The following morning, he didn’t make it to work.
At first, Ashley assumed that he was just tired. He wasn’t as used to these late-night adventures as she was, and he probably needed a rest. Perhaps he was stressed, after all that action, and needed some time away. It made a lot of sense, and could quite possibly be true.
Ashley didn’t believe it for a second. Naïveté was not a trait which thrived at the Gutter, and so while her subconscious kept trying to placate her, bombarding her with plausible explanations, she saw right through them. Her cynicism ran much deeper than her hope, and it undermined it at every turn.
Harvey was never late. Come hell or high traffic, he always made it in on time.
He wasn’t just resting, or taking a break. Something much more significant had happened, and that wasn’t a truth she could hide from. Though false optimism saturated her mind, this sense of dread ran much deeper. It filled her very bones.
It wasn’t a gut feeling, as such. This was nurture, not nature. This sense of apathy, pessimism, knowing when the worst had happened: she hadn’t been born with it. Ashley had developed it over years at the bottom of the food chain, where the worst often did happen. It wasn’t a gut feeling, it was a Gutter feeling. Ashley was familiar with the worst. She knew what it looked like, and she could spot its ripples from a mile away.
She felt it now, and it was tearing her apart. The anxiety, worry, the fear. Normally, she would talk to Harvey about these things. Ashley realised that the worst part of being alone was not just the pain, but having nobody to talk to about it. Her comforter was gone, and that’s why she needed him. His jokes, his laid back attitude to life; they had always reassured her. She had always needed him.
Ashley sat with Droopy in the canteen. It wasn’t the same, and it did nothing to fill the gaping hole in her very being. But it was better than nothing.
They didn’t talk much, however. Ashley couldn’t find the strength to open her mouth. Droopy could, but she wished that he wouldn’t. They’d always had the exact same attitude, Gutter workers. The exact same sense of humour. Before, they had all reminded her of herself, and she had felt like one of them. Now, they all reminded her of Harvey. Everything Droopy said, everything that he did, was painful to her. Eventually, he got the message.
Droopy had taken Harvey’s seat in the canteen, but not his place in Ashley’s life. The clown was only trying to make her smile, but when he said the things that Harvey would have said, did the things that Harvey would have done, he only hurt her. Harvey had only been missing for a few hours, but it felt like he had gone forever. Ashley would do anything to protect his memory.
The newspaper had been the worst part. That had been Ashley and Harvey’s little ritual, mocking the poorly-written articles and dreadful puns. When Droopy tried it, completely innocent, she felt like he was dancing on Harvey’s grave.
He didn’t have a grave, of course. She didn’t even know that he was dead: just that he was missing, and she was missing him. Nevertheless, swamped with these feelings of terror and dread, Ashley had consigned herself to the worst. Harvey was gone, and he was long buried in her heart. In the absence of a tombstone, she had built one out of memories. Droopy was appropriating those, and it was desecration. Ashley withdrew into herself, huddled protectively around her memories, until Droopy read her face and backed away. Even his understanding, his telepathy, was just like Harvey.
Once Droopy had left, Ashley bowed her head, and stared down at the paper. It was damp. She realised she’d been crying.
Her tears had fallen on the headline.
"MOTH TO A FLAME."
Below it, the paper had run an image, not dissimilar to the one they’d printed a while back; the one they’d printed of her. A dark, blurry background. A shadowy figure. A mask.
Ashley perked up, her interest piqued. She raised her head, and scanned the room for the one person she knew would have all of the gossip, who would be able to explain it in full. Her hand raised, she beckoned.
Cinda sat down. Whilst Ashley was exhausted after the night’s work (Droopy, for some reason, had seemed just as tired), the young singer was bursting with energy and excitement.
“Hey!”
“Hey. What can you tell me about this?”
She pushed the newspaper across the table. Cinda had seemed a little confused and worried to be called over, unsure of Ashley’s sudden friendliness, but now she relaxed. Whether understanding of her motives had dawned, or whether the younger woman was just in her element, Ashley couldn’t be sure.
“They’re calling him the Moth. He’s another vigilante.”
