-Emily-
~~~~~~
"Sign."
She takes the cheque from me and scans it, squinting at the fine print. I drum my fingers on the hard shell of my laptop, impatient, waiting for the finalising scratch of pen nib on bank paper.
"And you're sure your activity is untraceable?" she asks, looking anxiously at the silver memory stick on the table. "That the police won't track this information to my house?"
"I'm no novice."
"I know that," she says, handing over the cheque and contract. "You've got quite the reputation."
I run my finger over the small indents of the signature and pass the papers to the men behind me, unsmiling.
"Mr Moriarty will be in contact."
"Will he meet me personally?"
"No," I say, standing up and re-buttoning my blazer, "he won't."
"Why not?"
"A further modus vivendi will be made indirectly or through contact with myself."
"Very well." She gets to her feet. "Pleasure doing business with you."
I shake my client's hand, trying to keep up my glacial exterior: I have proven myself capable of maintaining control, of doing business.
It is a feeling like no other.
I turn to take my leave, internally jubilant with the success of my first, professional interaction within this criminal framework. It is with practiced formality do I deliver the lines that so many individuals have come to bitterly regret.
"You owe him a favour now, Mrs Carsonella. Don't forget that."
Her face is pale against the mauve of her wallpaper as I walk away.
~~~~~~
I sit back against the car seat and secure my laptop in its security casing, placing it on the space beside me. The cheque reads five thousand pounds. Five thousand pounds, made in one hour.
I try very hard not to think of the alcohol supply I could purchase with my financial surplus.
It has become a matter of avoidance, now. I returned from my night spent in the gutters of London's criminal alter ego to an empty penthouse. Moran took great pleasure in manhandling me from car to lobby, and from lobby to lift, before leaving me to face the man who effectively spat me out onto the streets and dragged me back by the frayed collar of my shirt.
Only, he wasn't there. There was no confrontation. No explanation. I was left entirely to my own devices: a new suit and tie was delivered the next morning, boxed and lined with glossed satin, followed by a replacement pair of shoes tucked within their own gold-piped case. I was sent a generic email with my client's details and a date, and a car was arranged to chauffeur me from penthouse to private suburbs whereupon I was to extract information for a woman who wanted to 'disappear' from her married existence.
And extract information I did.
I have been looking into private accommodation between the ongoing training and the hacking to limited success. I'm dependent on this uneasy employment for a salary – although I could comfortably afford an apartment worth twice as much as my previous flat, there is no guarantee that I would be earning a regular income to pay my rent.
I push it to the back of my mind. Jim will inevitably tire of me, of my incapability and my instability, and when that day comes I know a cut to my paycheque is hardly worth fretting about, when a cut to my throat is thrice as likely.
I look out of the window as we drive; spots of rain form beads on the glass then burst as the car increases in momentum, carving cut-crystal paths across the pane. We pass similarly grey streets with grey tarmac and grey concrete and grey-faced pedestrians ignoring the woman on the pavement under her sheet of damp cardboard, her hair fanning out from beneath the grey fabric of her hood–
I sit up, suddenly.
There is a pair of stiletto heels resting by her head. White, chipped, familiar stilettos caked in dirt and grime.
"Stop the car."
The vehicle swerves, the driver caught unaware by the force of my demand. We pull into a lay-by, the rubber tyres hissing in protest and sending flecks of rainwater and gravel flying as we grind to an unprecedented halt. I slam the door to the car and step out onto the pavement, ignoring the raised eyebrows and tuts of disapproval I receive as I jog over to the body lying against the oil-streaked wall of a closed nail salon.
Her legs are bare; a bruised layer of battered skin wrapped taut around a bone core. No muscle. No strength.
I bend down and take hold of her shoulders, shaking them roughly. Her head snaps back and forth like some grim puppet cut loose from its strings and I see dried blood around her mouth, white powder around her nose.
"Trisha?" No response. I suppress the first spikes of panic. "Trisha? Can you hear me?"
I almost choke with relief when she groans, the stuck scabs on her lips torn from each other as she opens her mouth, exposing raw gums and dark pockets of missing teeth.
Her forehead furrows at the sound of my voice.
"Emily...?"
She opens both eyes, blinking rapidly.
"Oh my God..." Trisha tries to sit up. "Emily. I thought-"
I start pulling her to her feet, her body comprising little more than an egg-shell skull and fragile ribcage housing a trembling heart. She winces, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and staggering slightly, her fingers hooked around my wrist.
"I can walk."
I start manoeuvring her towards the car.
"Emily," she says, pushing me away and holding her arms out. "Trust me. I've got this."
She takes one step in my direction and promptly crumples under her own weight, landing on her hands and knees.
"Alright," she says from the floor. "So I don't have this." Trisha gives me a weak smile. "Give me a hand, yeah?"
I haul her to her feet.
"Where am I going?"
"With me."
"And where are we going? Hell?"
"You're not far off," I say, opening the car door and half lifting, half pushing her inside.
She rests against the seat as I climb in beside her, rubbing her eyes and feeling the back of her head for bruising.
"What day is it?"
"Tuesday." I lean forwards and address the driver, "Take us back. Quickly."
