Gavin Smith - The Age of Scorpio

The guy she had spoken to was called Ted. A large man, he had seemed cheerful enough, but Beth felt there was an edge behind the happy fat-guy demeanour, that he was not someone you messed around with even if the constant cigarettes he smoked made him short of breath. It made sense if he had been running this place for as long as he claimed. He had clocked her for what she was straight away.

‘You’ve been inside,’ he said. Beth hadn’t seen the point in lying. She had just nodded.

‘Drugs?’

‘No.’

‘You mess with children?’ She just glared at him angrily. He was studying her. Coming to his own decision, looking for the reaction not the words. After all, anyone who had hurt children probably wouldn’t admit to it. ‘Got a temper?’ he finally said, apparently content that she didn’t mess with children. Beth gave his question some thought.

‘I worked doors. I’m used to putting up with a lot of shit before I blow.’

Ted watched her some more.

‘Well, we can always use someone who can look after themselves round here. Thing is, you look desperate to me.’

‘I’m not desperate; I need the money. Who doesn’t? Look, you don’t know me, that’s fine, but I don’t need much and I work hard.’

‘I can’t have people sleeping here,’ he said, but she knew that meant he would hire her. She could kick in some money to Maude and Uday and get a little money behind her for a place of her own if she was going to be here that long.

‘I’ve got a place. I’m not on the street or anything.’

Ted’s face brightened and he shook her hand.

‘Start tomorrow. Be ready for long days of screaming kids and longer nights of drunk older kids.’

Beth nodded. It felt good to be working again.

Beth had used a little more of the precious money that her dad had given her to celebrate. She had bought herself some fish and chips and a can of decent bitter and gone down to the empty pebble beach. She looked over the slate-grey water. She could see artificial islands with buildings on them and beyond them, the Isle of Wight. It wasn’t the sea proper. She knew that. It was a channel called the Solent. She didn’t care. With the ships and the boats it was the sea to her.

A fierce wind caught her hair, whipping it around as nearby a hovercraft swept up the beach to land by a small passenger terminal. She watched as a big passenger ferry left for some place she would probably never visit. She hoped that everyone on board wouldn’t just enjoy where they were going, but take pleasure in being able to do the very journey itself. She watched some kind of warship – it looked high-tech to her eyes, violent – coming into the port, disappearing between Old Portsmouth and Gosport into the harbour, presumably towards the naval dockyards.

She liked it here, she decided. Maybe it was because it was a change. Somewhere different where you didn’t get to see the same old faces age in front of you. Where everyone didn’t know what you had done. Or maybe it was just because it was open: the air could get to you here; you weren’t trapped in a valley. Beth had no doubt that this town had its problems, just like everywhere else, but she didn’t feel the same air of defeat she felt at home.

Late evening but still warm. Port Solent was obviously a new development. Shops, cafes and restaurants, surrounded by high-rise luxury apartment blocks for whoever passed for the beautiful people of Portsmouth, Beth assumed. She always felt like an outsider in places like this. She had been waiting outside the address that Maude had given her for over an hour, waiting for someone to go in.

Finally a man walked past her, not even registering her existence, and keyed the number into the door. Beth waited until it was just about to click shut and slid her fingers into the tiny gap to stop the door from locking. The guy had his back to her walking down the hall. She slipped into the apartment building.

In the lift Beth tried to get the words of her favourite revenge song out of her head. This was about information, not revenge , she told herself.

Beth had chosen the bayonet purely for intimidation. Size is everything , she thought. She knocked on the door. It was a secure building, so he would be expecting a neighbour, someone safe; he wouldn’t have a chain on the door or check the peephole. She hoped. The door opened.

He was attractive, but it was the sort of attractive that made Beth immediately suspicious. To Beth he was a chameleon, an actor who made himself into whatever was required for him to accomplish his job of getting the young and attractive to service the older and wealthier. The nice clothes were doubtless accompanied by the right words, the comforting smile. He wasn’t just a pimp and dealer; he was a pusher. He talked people into the vices that he profited from. There was nothing real about people like this, as far as Beth was concerned.

She saw his look of confusion change to one of suspicion. She had to do this quickly and quietly. This was the sort of place where people would actually phone the police, and they’d turn up, probably quickly.

He started to close the door. She pushed it hard, knocking him back. She was in, kicking the door closed behind her, her great-grandfather’s bayonet in her hand. Grab him by the face. Keep moving. Keep him off balance. Let him see the knife, then let him feel it on the skin of his throat.

‘Very quietly or I cut you,’ she hissed. He looked more angry than frightened. That wasn’t what she wanted. He tried to scream through her fingers as she drew a line of red down the skin under his cheekbone. He started to struggle. ‘I will fucking stab you!’ she told him. He stopped struggling. ‘Are you going to keep it down?’ He nodded warily. She took her hand away but kept the point of the blade pressed into the skin of his throat.

‘I know people,’ he said.

‘I don’t, and they don’t know me. They won’t know you if I cut your fucking face off.’ She had to convince him she meant it. ‘I’m Talia Luckwicke’s sister.’ There was the fear she wanted. It was the start of a very bad night for William Arbogast.

Beth had kicked his legs out from under him, taken him to the ground and then straddled him, ignoring his look of distaste, her knees pinning his arms. She kept the blade at his throat.

‘I’m just looking for information. I’m going to get it. All you need to do is decide how much I’m going to have to cut you before I find out what I need to know.’

‘Look, fuck you and fuck your whore—’

She hit him in the nose, broke it, blood spurting down his face, his head thumping into the tile flooring. Beth brought her fist back. She knew she was just going to keep hitting him and hitting him. It was war. She knew this feeling, Beth was almost gone. She had to get control, had to…

Arbogast’s vision was red and blurred; he felt sick. He shook his head, recovering, looking up at the mad girl with a big knife. He knew that look. Seen it in the eyes of his clients who liked to hurt the merchandise. He’d seen it in McGurk’s eyes.

‘Okay, okay. What do you want to know?’

Breathing hard. Trying not to kill him. Beth closed her eyes. She needed not to see the world in red right now. She willed herself back.

‘You knew my sister, and don’t fucking lie. I know you were her pimp.’

Arbogast started to scream, but her hand was over his mouth, gripping it hard as she dug the blade into the side of his head, pressed down until she felt bone and then dragged it down through the skin, blood spurting out of the wound. Head wounds always bled more. Show them their blood, she remembered Thomas telling her. She held up the bloody knife. Showed it to him. Shaking with anger.