“Like this last one?”
“Yeah, but on a bigger scale. He’s the more serious version.”
“More serious?”
“Well, more violent, more thorough. I don’t know. The last one got kind of boring, this guy seems to know what he’s doing.”
Great, thought Ashley. There goes my number one fan.
“Really,” she said aloud. “What crimes has he actually solved, then?”
“Well, there was the rapist the other week, and the arsonist yesterday. Both now in hospital, of course. The Moth says that violent people only respond to violence.”
Ashley hated how jealous she was getting, but she couldn’t help herself. This was her thing! How dare somebody else try to take it for themselves!
“I don’t believe in fighting fire with fire,” she said haughtily.
“Oh no, he did exactly that.”
“What do you mean?”
“He set fire to the arsonist’s house.”
“Jesus, what did he do to the rapist?”
“Oh, he set fire to her house as well. It’s sort of his calling card.”
A calling card: great. Maybe this guy really did know what he was doing. Ashley felt that she was becoming obsolete. She squinted at the image, searching for something to criticise, something to make her feel better about herself.
“He doesn’t even look like a moth, really. Why are they calling him that?”
“Doesn’t it say? He leaves a message wherever he strikes, and that’s how he signs them. He’s very professional.”
That was that, then. She’d been outdone, superseded by some imitator. Her break-in, capture, and subsequent escape counted for nothing. Ashley scanned the article, but there was no mention of her. She was yesterday’s hero. Nobody cared.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. One person still cared, both professionally and privately. James Gregson wanted answers.
It was a shock to see him walk into the canteen.
The last time Ashley had seen this man, she’d been tied up in a basement, whilst he interrogated her. The time before that, she’d attacked him.
Ashley wondered what the third round would bring.
As it transpired, this encounter would be similar to the last. Gregson announced to the canteen that he would be calling staff, one by one, for questioning. He was looking for Harvey.
Part of her hoped that he found him. Harvey sent to prison, for acts she had committed, would be horrible. But it was better than Harvey dead.
Unfortunately, there was little hope of that. If Harvey had gone into hiding, he had done it well. Nobody at the Gutter, not even her, knew where he lived. He was paid in cash, and did everything in person. For a man with such a recognisable face, he was near enough untraceable. Ashley smiled. Even though she wanted her friend to be found, and deeply missed him, she was glad that Gregson was struggling.
With that said, she was not looking forward to meeting him. He had never seen her without her mask, but he might still recognise her. If he did, that was game over. Police had already covered the exits; Ashley had nowhere to run.
On the other hand, she knew exactly who Gregson was. He was corrupt, he was a traitor to justice, and he didn’t seem to care. He had stood by those young children, starving and cold, and he had continued talking. He was a monster, and Ashley couldn’t suppress her hatred. Even if her looks didn’t give her away, her mouth might. She could disguise her face, but not her feelings.
However, she had no choice. Once again, the Deputy Commissioner would be asking her questions. Once again, she’d be defenceless.
James Gregson didn’t need to tie her up. He didn’t need a hood over her head. He could confront her here, in her workplace, and she would be just as powerless to stop him.
If she’d reported him under the mask, leaving a message like the Moth did, he could have laughed off the allegations. As a known criminal, she couldn’t accuse the policeman leading the case against her. Nobody would take her seriously.
If she’d reported him as Ashley, though, she’d have fared little better. She had no evidence, so it would be her word against his. A tacky stage magician, who had been seen talking to the missing criminal, against the Deputy Commissioner. It wouldn’t expose him as involved. It would expose her as involved.
Ashley regretted everything. This had started as a hobby, a harmful addiction. Now, her best friend was either dead or on the run, and she might soon join him. She wasn’t ready to talk to Gregson, and she wasn’t ready to talk about Harvey. In such emotional turmoil, she would surely crack. It was only a matter of time before he called her name. Somebody would tell him she had been (still was, she corrected herself), close to Harvey. He would call her name, and it would all be over.
Not yet, though. Ashley saw him take one of the strippers away, out to the dressing room he’d commandeered as an office. She remembered how frustrating it had been to question them, and smirked. Good luck, Gregson.
