New Order (10 page)

I’m puzzled. ‘Rogu3?’

‘How many other top-grade hackers do you know? Wave for the camera.’

‘Huh?’ I look around, finally spotting a small surveillance camera set in the ceiling. ‘You’ve hacked into the shop’s system?’

‘Only because it’s already transmitting elsewhere. So, yes, I can see you but it means whoever it’s transmitting to can see you as well. And no, before you ask, I’ve not found out where the signal is going. The security on
that
is much more elaborate than the shop’s system. I’ll break it but it’ll take me a few days. To be honest, you’re lucky I spotted you. I got up early because I’ve got this rad programme running that’s looking for ways into my school’s exam board intranet. I wanted to see if it was finished. I still had the camera into the shop running on a different monitor.’

I scrunch up my face. ‘You’re not trying to cheat, are you?’

‘No.’ He sounds affronted. ‘I want to make sure that no one else can cheat! I’m testing their system for cracks so I can tell the exam board how to fix them. If I have to sit this stupid exam, I want to make sure it’s fair.’

‘Uh, okay.’ I guess I believe him. ‘Did you find anything else useful about the shop? Other than the surveillance?’

I hear him smack his mouth on the other end of the line. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘Early breakfast. Let me find my notes.’ There’s the shuffling of paper then he comes back. ‘So, the shop’s been around for about twenty years. Two joint owners. The first one, Fingertip, died a few years ago, not long after the September 11th attacks in the States. His partner, Frolic, has been running the place since.’

It hadn’t occurred to me that the name of the shop would be the same as the name of the owners. I suppose it was Frolic herself that I met the other day. Weird name.

‘She’s forty-three years old, has close ties with the white witches and often pitches up to their meetings. I came across an old newspaper article where she was interviewed about the relationship between the white and the black witches. It was around the time there were those protests about the black witches digging up graves to talk to the dead. She wasn’t very nice about them. Apparently her hubby was a white before he died. Old alliances, I guess.’

‘Is there a home address for her?’

‘Just round the corner from the shop. I tried to check it out but it’s a rented flat and it’s already been vacated. A property agent nearby started advertising it as available as of yesterday. You won’t find anything useful inside.’

I nod. That confirms my thoughts: Frolic had been planning to skedaddle all along. I wonder why.

‘How did he die?’

‘Who?’

‘Her partner. Fingertip. How did he die?’

‘Heart attack. The post-mortem indicated it was natural.’

I’m impressed. Rogu3 has been really thorough.

‘Thanks. You’ve been a huge help.’

‘Any time, Little Bo Peep. There is one other thing, though.’

‘Yes?’

‘The shop’s been struggling financially. That’s probably why Frolic shut it down.’

It’s a similar scenario with many smaller stores: the financial crisis has hit them much harder than the larger corporations. It seems sad when the economy is just starting to recover and she’s clung on all this time… I sigh.

‘One of the corporations, Magix, was trying to take it over. It’s put lot of pressure on her, hassled her. I suppose it just got too much.’

‘Right.’ I’m not surprised. The big conglomerates seem to do little more than grow in size and bulldoze everyone else out of the way.

‘Do you know what happened to her inventory?’

‘Magix took it all. At a knockdown price.’

I wonder whether any more bright green feathers were included. It’d be worth checking out.

‘I’ll let you get back to your breakfast and your exam board,’ I tell him. He must be about the only teenager in the world who’s awake at this time of day. It’s not fair of me to keep him any longer.

‘No worries. I’ll keep working on the surveillance. Sort your phone out so I can call you.’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Three bags full?’

‘Whatever,’ I answer, drolly. ‘Thanks again, Rogu3.’

‘See ya.’

I hang up and stare at the ceiling. The camera is bugging me and I wonder who else it’s sending images to. Theoretically, it’s Frolic keeping an eye on her old store, but if there’s nothing left inside then why would she bother? My illegal entry will already have been beamed in full Technicolor to whoever is watching so it’s too late to worry about the consequences. I suppose I could argue that the shop was already open so I merely took advantage of the fact because I needed somewhere to hide while the sun goes about its daily business. It doesn’t mean I want someone peering at me while I sleep, even from a distance.