"Jesus... That was some powerful stuff." She looks at me, suddenly guilty. "I'm sorry, Emily. Our funds – I took them with me when I made a run for it. I was going to get a job. Start again. Try to find you." She takes a deep breath. "I used them to pay for my fix. I know. It was awful of me. I don't have an excuse... I just needed it, and I had the money. I swear to God I'll pay you back-"
"Don't think about that now."
"You're right. Sorry. I'm a wreck." She laughs, humourlessly, and shakes her head, before turning to examine me. "Bloody hell Emily, look at you. You look good. Really good." Trisha glances at the car interior. "Is this...is this yours?"
I smile, wanly. "It's a long story."
No further conversation is exchanged until we arrive at the penthouse. Trisha processes the scale of the building in disbelieving silence, either unaware or uncaring of the fact that the security members are watching her with undeniable suspicion – they have had their fair share of bedraggled women stumble through these doors – but my presence is enough to prevent confrontation. Trisha watches me press my keycard to the pad and listens as the door clicks on its hinges, opening to reveal the unmitigated splendour of my new living arrangements. We step inside the dark hallway, my heels tapping at the marble, her bare feet brushing the floor in soft pats.
She stops, and rotates slowly on the spot.
"How did you afford this?"
I don't answer.
Trisha narrows her eyes and, with the retained skill of her law days, reaches a conclusion with a sharp intake of breath.
"You mentioned 'Jim' at Carver's." She looks around. "This is his place, isn't it?"
I shrug the blazer from my shoulders and roll my sleeves up to my elbows, overheating in the face of confession.
"Right," says Trisha. "First things first, I'm going to be really audacious and ask for a shower because I smell inhuman. Then we're going to sit down, and you're going to tell me everything."
~~~~~~
"My God. I knew there was something different about you. Not the usual sob story, I'll give you that." She leans against the headboard. "I'm so sorry."
"What for?"
"That you had to go back to him."
I bristle, irritated by her tone. "I chose to."
She regards me with reproach in her eyes. "You chose to go back to the man who dragged your sister into crime?"
"Yes."
"Let me get this straight. He destroyed the lives of the detective and his doctor friend."
"With flair."
"He mutilated the dominatrix."
"He did."
"He slit the throat of your one night stand-"
"He didn't," I correct, a little defensively. "He got someone else to do it for him."
"Does that make it any better?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"This man ruined you, Emily – and you went back to him? After all that suffering? What does he want from you? Money? Sex?"
I begin to wish I'd left Trisha Stewards on the pavement.
She picks up on the dark shift in my intention and stops, lifting her hands in surrender. "Sorry, sorry. It's not my place to pass comment."
"No," I say, coldly. "It's not."
She sighs. "Forget I said anything. I'll save my judgement for our first encounter. Okay?"
It is with some reluctance do I smile and kick off my shoes, joining her against the headboard.
"Where is he now?" she asks, examining her newly cleaned nails.
"Jim? No idea."
"You live here?"
"For the meantime. He's got houses and apartments and hotel rooms all over the country. I doubt he'll be back for a while," I say, lightly, before changing the subject entirely. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"What happened after I left?"
"That was spectacular," she grins. "They were talking about it for days. God, I was glad to see Lucy Gold go." Her smile fades slightly. "Carver's dead."
I keep my expression neutral.
"Is he?"
"I couldn't believe it either. One of his rivals finished him off, I think. I've been on the run ever since – he's got men searching for both of us. I thought they'd found you already."
She lifts the hem of her borrowed shirt to show me the ragged edges of a semi-healed stab wound, mottled with green bruising and black with sticky, coagulated blood. "They almost got me. Twice. You're going to have to teach me some of that combat before I go back-"
"You're not going back there."
She lets the shirt fall back over the wound. "Well I can't exactly stay here."
"Why not?"
"I don't think consulting lover-boy would be too impressed."
I speak with a conviction that does not match my thoughts. "It doesn't matter what he thinks. He's not me. You'll get butchered if you go back."
"I try to stay optimistic."
"Stay here, until you're back on your feet. I'll speak to people, get you employment – it won't be glamorous, but-"
"I couldn't possibly accept that."
"I won't take no for an answer."
She contemplates, incredulous in her disbelief.
"I owe you so much."
I smile, pleased at having done something morally sound.
"Don't mention it."
We sit in companionable silence for some time, watching the clouds blacken with the ensuing night and rain intensify on the dark glass. Trisha's breathing softens, becoming more regular – I turn to look at her and see that she is asleep, her lips parted, thinning hair falling across her face.
The moment of cordial tranquillity is interrupted by the beep of another keycard at the door.
Fate plays a mocking game.
I wait in silence. He knows I'm here – I left my blazer on the back of the chaise longue downstairs. It is only a matter of minutes before the verbal sparring commences and, sure enough, I hear the sound of light, quick-paced footsteps on the glass staircase.
His outline blocks the light from the doorway. I stand up and, with as much hushed venom as I can muster, say, "Leave her. She's not your problem."
I don't give him the opportunity to open his mouth.
