-Emily-
~~~~~~
The dark backstreet is entirely deserted; my heels mark out each step on the tarmac, my breathing is uneven under the influence of adrenaline and every sound is heightened, magnified against the muted engines that replace silence in the city of London.
There are no shouts, here. No drunken clamour. No cries, no noise.
I look down at the pale face of my watch. Two o'clock: an inhuman hour for inhuman people. This is my second week doing this, and I have remained irritatingly unharmed.
Making myself poisoned bait was easy enough; every night I slip on my shoes and my blazer and I leave the limited security of the penthouse for the streets in order to continue my search. I walk the same alleyways, using my pitiful sense of direction as a guide, turning corners blindly and hoping I'll encounter this well-dressed stranger with his smile and his charm out of luck and luck alone.
Attempting to catch an invisible predator has proven more difficult than expected.
Trisha's murder is playing on my conscience. I see her when I sleep; I wake, cold and panting and still locked in a state of lucid unawareness, to catch a glimpse of her body with its red smile and floral decorations at the foot of my bed. I convince myself I see snatches of her face in the mirror when I turn away, and hear her voice, distant and warped beyond understanding, in moments of silence. It harrows me, it haunts me, and I can't comprehend why. I've seen many a cold-blooded killing – I've felt the life beat from a person beneath the tips of my fingers, at the crack of bone in my palms.
I am no stranger to violent deaths, and yet I cannot shake Trisha's from my mind.
I stick to the pavement, ensuring that I am dangerously conspicuous in the yellow light cast off by street lamps. I'm not entirely sure what I am going to do when I meet this man face to face; I presume I'll recognise him and receive the confirmation I need to do to him precisely what he did to Trisha, minus the stab wound and with additional agony, as is my style.
It is at this moment I realise that I am being followed.
I slow my pace.
I can hear footsteps behind me, quick footsteps, soft and light on the concrete. I turn a corner. The outline in my peripheral vision turns that corner too. I stop, briefly, and hear the individual behind me stop, then start again as I begin walking. I wait until I have reached a secluded area, hidden from the main street and darkened by lack of lighting, and I pause, preparing myself for onslaught–
A piece of paper is pressed into my palm.
I watch – startled by the sudden contact – as the figure walks past, unaffected. They don't look particularly threatening; an androgynous shape in an oversized sweatshirt, hood up and hands in their pockets. In fact, their demeanour is that of a homeless individual – certainly not the sharply dressed stranger said to be prowling these backstreets at night.
I turn the scrap of paper over in my hand.
Written in delicate italics is a name, presumably that of a café, and the time 8:16.
When I look up to address the giver of my invitation, they have turned down another backstreet, out of sight; I am left alone beside the rubbish crates and the graffiti, taken aback by the quiet nature of this unforeseen confrontation.
~~~~~~
I'm aware that I look very out of place in the confines of this boxed, greasy café – for the first time in my adult life, I am too expensive for the establishment, not the other way round.
In terms of scale, the place is borderline claustrophobic; my table is pressed right up against the peeling wallpaper and I am touching distance from the family sitting beside me, trying very hard to block out the grating screams of the red-faced baby in its pushchair. I turn my attention to the matter at hand: I have all but eliminated the possibility of last night's shadow being the man described by Carver's associate – from what I have been told, I don't think he's the note-delivering type.
I look down at my coffee, the distaste in my expression reflected in the oily film on the liquid surface. I stir it as a distractive measure: it is at times like these I begin to question the changes in my mentality, because four months ago I was living in an environment that would have made this place a veritable palace by comparison – and yet I'm currently battling an ingrained sense of superiority.
High-class criminality alters a person.
The strings of beads hanging from the doorframe rattle as another customer makes their entrance. I don't look up as the footsteps approach my table.
The chair opposite me is pulled out. I keep my eyes fixed on my drink as they place their sunglasses on the table.
"That coffee looks awful."
My head snaps up at the sound of her voice.
The shock I feel in that moment is so excruciatingly acute, I forget how to work the muscles in my throat; I choke mid-gulp, force the chair back from the table and stumble as I stand, backing away. The baby screams at the sudden movement, but I do not hear it: there is a downward rush of blood and heat from my face and my head is left ringing, the internal volume of my unspoken disbelief surpassing the furious howls of the newborn next to me.
She smiles at my reaction – a sad smile, the confident curve of red-lacquered lips replaced by a thin line, the skin cracked and colour pale – and lifts a frail hand to her hood, pushing back the fabric to reveal waves of chopped, chin-length hair under a knit hat. The flesh of her face has been chiselled out; the bones of her jaw and cheek and temple are too prominent, her eyes too sunken. There's no gleam in her irises. No depth.
Death has not been kind to Irene Adler.
"You're dead."
She looks me up and down, her voice retaining its bell-like clarity. "And you're rich."
"No," I say, forcefully, drawing disapproving looks from the family to my right. "No. I saw you. We all saw you. You're dead-"
"Not so loudly," she says, and there is genuine concern in her expression.
I can only gape at her; the picture of dumb, mute shock.
"You want an explanation, and I'll give you one, as soon as I've had a drink." She retrieves a hipflask from her sweatshirt pocket, unscrews the cap and offers me some. "Baileys?"
