Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

We walked back to my place without saying anything, without agreeing anything. I lit a fire and we sat gazing into it, supping more Scotch. We saw our own past in the flames and hoped… well, all I was hoping was to wake up beside her. But she made it clear there would be no hanky-panky. She stayed with me anyway, dancing out of her top clothes in front of the sparking fire. She kept on her slip and slid shivering between my cold sheets. We lay like orphans, the folds between us, spooned but passion-free, just glad to share a bed against the dark.

Her thin limbs shook until our bodies made a bubble of warmth under the heavy blankets.

I smelt the fag smoke on her hair and the cheap scent on the skin of her neck and gladly relinquished the memory of Kate’s costly perfume. We began to drowse.

A big spark would shake us and make her twitch. I’d shush her like a pony and she’d subside again. The fire dwindled and the shadows deepened. Her trembling eased and stopped, and sleep took us both.

The morning light woke me. But Valerie was gone.

The first day of the year. The wireless was being determinedly cheerful: bells of liberty ringing across Europe… first year without war since 1939, and other such breathless stuff. I switched it off. Here in liberated south London the streets were quieter than normal as the good citizens grappled with a massive hangover. But the buses were running and I could hear the steady rise in volume as folk battled into work. The Blitz couldn’t stop them. Why would a sore head?

But I knew full well that in Scotland, it would be graveyard quiet; New Year’s day was a holiday, an essential respite for recovery and in some cases, resurrection.

I seemed to have drunk more than I thought last night. My cure is fresh air, so I decided to take a walk. As I stepped out the door, the cold hit me. The wireless had warned that the temperature would drop, but the frigid air stung my lungs and set me into a coughing fit. I went back up for a scarf and gloves and set out again. I like walking, even though it makes my leg hurt. When your world is defined by barbed wire and machine gun towers, the sense of exhilaration at being able to stroll without being shouted at or fired at runs deep. It was only slowly that I realised that in a haphazard way I was looking for her. I’d known her only one night. I’d slept beside her, but not made love to her. But already I missed her. I didn’t know I was missing somebody. I didn’t know where she lived or how to get in touch. So much for my detective skills. I’m an idiot. I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. Was I just a warm bed at a bad time for her? A new year flirt?

This was stupid, a kid’s game. And I was in no state – mental or physical – to be thinking about acquiring a girlfriend. I had other ways of dealing with my basic needs. I could do nothing, so I decided to turn my walk into something with a purpose. I’d visit Kate Graveney’s scene of crime, if there was a crime.

The arctic wind burgled its way inside my coat. I adjusted the scarf and pushed my hat on more firmly. At least the sky was clearing. There was even some blue to the west. I willed it my way.

I put in some zigzags round the back streets aiming to pick up Kennington Lane.

Away from the main arteries that fed the City and the West End, the streets were quieter. When I met another walker we touched hats and wished each other a happy new year. I passed boarded windows on bomb-damaged streets, and one huge crater that they hadn’t got around to filling in. Surprising really, given the amount of material lying around. I crossed the river at Vauxhall, heading into Pimlico.

There didn’t seem to be as much damage here: no factories or docks to blitz.

Though lord knows how they missed the twin legs of Battersea Power Station. They say they’ll build another pair alongside, but I’ll believe it when I see it. It would look funny, like a table on its back. The streets were busier now, shoppers queuing for mean lumps of cheese or slivers of meat, cars rumbling along chased by their own exhaust clouds.

I was getting good and warm now and could open my coat collar a bit. I thought about the two women I’d met last night. The contrast. The accident of birth and where it leads you. I could guess how growing up was for Val, but I had absolutely no idea how it was for Kate. Money and position make everything possible. I wasn’t jealous, just curious, as you would be for another species.

Even that little blink of fear I’d seen in Kate’s eyes when she saw my scar had been quickly controlled – mustn’t show emotions in front of the servants.

But at least I knew how to contact Kate Graveney. I had her phone number, somewhere in Chelsea – of course. I was to call her the moment I heard anything.

With Val – Valerie Brown; I rolled the syllables in my mouth – I had nothing, and the thought of not seeing her again filled my day with a shadow that had nothing to do with the weather.

I came into Lupus Street and began looking for my number. I didn’t have to do much counting. I could see the gap from the corner. I walked closer but stayed on the other side of the street sizing it up. It was as though a giant bread knife had taken out a clean slice, leaving the buildings either side untouched.

I guess all the terrace buildings had been constructed one by one. I walked over. There was still some rubble in the back garden. Bare trees stood at the end, and an old shed. What was I looking for? A pair of feet sticking out of the debris? I walked into the garden. The grass was sodden and studded with bricks.

There was that depressing smell of burnt wood and plasterboard soaked by persistent rain.

I kicked a brick sticking up on the edge of the pile and saw something lying to my left. I bent and picked up a shoe. High heeled, navy blue, good leather and size 4. I didn’t need to be a Prince Charming to know whose foot this would fit.

And she was no Cinderella. I brushed it clean and stuck it in my coat pocket. I looked but I didn’t find the other one.

“Hoi! No looting here, laddy!”

I turned to see an old man in a big cardigan and knotted scarf waving his walking stick at me. His breath ballooned about his head. I put on my best smile and walked over to him.

“It’s all right, sir. I know the lady who used to visit here. She asked me to see if I could find her shoes.” I dug out the shoe and showed it to him. He still looked suspicious.

“What lady would that be? I live across the road, you know. I see what’s going on here.”

“She was using the house. It belonged to a friend.”

“The Jamesons. Been abroad, they have,” he said triumphantly. Then his wrinkled eyes narrowed. “She a blonde?”

I nodded. I bet this nosy old bugger watched every passer-by and all the goings-on.

“She might be.”

“Her and her fancy man?”

“Could be.”

His suspicious look had turned into a secretive know-it-all one. He was dying to tell me more.

“You her husband?”

I laughed. “No.”

“A private dick, then.”

So, not so daft. “This isn’t about infidelity, sir. Did you see the explosion?”

His face fell and crumpled with annoyance. “I was asleep, wasn’t I. Near threw me out of my bed. Thought it was Jerry starting all over again.”

“Did you see the ambulances?”

“Oh, yes. But I couldn’t see what they were doing. Fire engines and everything.”

I could see I’d get nothing else from him and finally had to be rude to get away from him. Lonely old bugger. I walked back towards the river and struck north towards Parliament, and to Soho beyond. I was thinking about those poor lasses that had been killed there, the last just four days ago. The trade of the victims, and the way they’d been butchered drew a pattern, but I couldn’t read it yet.