SNEAK PREVIEW OF PART 2!
The Hidden of Dunnersley
* * *
"The people here had the kind of jobs
that started at night-time and you didn't ask questions about..."
The Decisions of Freya
Freya stuck her tongue out and blew
a raspberry at the world in general. Buggers. The evening was
descending onto Dunnersley, spreading down the great river in mists
and dull smoggy orange glows. The old river lights started popping
on, a chain that marked the edge of Dunnersley in a weak glowing
boundary. The girls territory, the river docks took on a different
life in the night-time. No late night revellers, no clubs, the only
socialites were the regulars who circulated the very elitist pubs
that dotted Victoria Markets. The people here had the kind of jobs
that started at night-time and you didn't ask questions about.
Freya flicked a stone into the
river and watched it disappear with a splash. Buggers, she
thought again. Ever since Abe had looked at her in the Academy and
recoiled in horror she had known that it had all been another sham.
The guy had seemed kinda cool, dumb, but all right on the whole. He
was also the only link that she had to her mentor, Jack McAllister,
and the mystery that she found herself immersed in. Well, she didn't
need those stuck up Order-types anyway, she had her own friends.
The girl walked along the riverside
to the old pier that struck out like a splintered bone into the
Thames. There was no one on it in this chill night. All the tourists
were long since tucked up in their cozy hotels, and the lovers who
usually paraded the old pier had found their solace. The wind had
died down and the black waters still under the old planks. Freya
walked with one hand lightly skipping on the painted railings as the
sound of her footsteps were swallowed by the river.
At the end of the pier a tall lamp
illuminated the rising mist and the form of the man crouched perching
on the railings, looking out over the waters.
Another shape slid out of the mist,
a woman this time in a thin 1920's slip of a dress that looked
freezing but the woman didn't seem to notice at all as she approached
Freya. She had a large feather scarf wrapped around a long alabaster
throat, and to the girl she had a vaguely seal-like appearance with
slicked back short cropped hair and large hooded eyes. The effect was
marred by the appearance of the woman's other arm. It was shorter and
shriveled, ending in a cruel claw of a hand. The woman stood blocking
Freya's way forward.
“Sammy's got a lot on his mind.”
Her voice was husky.
“Yeah, I figured.” Freya was
sullen. “When hasn't he?” The woman pouted and looked over her
shoulder at the man. He was motionless, scanning the water like he
was reading it. Through the music came the dim tinny sound of beats
through headphones. The woman sighed, flicking off invisible dust
from her fingernails, “Oh come on then,” she walked languidly up
the pier.
The man didn't speak as they
approached. He was broad, but didn't look tall. A gray and black
hoodie stretched over his frame but was pulled down from his head. A
short tufty brown mohawk glittered with moisture and large white
headphones clamped the sides of his head. His steely eyes were far
off and unfocused as the tinny beats hit the air around him.
“Sammy?” The woman said gently,
resting a hand on the man's shoulder.
“Henna-?” He flinched and
looked up, blinking. The man was younger than his broad impression
gave. The edges of black tattoo spirals edged up his neck. He glanced
over at Freya and hopped off the railing lightly.
He didn't take off the headphones,
just looked down at Freya and nodded, motioning for them to walk back
along the pier. The woman slid into an easy place at his shoulder,
protective.
“So, I found him,” Freya said
after a moment of plodding silent. The man didn't make any indication
he'd heard. “Hes got the Prof now, he doesn't need me.” She
paused as the turned off the pier and the couple led them into the
winding narrow streets of Dockside. “I don't know what to do
Sammy.” She said in a voice of quiet desperation. “I thought he
would be like Jack, that he would be able to help but he cant. He's
just like the rest of them.”
The man called Sammy nodded and
pointed down a curving alley-street. The woman glided in front and
stepped delicately amidst the trash. Rats skittered in the bins and
the yellow electric street lights highlighted a small crossroads of
connecting impoverished streets. A rusted sign pointed the way to the
Markets, another to the Thames. The woman stood in the center of the
crossroads like a statue and sniffed the air, then nodded and walked
to the large metal doors of a brick building. She knocked a staccato
rhythm and then eased one of the panel doors aside and vanished from
view. Sammy and Freya followed.
Inside was a warehouse. The sound
of throaty jazz filtered through a dark and smoky atmosphere to meet
them. Hangings draped from the walls and made crude partitioned walls
that blocked off corner's, cubbyholes and nooks. In the main chamber
a large mirror ball spun halfheartedly, scattering the random light
over an outcropping of old sofas and low tables. Freya had spent
years moving through places like this, marginal spaces and derelict
dwellings, squats and communes.
“Are you ready?” Sammy spoke at
last. He didn't take off his headphones, but his voice had a heavy
London accent which pushed through the atmosphere like a club. Freya
nodded...
To Be Continued...