Ashley just hoped that the stripper didn’t remember. If they mentioned her questions, she’d be completely exposed. Exposed by a stripper: deep in worry, she didn’t have time to appreciate the irony. She hadn’t realised she’d left such an obvious trail of breadcrumbs, leading right back to her.
Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs were eaten by birds. Ashley was meant to be a bird, and yet she hadn’t even managed to clear up her own. She sighed, nervously tapping her foot as she waited. Harvey would have made a joke. Without him, she couldn’t even appreciate the irony.
Ashley waited. Soon enough, the time came.
"Ashley Cox?"
A policeman called her name, and Ashley felt herself rising. Her body was operating on automatic. She took a seat in Gregson's makeshift office, but she wasn't aware of getting there. She was shaking. Ashley didn't know if she'd walked, or if the vibrations had propelled her across the smooth canteen floor. Her mind was elsewhere.
Her body wished it could join it.
Gregson spoke, but none of it went in: she guessed he was explaining what this was about. Ashley felt herself nod, and it seemed to satisfy him. She, though, didn't care for his words. The voice was enough. That unmistakeable, oh-so-recognisable, voice of her interrogator. There was no doubt about it: Gregson was evil. Harvey had been right.
There was silence, and Ashley looked up. She immediately wished that she hadn't. Cold, grey eyes were studying her carefully. Once her own eyes had met them, Ashley couldn't tear them away. She was trapped, like a deer in these icy, silver headlights. She could physically feel her pupils dilate. Gregson could see her fear.
His own vision, though, remained steady. Ashley used her poker eyes, but she saw nothing. If Gregson had reacted to her face, he was very extremely good at hiding it. It seemed that the mask, and the darkness, had worked. He didn't recognise her. She was glad she hadn't let her ego get the better of her. If she'd blurted out her identity, she might already be in custody. Or worse.
Ashley had heard of blessings in disguise. Once again, it seemed her disguise had been her blessing.
James. That was the name she'd gone by, and it was clear now why he'd laughed. The Deputy Comissioner's voice had influenced her subconscious. Her ears had known it was him; her mind had just taken a while to catch up. She felt foolish for the obvious lie, but it had been better than the truth. Ashley had kept her cover, and it was still intact, for now.
Then the questions started.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Harvey, of course. They say you’re his friend, so you should know. I’ll ask again: where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Ashley spoke the truth, but Gregson wasn’t buying it. Either he didn’t believe her, or he just didn’t want to.
“That’s not what I hear.”
Ashley remained silent, and looked as innocent as she could.
“You’re his best, and possibly only, friend. If anybody knows where this man is, it’s you. People do not just disappear: somebody must know. Again, I’m asking for your co-operation. It’s for his own good, and the good of the community. Where is he?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you. I want him found as much as you do.” She fought to keep her voice level, but Ashley was helped by her trembling lip. For the first time in the interview, Gregson seemed convinced.
“Fine, we’ll move on. What do you know about his nocturnal exploits?”
“Pardon?” The time for genuine honesty had gone: Ashley had to put on an act. Fortunately for her, that had been the best part of her show. She hid away, and let The Amazing Persephone answer the questions.
“The vigilante. Whether he’s a bird or a plane, we know that your friend is behind the mask. What do you know about that?”
“I’m sorry, what? That was Harvey?!” One emotion, Ashley knew, would be insufficient: through such a thin disguise, her true thoughts would be clear. Instead, she piled shock upon despair upon confusion, and hid amongst the chaos. Gregson couldn’t read her face, because she was wearing several.
“Come now, he must have said something. Where did he go? What have you heard about our so-called hero?”
“Just what I’ve read in the paper,” she replied, still wearing an expression of profound bafflement.
"Do you know if he's linked to these arson attacks?"
"Arson attacks?"
"A woman's house was burnt down at 17:00 yesterday, not too far from here. Are you sure that your friend wasn't responsible? Or perhaps you helped. If you're willing to cover up for him, you'd be willing to participate."