It is a good thing I cannot speak.
"Too early for you? More for me."
I sit down, uncharacteristically shaken. "How?"
She takes a small sip from her hipflask. "Forward planning. Criminal investment."
"Drop the ambiguity." She flinches at the volume of my voice. I swallow, take a steadying breath, and try to soften my tone. "How are you here?"
Irene loops her hair behind her ears and sighs, rubbing the fine crease at the bridge of her nose.
"I don't think you understand, Emily, what it feels like to wait for death."
I meet her gaze. "I beg to differ."
"Do you remember our last conversation? Our last situation?"
"Switzerland. Mycroft changed your protection programme."
She nods. "And you remember my predicament?"
"Ji-" I stop, and correct myself hastily. "Moriarty had you on his radar."
"Exactly. When James Moriarty wants you dead, you know you'll be six feet under in a matter of weeks."
I choose to stay silent.
"I had days," she continues. "It got to the stage where I couldn't function. It had driven me to near insanity. The waiting. The anticipation. I decided to create my own closure. It was a Tuesday – I had it all planned out. Cyanide capsules. Glass of wine. Nice music." She looks away. "I got a phone call, then. Unknown number."
I reach for the Baileys as she talks, pouring some into my coffee.
"He said he'd heard of me, of my circumstances. He offered me a pragmatic solution. I didn't believe him at first. Partially because I couldn't get past the accent. He's difficult to understand over the phone."
"Who's he?"
"I'm getting to that." She retrieves her hipflask. "He told me very simply that my safety couldn't be guaranteed. It was a risk. You don't try to deceive someone like Jim Moriarty without one. It was awfully complicated. He had to get someone to collect my dress, told me to cut off my hair, package it up. It was all taken. They dressed up a body. It wasn't identical, but it didn't have to be. He knows how humans work, see. He anticipated that the people James would send to finish me off wouldn't care for the details. They had the woman laid out under my bed sheets, had the pills and the wine left on the dressing table. Made it look like I'd gone through with my suicide." She takes another drink. "Every night, I'd have to check on her. Make sure her makeup was perfect, that her dress was fixed in place. Every night I'd hide. Every night I'd wait. It was ridiculous. A game. I'd lost faith in him by the end of the week – but then they came. It worked like a charm. They were taken by surprise. They didn't expect to see her – me – dead in the sheets. Like he said, they were too frightened to tell Jim the news. They mutilated the body – hacked it to pieces in the bed, and said they'd string it up like he'd asked and he'd be none the wiser."
"And then?"
"You know the rest. It was publicised on national television. The dominatrix was dead. Jim was deceived with the rest of the world." She laughs, bitterly. "I was moved out of London. I met my benefactor for the first time – and what a pleasant surprise that was. I worked for him, for a bit. Honeytrap. My skill-set is very useful in his industry. He paid me well, set me up in a place of my own. No strings attached. It's ironic, really. The deceiver is one of the few people in this world I can trust. He's not a bad man. Not like Jim."
I take a long, drawn-out sip from my newly alcoholic beverage.
"I'm not thick," she says, kindly enough. "I can see you've done a bit of allegiance swapping yourself." She raises her eyebrows at my attire. "Westwood?"
"Yes."
"Not your wisest decision, granted, but I can't blame you." She looks up, a glint of her former wickedness present in her smile. "Is he still vicious in bed?"
I swallow my coffee with a grimace, and opt for a change in subject. "How did you-"
"My benefactor. Give him a big name criminal and he'll have information on them, somewhere."
I seize the opportunity. "Does he have anything on the man after her? The one who killed Trisha Stewards?"
"Her?"
The word stings. "Millie."
Irene frowns. "After Millie?"
I explain the situation briefly, placing the emphasis on Trisha and the brutality of her murder. Irene shakes her head. "I can't help you there. He doesn't deal with low-level scum like that, but he does know a fair bit about the Baker Street lot. Something about a Mary Morstan?"
I try to keep the fragile balance between control and internal chaos. "That's right."
"I'm out of touch with it all, I'm afraid. From what I've heard, I side with you wholeheartedly. I am a woman of many vices," she says, pocketing her hipflask, "but I cannot stand betrayal."
I make an inarticulate noise of gratitude. She gives me a thin-lipped smile and glances down at her watch; I notice that her nails – previously manicured and painted meticulously – are chipped, cut close to the nail bed.
"Why me?" I ask, when the silence becomes uncomfortable. "Why show yourself to me? You knew about-"
"You and Jim? Yes, I did. I'm taking another risk, and hoping my benefactor was right when he told me you'd keep this quiet. Please."
I drain the contents of my mug, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Fine."
"Thank you."
"Why take that risk?"
"Because," she says, lifting her hood, "this conversation has two purposes. Information and, should you be as curious as you look, an invitation. My benefactor would like to meet you." She stands up. "I can't stay. Not here. I'll make sure you receive the details."
"Your benefactor," I say, slowly, beginning to anticipate the answer as I ask the question, "what's his name?"
The coffee machine hisses. The till draw clicks.
Irene pauses by the beaded doorway, and looks over her shoulder.
"Yakovich. Mr Yakovich."
~~~~~~