I take off my leather jacket. It’s too heavy for my purpose and the rest of the shop is completely bare so I’ll get no joy from that quarter. For a moment I’m tempted to strip off and use my bra, but I don’t want the Peeping Tom on the other side to watch so instead I dash back outside. Streaks of orange are starting to highlight the sky: I don’t have long. Cursing, I look up and down the narrow street. Irritatingly, it’s remarkably free of rubbish. Then my eyes fall on my car and I grin.

I wrench the door open and retrieve an old, mouldy coffee cup. Then I grab some chewing gum from the glove-box. I congratulate myself on not having cleaned up at the same time as I ripped out the seat. With a nervous glance at the sky, I scoot back indoors and shut the door before setting to work and manoeuvring one of the heavy shelves. Once I’m satisfied that it’s directly underneath the camera, I point up in its direction and mouth, ‘You’re mine.’ Then I climb up.

Fortunately for me, the shelves are strong enough to hold my weight. I stand up precariously. If I stretch, I can just about reach the camera. Good enough. I shove a wad of chewing gum in my mouth and masticate fiercely, then take it out and press it around the rim of the cup. It’ll be tight but it should just fit around the camera. I push the cup up till it covers the bulbous lens and press as hard as I can. Satisfied it will stick, I lower myself back down. That’s when I start to lose my balance.

The shelf rocks dramatically from side to side. I throw my arms out to stabilise myself but it’s too late. The shelf and I crash down to the floor. I catch the edge of my forehead on the shelf’s sharp corner as I careen downwards. The unit falls on top of me and I wince with pain. Struggling out from underneath it, I hold a hand up to my head. It comes away wet. I lick my fingers gingerly, registering the sharp, salty taste of my own blood, and smile humourlessly. If only vampires could live off vampire blood I could self-cannibalise. I shrug. At least I know I’ll heal quickly.

I check the ceiling. The cup remains in place, hiding the camera from me – and me from it. Satisfied, I crawl back behind the counter. My eyelids are heavy and I stifle a yawn but I need to take advantage of the phone in front of me. I pick up the receiver and dial.

‘Hello,’ says the calm voice on the other end of the phone, ‘my name is Jane and you have reached the Samaritans.’

I sink down further. It’s not a therapist – that’ll have to wait‒ but it’s a start. Quietly, I start to talk.

*               *               *

The following night, I think I’m ready for action. I want to use my time more wisely and make the most of the dark hours. My movements are sluggish, however, and there’s a nasty taste in my mouth. I exhale into my open palm, sniff and cringe at my halitosis, wishing I’d not bothered. Ignorance is not always a bad thing. Feeling slightly dizzy, I leave the shop and head for my car. I pause when I reach it; I definitely don’t feel very well. Driving is not a good idea.

Absently patting the bonnet, I leave my rusty heap where it is and wander to the main road, swaying slightly. At least I manage to flag down a taxi within a couple of minutes. If I knew where Arzo lived I’d try him but I don’t, so I give the driver the only other address I can think of. I have to face my grandfather sooner or later. Perhaps he’ll look more kindly on me now that I can barely stand up straight.

The radio crackles as the taxi pulls away and the tinny voice of the dispatcher fills the air. The words are incomprehensible. I check the time on the dashboard: it’s almost eight o’clock so the news is about to start. It would be helpful to know if gossip about my exit from the Montserrat Family is being broadcast.

I lean forward. ‘Do you mind putting the radio on?’

The driver looks at me nervously in the mirror, no doubt noting the pinprick of red in my pupils that denotes my vampire status. ‘Sure,’ he says, pressing a button.

A bouncy pop song is playing. It’s kind of catchy, although I’ve never heard it before. My enforced incarceration in the Montserrat mansion kept me in a bubble of ignorance; it’s clear, however, that the rest of the world has continued without me. It’s an odd, albeit very selfish, realisation.

The song ends, fading into the familiar theme tune for the news. ‘Good evening. Fighting has broken out again in Gaza, just hours after the last official truce ended. There have been reports of rockets fired across the border and at least eleven deaths have already been confirmed.’

I wince. What right do I have to complain about my own life with that kind of suffering going on in the world?