"I had a show then. I have no idea what you're talking about." The first part was true. Ashley had rushed through her shows, but she hadn't cancelled any. It was this job, not her hobby, which paid her rent.
Gregson flicked through his records, and nodded. The police had access to the Gutter's files, and so her alibi had evidence. Ashley breathed again. He couldn't suspect her as this vigilante, at least.
"Your friend, on the other hand, wasn't working that afternoon. He's still a suspect. What does he usually do, around that time?"
"Honestly, I have no idea. Like I said, I have a show then."
After a day questioning idiots and clowns, the Deputy Commissioner was visibly frustrated. He’d come here expecting to find what he wanted, and that had been a mistake. The Gutter was a graveyard for high expectations. Everybody left disappointed.
His cracks were beginning to show.
“You’re telling me you don’t know anything, anything, about this man? You’re meant to be his friend, for goodness sake. How good a friend can you be?”
He wasn’t the only one.
“Perhaps you’re right. However, Deputy Commissioner, it sounds to me that you know even less than I do. If my ignorance makes me a bad friend, yours must make you an even worse policeman. Instead of expecting me to give you your answers, perhaps you should go and find them for yourself. Isn’t that what you’re paid so much to do?”
“That’s easy for you to say, with your cosy inside job, but you have no idea what a real investigation is like. Miss Cox, I don’t tell you how to do your job. Do not attempt to lecture me on mine. We’re looking for answers, that’s why we’re here, that’s why we’ve sat and listened to you and your colleagues. How else do you expect us to find him? If you know a better way, then you have information that can help us. If you don’t, then hold your tongue.”
“No, I don’t have a better way. That’s why I’m not Deputy Commissioner. This is your job, and it’s your responsibility to have this information, not mine. You’re right to question us, but do not attack us when we can’t answer. My friend is missing, and it is you who lost him. He is your responsibility, not mine. Finding him, likewise, is your job. How to go about it? That’s something you should know. Deduce something. Use your little grey cells.”
“If you continue to obstruct this investigation, Miss Cox, I’ll lock you in a little grey cell. None of your co-workers have been a dream, but you’ve been particularly unhelpful. I wonder why. It is possible that you assisted your friend in his criminal activities, or have participated in some of your own. Those who flock together are more than often birds of a feather, to rearrange a proverb. Criminals befriend other criminals. Guilt by association.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m merely noting that, if you don’t consent to be part of this investigation, you might find yourself… part of this investigation. Do you see my meaning?”
“No.” Ashley continued to play dumb, and was rewarded with a sigh.
“I mean that you should help us find our target, or you might become a target yourself.”
“Oh, right. Is that a threat?”
“Not at all. It’s an offer: help us, and we won’t look at you too closely. Co-operation works both ways. You do us a favour, and we’ll do one for you.”
Ashley believed him. This man was deeply corrupt, and had already turned a blind eye to one group of criminals when it advantaged him to do so. She wouldn’t be surprised if he made such bargains on a regular basis. In this case, though, the blackmail was surprising, if only because it struck so close to the truth.
She wondered how much Gregson had been bluffing, and how much he really knew. Did he actually have reason to suspect her? Or had he just made the threat in general, assuming that any woman in her position would have secrets to hide?
If he suspected her involvement, Ashley was in trouble. He didn’t have any evidence, any more than she had evidence of his involvement, but that didn’t matter. Unlike her, James Gregson had command of both policemen and criminal thugs. If he wanted her caught, she would be: one way or another. Ashley couldn’t let him suspect her. Calling his bluff was tempting, but it was risk she couldn’t afford to take.
Then again, she couldn’t stay here. Angry enough as it was, after such heated questioning Ashley was coming to a boil. Soon her inner mask would slip, and he would have his evidence. She would reveal herself. Even if he had no reason to suspect her, it wouldn’t be long before he did.
Ashley stood up.
“Miss Cox, we are not finished.”
“I should hope not”, she replied. “When you are, when he’s found, we’ll speak again. I’ll thank you. Until then, you have better things to do than torment me. By your own account, I’ve just lost my closest friend, found out he’s a criminal, and now I’m being harassed about it. My world has just fallen apart, and I’m being blamed for it. You wonder why I’m not being helpful? I’m upset, I’m confused, I’m alone. Unhelpful to you? You should be helping me.”
