin on his face.

  "He was a tramp," he adds after a moment. "Probably wasn't the first time he'd pissed himself, was it?"

  I want to say something to him, to tell him to shut the fuck up and have a little more respect, but the last thing I need at the moment is an argument. Besides, I know what Nick Jordan is like; he'd shrink back and apologize, and then later he'd be down the pub, telling everyone that I'm some stuck-u humorless bitch. I'd rather not give him the ammunition.

  "Here's your money shot," he says, indicating two large hooks on a nearby table. "Look familiar?"

  "Are we sure this is him?" I ask, barely able to believe that we could have had such a massive stroke of luck. It's barely an hour since I was threatening Greenwell with my resignation, and now I'm standing next to the dead body of one of the men I was after. Still, even if we've found Nat, we still need to get hold of George.

  "It's him," Tim says, still working on the old man's hands. "Come and take a look at this."

  Picking my way through all the garbage on the floor, I make my way around to the other side of the sofa and peer down at Nat Longhouse's dead face. I recognize him immediately from the photos we managed to get from the prison service, although in death he looks a lot more haggard and tired. His eyes are open, staring straight ahead, and his lips are parted slightly to reveal two semi-complete rows of stained, stumpy little teeth.

  "Look at the h
ands," Tim says. "This is some pretty severe arthritis, and there's no sign of any pain medication, not even empty packets. He probably wasn't getting any treatment at all, which means he was just trying to push through it. Given the current state of his knuckles, I'd say this has been getting steadily worse for years."

  Looking more closely at the old man's hands, I see that the knuckles and joints of his fingers are swollen and bulbous, making them painful to look at. The hands themselves are distended, with the skin pulled tight, while the fingers are crooked, like gnarly tree roots. It's hard to believe that he could have used them for anything.

  "How much pain would he have been in?" I ask.

  "Impossible to say for certain," Tim replies, "but it must have been considerable, perhaps bordering on excruciating. It's rheumatoid arthritis at an advanced stage. The pain must have been pretty much constant. I've run a check on various databases, and I can't find any indication that medicine was prescribed to either Nat or George. I guess the old duffer was trying to carry on despite the pain."

  "But could he have used a tool?" I ask. "Those hooks..."

  "Probably couldn't even get his dick out to take a leak," Nick says with a grin.

  Resisting the urge to tell him to shut up, I stare down at the old man's ruined hands.

  "It would have been difficult," Tim explains after a moment. "It certainly would have made the pain a lot worse if he'd tried to manipulate any kind of object, but if he was sufficiently determined, then I'd have to say that he could have done it. Different people have very different pain thresholds, so if he really wanted nothing more than to wield those damn things, he quite possibly could have forced the pain to one side. Still, there are also practical limitations. It's one thing to hold something and wiggle it around a bit, but I find it hard to believe that he could have managed anything more than broad movements."