‘The corporation Magix has announced the creation of five hundred new jobs across the country as it opens a series of new stores.’ I sit up. ‘Its flagship store in London will open a new wing at the weekend.’ The newscaster takes a short pause. ‘And there have been a number of small protests outside the Mayfair Hotel after a meeting of the Heads of the five Families. Insiders at the hotel state there was tension between Montserrat and Medici, but it is not clear whether this was as a result of growing calls for the vampires to be more open about their activities. Neither of the Heads were available for comment.’

The driver’s eyes flick towards me in the rear-view mirror. I turn my head and gaze out of the window as the news ends and the music starts again. My thoughts are racing. I know that the Heads meet regularly to discuss matters that require their combined attention. I also know that there’s frequently ‘tension’ between them. I wonder if it’s egotistical of me to think that the source of the tension might be me this time. It could, of course, all be smoke and mirrors; very little real information about the Families escapes into the news. I tell myself that it’s none of my business; it doesn’t really work.

I’m relieved when we pull up outside my grandfather’s small house. I peel off some notes and pay the driver, then get out. The tyres screech as he accelerates to get away. His fear is disturbing; I feel a trickle of guilt as it occurs to me that I probably should have done something to reassure him. I guess it’s too late now.

As per usual, the cul-de-sac is quiet. My grandfather’s fat ginger cat eyes me from the middle of the path and I can see its nose twitching in the air. Without warning, it arches its back and hisses. I take a half step backwards and stumble, falling to my hands and knees. The cat looks ready to launch itself at me, teeth and claws bared. Then the door opens and my grandfather mutters something. The cat flees inside.

‘Stupid girl,’ he mutters. Is he referring to me or the animal? ‘Do get up from there, Bo. You look ridiculous.’

I grimace, pull myself to my feet and walk unsteadily to the doorstep.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ my grandfather says. He looks at me expectantly. Unsure if I’m doing the right thing, I kiss his cheek. When I draw back, however, I’m surprised to spot a twinkle in his eye. My grandfather is not usually the twinkly-eyed sort. I half expect him to whip out a bag of Werther’s Originals from behind his back. He’s not about to confound me that much, though.

‘Come in,’ he says. Then he turns and goes back inside.

The fact that he’s invited me in must mean something. I ignore the cat that glares at me malevolently from the stairs and wobble forwards. My grandfather has picked up his telephone, a make so old fashioned it wouldn’t be out of place in a museum.

‘She’s here,’ he says into the receiver. His eyes are trained on me. I stiffen. ‘No,’ he continues, after a brief pause. ‘Bring some food.’ He hangs up.

‘Well,’ he says, one eyebrow raised. ‘You really have got yourself into a mess this time, haven’t you?’

I can’t help myself. A single tear rolls down my cheek. He tuts.

‘Blackmans do not weep.’ He opens a cupboard door and throws me a towel. ‘The smell emanating from you is quite off-putting, my dear. Go upstairs and take a bath. I’ll lay out some clothes for you.’

I move towards him then stop as my knees buckle dramatically.

‘On second thoughts, you should probably make that a shower. It wouldn’t do to have you collapsing unconscious and drowning, would it?’

He goes into the kitchen, leaving me alone. I scowl after him. I’m not sure if I can stay upright long enough to do his bidding.

‘Who were you calling?’ My voice is weak. I know he can hear me but there is no answer. I know from experience that he won’t bother with me until I’m a good girl and do as I’m told. Clutching the towel with one hand and the banister with the other, I slowly climb the stairs. The cat swipes at me with one paw and spits. I don’t even look at it; it would take far too much energy.

I scrub myself down. My head is swimming but I manage to towel off and put on the Laura Ashley dress my grandfather left out for me. I have no idea where he got it from. I allow myself a brief moment of humour at the thought that perhaps one of his lovers left it behind, then lurch downstairs to the kitchen. At least the sodding cat has vanished.

As soon as I enter the small room, however, my hackles rise. I tense and, for a moment, forget that I’m on the verge of collapsing. Sitting with a delicate china cup of Earl Grey that looks incongruous in his large hands, is Michael Montserrat. He gets to his feet and looks me over, his face a dark mask. For a moment my heart sings with delight at the sight of him, then I remember that I walked out on him.

I hiss at my grandfather, ‘This is who you called?’