“Nevertheless, we need you to stay.” If Gregson’s heart wasn’t cold, he would have intervened to save those children. Ashley’s misery had no effect on him. Given his double-life, he probably saw worse every day.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then your need is irrelevant. I need to leave, and I need to be alone. That is what I’m going to do. Unless you want to arrest me, you have no right to stop me. Please, respect my wishes.”
She left. A police officer accompanied her back to the canteen, and called another name. There were fewer people here, now. Those who had been questioned had been free to leave, and invariably they had done so. With work closed for the day, they’d taken advantage of the break. However, contrary to what she had just said, Ashley didn’t join them in leaving. She felt compelled to stay.
She immediately regretted it.
This had all begun, months ago, with Cinda’s scream. That had been the start of the adventure. Ashley had run out into the night, and she hadn’t looked back. Now her fun was over. She had run out of luck, time, and had exhausted her will to fight. The future looked dark. Without Harvey, there was nothing to look forward to.
This had all begun, months ago, with Cinda announcing a murder. Here, at the end, it seemed appropriate that she should repeat the act.
Ashley heard her name. She saw Cinda gossiping with friends, and their shocked faces drew her in. Her body screamed for her to resist, to turn her back and flee, but she was hooked. Slowly but surely, their words reeled her in.
“Somebody should, like, tell her.”
“Is this definitely true?”
“Katie literally saw it with her own eyes, why would she make that up?”
“Even so, it’s not our place to judge.”
“The police should explain, they’re probably used to it.”
“Do you think they know?”
“Perhaps we should tell them.”
“If they don’t, they will soon enough. According to Katie, it was pretty public.”
“It’s just so… horrible.” One girl shuddered, and those around her nodded in agreement, creating a disquieting wave effect.
“Why do it in public? That’s what I don’t get.”
“Perhaps it was a message,” Cinda mused.
“Huh?”
“Like, showing other vigilantes what might happen.”
“Oh, you mean like the moth.”
“I’m still in shock… go on, read the text again.”
Lots of words came in through Ashley’s ears. Lots of facts, opinions, details. Katie had been cycling to work when she heard the shouting. The screaming. A disfigured man had been dragged through the street, beaten and gagged by men in balaclavas. As a crowd gathered, more thugs arrived, and the man had been carried away. Thanks to the papers, Katie had recognised him as Harvey. Thanks to the papers, so had his abductors. They’d put a name to the most recognisable face in London, and it had finally been spotted.
Spotted at the edge of the Thames. Spotted receiving knife wounds. Spotted being dumped into the grey, unforgiving river.
Nobody had spotted the faces of the men, as they dispersed into the crowd. Katie, like everyone else, was still staring at the water. Trying to understand what they had just seen.
Cinda and the others, it seemed, were still trying to make sense of what they’d heard. Ashley did not have this problem. Oh, she’d listened to this conversation, her well-honed poker ears consuming every last detail. She’d listened to the story, all right. But her mind had only processed one thing. Ashley had listened to it all, but only two words had been heard.
Harvey’s dead.
The whisper echoed around her skull, each ricochet bringing fresh pain.
Harvey.
There was no disbelief for Ashley. Always the pessimist, she knew exactly how cruel reality could be, and expected it.
Dead.
This, though, was something entirely new. Surely even a godless world had limits.
Harvey.
He’d also been a cynic, and now he was gone.
Dead.
Had he believed it, in his final moments?
Harvey.
She thought she’d felt his absence.
Dead.
She’d been wrong.
Anguish compounded, not so much drowning out all other inputs as forcing a complete shut-down of her brain. It wasn’t that Ashley couldn’t see or hear through the pain, just that she had no desire to. She switched herself off, and wrenched out the plug. She had no desire to do anything ever again.
Dimly, through tears and apathy, she saw Gregson enter the room. Ashley felt no hatred. She had no feelings left to give.