I sense his eyes on my back as I walk away. After a moment's pause, I hear him move behind me; I choose not to turn around, making it very clear in my stony silence that I do not want to engage in further discussion – but he still follows me from staircase to door, taking no measures to conceal his intentions.
I lose what is left of my patience when he steps into the room after me.
"What do you want?"
There is no pause between my agitated question and his action; I get my answer in the form of a grip around my arm and a twist, spinning me on the spot and forcing me into the adjacent wall. My skull catches the plaster and points of colour prick my vision as – and he takes full advantage of my disconcertment – my wrists are pinned above my head in a way that leaves me seething at the sudden vulnerability.
With some effort, I cap my anger and regard him with an icy, albeit staged, control. "I'm giving you five seconds."
"Don't be a killjoy," he says, utterly deadpan, as if the events of last week were irrelevant. "It's no fun." His hand is flat against the side of my stomach.
He lets it drop.
"Five."
He leans forwards, his lips brushing my jaw. "It's been a long day."
I laugh, coldly. "I couldn't care less. I'm not your personal stress reliever. Four."
Jim sighs, vexed by my lack of compliance, and tilts my head down to his eye level with a little more force than is necessary. "Why so prickly?"
"You have a short memory. Three."
"I'd marked you down as many things, but never puerile."
"Puerile?" I begin to test the strength of his hold; a reminder that I am, in terms of physicality, his superior. "You have some nerve demanding this now, James Moriarty. Two-"
He cuts off my countdown with his mouth.
I wrench my hand from his grip to tug his head away but, with characteristic temerity, he catches it in his own and presses it back against the wall, palm to palm. He is relentless in his advance; it is fast-paced, all movement and force and rapid changes of pressure that stifle my muffled noises of protest – and then he slows it down, making it languid and filthy with each insistent contact and graze of his teeth.
When he pulls away, I am a fuming, ungracious, unwilling convert.
"Was that an apology?"
"You underestimate me," he says. "I don't apologise."
I lift my hands to his jacket lapels. "And I don't forgive."
His lips curve against my throat.
"Forgiveness is a virtue."
We sacrifice dignity to savagery, then.
It goes on for some time, all skin, all pulse, all unpolished, unchecked longing; each tear and pull, each thrust and claw – they drain the blood from my veins and replace it with liquid conflagration and beats of white fire. His skin is cold, my hands are hot, and I feel it all in heightened clarity; the ridges of his stomach, the unsynchronised irregularity of our breathing, the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck–
I realise that the pounding in my head is being matched by a fist on the other side of the wall.
"I'm trying to sleep," comes Trisha's voice through the plaster. "Show some consideration."
We stop, short of breath, my hands flat on his back, his fingers digging little round bruises into my waist. The rush of blood slows.
"Thank you."
The interruption has Jim positively splenetic. In one, antagonistic movement, he takes a fistful of my hair and tugs my head backwards, eliciting an undignified yelp from the back of my throat in response to Trisha's gratitude.
She curses, hits the wall again in bad temper and shouts, "Arrogant bastard."
From that point onwards, consideration slips my mind entirely.
~~~~~~
I fall back against the pillow, drained, detached and numb, my chest heaving and breathing patchy. This room is unforgiving. I can't look at him and I can't look up – for fear of seeing the unfamiliar woman who bears my name in the mirror above my head. I close my eyes.
I'm not quite sure what possesses me to speak.
"You're making a fine weapon out of me."
I hear the sheets rustle as he moves. "Oh, I know."
"Don't think I don't understand your motives. You get your last word, your comeback, your vengeance – and I'm the tool that gets you there. I see through you."
"Then why," he says, and I feel his fingertips brush the thin veins at my wrist, "don't you leave?"
I resist the urge to snatch my hand away, leaving it motionless as his nails trace the broken web of fine creases in my upturned palm.
"Go on," he says. There is a soft, taunting danger to his tone, concentrated by the way in which he forces his fingers between my own, pressing my knuckles; designed to push me to my thinly-spread limits. "You tracked me down. You can make yourself invisible again. You think you understand my intentions? Then leave."
I work my hand free of his, take a deep breath, and open my eyes.
There is something unnerving in seeing him like this, at such close proximity; the mussed hair, the purple gathering of bruised blood vessels at his neck and lower lip, the shadow across his jaw, the unnatural movement of something not quite real behind the fissures of black and brown in his irises.
He regards me with little emotion. I coerce myself to continue.
"I want you to promise me something."
I watch his lips part and pull back: a twisted smile that does nothing to alleviate the growing unease in my chest.
"Oh Emily," he says, and I consider edging away. "You know I am not a man for promises."
"One thing."
"You think me careless."
"A request, then."
"You have my attention."
I try to keep my voice steady. "I want them to know what it feels like to suffer. Really suffer."
"That's it?"
"I want you to guarantee that suffering. I want to die smiling."
"A little dark for pillow talk, don't you think?"
I move to turn away, but he stops me, lifting my chin with his thumb. I swallow against his touch.
"You're not going to die smiling, Emily." My pulse beats at the artery wall beneath his fingers. "You are going to die laughing."
The predatory smile has reached his eyes.
"And for that, you have my word."
~~~~~~