Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

‘Of course. Where is she? Is she ok?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ He turned and led her outside the station. They walked hard at first, moving away from the main thoroughfares and winding through narrow streets where there were few pedestrians. At first they ran parallel to the river, then he veered away towards an area Riley thought was somewhere on the borders of Southwark and Newington. Cutting down narrow streets flanked by the sombre outlines of old warehouses, Palmer seemed to have the ability to skirt round darkening clutches of shadow where the whisper of movement was suddenly stilled and voices stopped speaking. A thin crackle of flame echoed in the depths of a half-demolished building, revealing a circle of faces gathered over the fire, silent and brooding. The group watched them go by with unblinking stares, then turned back to the fire.

It was much colder here, the sharp wind coming off the water gathering an icy venom as it sliced through the dark canyons, sending up a flurry of paper scraps and stinging grit into their faces. Riley wished she had put on an extra layer or clothing. It was raw and desolate and there was a rank smell of stale water in the air. Even the street lights seemed to have a weaker, sickly glow.

Palmer turned a corner into a deserted yard and stopped. A large bundle was sitting against a graffiti-covered wall under an overhanging slab of concrete. A weak light beneath the overhang washed over a clutch of rubbish skips, their edges dripping an overdose of refuse. Alongside the bundle was an old golf caddy loaded with string-bound packages wrapped in grimy polythene sheeting. Out on the river, the sound of a boat chugged past.

‘Her name’s Maureen,’ Palmer said softly. ‘She won’t talk to me. Hates men, apparently. I’ve been keeping track of her. She moves in an area roughly half a mile square and knows everyone and everything. All she would say was she’d only talk to a woman. I think she knows where Angelina is. I’ll lead the way and you chip in whenever you think necessary.’

Palmer walked up to the bundle and hunkered down carefully to one side, scanning the surrounding area as he did so to make sure they were unobserved. He waved Riley to the other side. In the thin light, Riley saw the old woman’s head was wrapped in layers of cloth, with just a small hole to reveal a dark, weather-burned face. Her legs stuck out in front of her like two sticks, encased in heavy woollen stockings and a pair of surprisingly stylish boots on her feet.

‘This is the friend I told you about, Maureen,’ Palmer said softly. ‘Her name’s Riley.’ He pulled a half-bottle of whisky from his coat pocket and handed it to the woman. She took it without comment and snapped off the cap with practiced skill, swallowing a generous mouthful. Nodding in approval, she then took several small sips in quick succession, allowing the liquid to seep down her throat in controlled doses as if savouring each one. She gripped the bottle tightly throughout as if Palmer might snatch it back at any moment.

Palmer looked across at Riley while the old woman was drinking. ‘I showed Angelina’s photo around, concentrating on the younger kids at first because they hang out together. Nothing doing. Then I was put onto Maureen, here. She’s the local bush telegraph.’

‘That’s me, dearie,’ Maureen piped up suddenly, looking directly at Riley. ‘Regular neighbourhood watch, I am. Everyone knows me but nobody notices. The girl was with a couple of Dukes.’ She took another swallow from the bottle.

‘Dukes?’

‘There’s a pecking order down here,’ explained Palmer. ‘The Dukes are the top dogs. They feed off the cardboard cities by allocating the best places to sleep. If you don’t get permission from them, you sleep somewhere else. It’s as simple as that. They also offer protection to those who want it. But they don’t do it for free and you can guess what they ask for in return.’ Especially, his tone implied grimly, if you happen to be a young girl.

‘What about people like Maureen?’

‘They don’t bother me.’ The words came out of the bundle with a burst of defiance and a fine spray of whisky-soaked breath. ‘You can ask me direct, you know — I’m not deaf; I’m not mental, neither. Not like some.’ She belched softly and sighed.

‘Sorry,’ Riley said. ‘Go on.’

‘They don’t touch me because I ain’t got nothing to give them,’ Maureen continued matter-of-factly. ‘Men. I’m too old for all that. And I ain’t got nothing else, have I?’ She took another sip from the bottle, then held it up. ‘Except this. They’d take this, though, if they could. Just to show they can. Men are bastards, in my experience.’ She peered at Palmer and surprised him by winking. ‘He’s not so bad, though.’

‘Nice people,’ said Riley.

‘Right,’ said Palmer. ‘And they’re not pushovers. Anyone crosses them, tries to muscle in, they’re likely to end up floating in the river. They’re hard as nails and they’ve got nothing to lose.’

Riley looked at the old woman. ‘How long has Angelina been with them?’

‘Is that her name? Nice. I wish I’d been called Angelina. Sounds like a doll, doesn’t it? I used to have dolls — lots of them. She’s been with ‘em a couple of days, no more. She’s pretty. Just like you, dear.’ She smiled up at Riley. ‘They’ll be sure to hang onto her, I bet.’

‘Do you know if they’ve touched her?’ asked Palmer. His voice was unnaturally calm and Riley stared at him through the gloom.

Maureen shook her head, evidently regarding Palmer as acceptable. ‘Not yet they haven’t. They’re very careful about underage girls. DNA, you see.’

Riley’s surprise must have shown because the old woman cackled and crossed her arms with a sudden, almost childish show of pleasure, kicking her feet out in front of her at the same time. ‘See, I know about things like that. Told you I wasn’t stupid. If they do anything to her and she gets away and goes to the police, they’ll test her for DNA. Then the Dukes’re in big trouble.’

Riley guessed the Dukes must have a record, and their DNA was on a database. Any allegations of rape would activate that database automatically. ‘What will they do with her?’

‘If they can, they’ll sell her back,’ said Palmer briefly. ‘Get her to go home in return for a finder’s fee.’ He shrugged beneath his old coat. ‘The Church didn’t invent the concept.’

‘And if she won’t go?’ Or, Riley thought cynically, she was unlucky enough to have the sort of parents who refused to pay.

‘Then they’re fair game to sell on. There are others who won’t be so cautious.’ The way his face clamped down said it all, and Riley decided she wouldn’t want to be a Duke if he discovered they had done anything to Angelina. By the sound of it, they didn’t have much time before she was moved on somewhere else.

‘Ok. Where do we go?’

Palmer gently nudged the old woman. The whisky appeared to be having the effect of making her retreat further inside her cloth bundle, away from the cold outside.

‘Maureen?’

She gave a start as though surprised they were still there and gestured with a grimy thumb towards a jungle of buildings away from the river. ‘Try the arches,’ she muttered, her voice beginning to slur as the alcohol took over. ‘Down below the Causeway.’

Palmer patted her on the shoulder, but it was unlikely that she felt it.

Palmer led Riley at a brisk pace through the streets, heading south and sticking to the shadows. He seemed to know precisely where to go and rarely seemed to check his bearings. Riley was hard pushed to keep up, but made no protest; this was Palmer’s turf and whatever he felt necessary was fine by her.