“…this tragic event, due to the rise in vigilante culture, underlines the need to pursue justice through the proper channels. Civilian ‘heroes’ are dangerous, unhelpful, and do little good…”
Now, the anger rose. It could not compete with her grief, so it didn’t try. Instead, it redirected what was already there. She hated this man for Harvey. One man was the reason that the other wasn’t here. Sorrow became rage, and Ashley plugged in. She felt the current of emotions running through her, and she harnessed them. The tears dried up, reabsorbed. She needed their power.
“…these are not super-heroes. They might like to pretend otherwise, but they have no power, no abilities. They cannot deliver justice. We, the city authorities, can. If you want to help, stand behind us, and allow us to do our jobs. Do not stand apart from us. You help no-one by taking the law into your own hands. You only obstruct those to whom it belongs.”
The last time that Gregson had insulted her, she’d been defenceless, on his turf. This time, he had come into her home. In a room crawling with cops, Ashley couldn’t reveal herself. Without evidence, she couldn’t reveal him, either. Not as a criminal.
Revealing him as an immoral, privileged moron, on the other hand, was fair game.
“Ex-excuse me.” It took a few attempts to control her voice, but Ashley managed it. She had to. “I respectfully disagree.”
“Miss Cox, if you have information you wish to…”
“Oh, but I do.”
Controlling her voice, Ashley decided, was boring. It was tugging on its chain, and she had precious little to lose. She cut it free.
“Here’s some information for you, Deputy Commissioner. Being a super-hero is not about what you are, what powers and skills you have. It’s about what you do.”
Stunned silence? Ideal. Ashley was used to more hostile audiences than this, and she appreciated the lack of heckling. Now, more than ever, she needed to be heard.
“Any human body is intrinsically amazing. We are all telekinetic, for instance. We just have to think, and our limbs move. We can call read our own minds. Through the manipulation of scribbles on a page, or sound waves in the air, we can even read each others’.
“We are all shape-shifters, altering our appearances at will. Super-strength and super-speed are only relative terms; compared to other creatures, we are incredible. In respect to many things, we are immortal.
“What is technology, if not mechanical suit of armour to put on, enhancing our already exceptional abilities? We can travel far above and below ground, as well as along it. We can breathe under water. We can navigate space.
“Omnipotence? We can create almost anything we wish for, and destroy it just as easily. Omniscience? Our sense of sight is unparalleled. With telescopes and microscopes, we can compare the inner workings of distant galaxies to that of our own cells. Space prevents no barrier to our sight and, thanks to video recording, neither does time. Our other senses, particularly of sound, are similarly acute.
“We all have great power. Being able to shoot lasers from one’s wrists, or web from one’s eyes, makes very little difference. In the context of this universal magnificence, individual ability barely registers. We all have the ability to help others. We have the power to find the source of problems in the world, and the power to solve them. We could save thousands of lives, at a minimal cost to ourselves, through the transfer of wealth.
“People like you, James Gregson, rich men in the world today, have more power than any comic book hero. Think of the miracles you could perform. You could feed the hungry, heal the sick, home the homeless. With this great power, do you not have responsibility? Is it not your duty to help, if you can? If so, you have failed in it. We all have this ability to aid others, beyond what the law demands. You villainise those who use it. You’re right: they are not super-heroes. They are decent human beings. If that is evil in your eyes, then you are beyond help. It’s bad enough to brand it exceptional.
“There’s nothing miraculous about helping other people. As human beings, this is our duty. Showing basic respect to others does not make you superhuman: it makes you normal. If anything, neglecting to do so makes you subhuman. I regret to inform you, Deputy Commissioner, that this is what you’ve become.”
Ashley finished, and stood quiet, but the Gutter remained as silent as a mime’s grave. Crickets, whose chirps exist solely to fill awkward silences, would have played dumb. Here was an exceedingly angry woman, her make-up smeared like war paint over her face, laying into a senior police officer as if he were a disobedient pet. Nobody even thought loudly. They didn’t want to be next.
As it was, they needn’t have worried. Ashley’s next target was already fixed. With this one dealt with, she set out to find him.