Dark Tomorrow (Bo Blackman Book 6) (10 page)

I rub my wrists and stand up. ‘I don’t suppose I’d know. Except,’ I consider, ‘I had a headache when she did it. I’ve never felt like that before. It was as if something was pounding inside my brain.’ I grimace. ‘It was.
She
was.’

‘Well,’ O’Shea says heavily, ‘we know two new things at least. The Kakos daemons are desperate for you to leave London.’

‘What’s the second thing?’

He gives me a grim look. ‘They’re a damn sight more powerful than we realised.’

I rub my forehead. When are things going to start going my way? I sigh deeply and walk over to Maria. I put my hand under her chin, tilting her head till she’s looking at me. ‘Thank you,’ I tell her. ‘I know how difficult that was for you.’

‘Is okay.’

‘No,’ I say softly, ‘it’s not.’ I glance back at the others. ‘I’m not sure what can be done about the daemons right now. We need to know more about their agenda and their capabilities.’ I shrug helplessly. ‘But if they have mind control at their disposal, I think we’re pretty much screwed. Right now, there are other things I need to focus on.’

Rogu3 jumps up. ‘Vince Hale.’

‘He’s one of them. But there’s something even more pressing.’ I swallow. ‘What Maria did wasn’t just a one-way street. I saw inside her head at the same time as she saw into mine.’

My grandfather doesn’t look surprised but O’Shea sucks in a breath. ‘And?’

Maria moans slightly and pulls back. The pain in her eyes is overwhelming. I can see her trying to disappear into herself, then she turns and runs out of the room.

I gaze after her. Empathy wells up inside me with such force that I can barely breathe. ‘The things that have been done to her.’ I suck in air. ‘She’s stronger than all of us. That’s not all though.’ I tear my eyes away to look at Rogu3. ‘Alice Goldman is still alive.’

Maria’s earliest memory is from when she was about four years old. She remembers the sun shining brilliantly and the arc of rainbows reflected in oily puddles. When she trailed her finger across the water, she could make the rainbows swirl, creating a kaleidoscope of colour from blues to greens to musky oranges. The puddle turned red when her father smashed his fist into her mother’s face above her. She remembers the expressions of those others who were around her. It wasn’t shock or horror or fear, they simply closed their faces, their mouths tight and their eyes hard. It was easier to pretend you didn’t see. It was smarter not to get involved. It was a lesson Maria learned quickly.

She wasn’t much older when she used to sit cross-legged under the rickety kitchen table. She was still short enough that her head remained inches from its flat wooden top but, if she reached up, her fingers could skim the underside of it. She scratched letters, gleaned from snatched moments of education when her mother had time. It was lucky she was a fast learner; those moments were all too few and far between. And she had to be careful. Once she was so absorbed in her task that she didn’t notice her father come in. He sat down heavily, his fat thighs dripping over the edge of the seat. When she didn’t move out of the way fast enough, he drew one foot back and kicked, connecting with her chest and breaking three ribs. The pain was sharp and instantaneous but she didn’t cry out. She knew that would make only things worse. She saved her tears for when her mother bound her up with torn cloth from the cupboard under the sink. It smelled stale and faintly of bleach but the bandages helped turn the agony into a long, dull ache. There were no doctors. They did not speak of such things.

Things could have improved. One wintry day, stern-faced men wearing crisp uniforms appeared. They threw her father to the ground, snapped his wrists together with shiny bracelets and dragged him off. He screamed and yelled the entire way. She cried when she saw him swallowed up by the white van, though whether the tears were because she was relieved at their escape from his fists or because she somehow knew she’d never see him again, she couldn’t tell.

Without the income from whatever jobs her father took on, her mother fell on other means to keep them fed. Sometimes, when the weather was warmer and the foliage was greener, she’d pluck grass and flowers and boil them into a thick green sludge. It didn’t taste particularly good and Maria was often sick as a result but it stopped the gnawing hunger in her tummy for a short while. When the only plants that remained were too inedible even for them, her mother would take her onto the streets, thrusting her in front of well-dressed passers-by to part them from their money. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. After particularly bad days, when all they had in their pockets were a few pennies, her mother would cry and slap her and tell her she had to try harder. It wasn’t because her mother was a bad person ‒ Maria loved her. She got angry because Maria kept failing.

The taller Maria got, the harder it became to garner sympathy. Younger beggars, who didn’t have her drawn, pinched look, did better. Truthfully, someone always did better. It didn’t matter how often Maria resolved to be a better daughter, she never did well enough. When her mother stayed at home, entertaining local men or unable to move from her bed, Maria went out on her own and earned more. She learned tricks. Witches, practitioners of both black and white magic, gave her money for blood. They recognised her heritage and could put it to good use. There were scabs all over her arms and legs from the tiny nicks and she had to be careful not to give away too much blood because the vampires would also come looking – and they paid better than the witches. The one time she did sell more than she intended, she collapsed on a street corner before she could get home. When she came to, someone had rifled through her pockets and taken every hard-earned penny of her blood money.

Humans didn’t ask for blood but some of them were mean. They’d spit at her and tell her she was scum. Usually the well-dressed, rich-looking ones were the worst, as if they were afraid that if they didn’t cling to everything they had and prove how far removed they were from someone like Maria, they too would find themselves in similar precarious situations. The poorer humans, with tatty clothes and pinched expressions, were more generous but they could only give what they could afford.

Strangely, the daemons were the kindest. Agathos daemons muttered at her, tossing her money and a quick smile. Others, whom Maria recognised as Kakos daemons but wouldn’t put a name to until years later, did more than the rest put together. It wasn’t that they were more generous with their funds – they weren’t – but they saw her for who she was. Unlike the rest, they met her eyes, acknowledged her individuality and stopped for conversation. The chats were usually meaningless, comments on the weather or such-like, but they reminded Maria that she wasn’t invisible to the rest of the world after all.

If all this sounds like a litany of misery, I’m probably doing her a disservice. Maria wasn’t the only young beggar on the streets and, despite the competitive hierarchy among them, she still made friends. Tragic circumstances can often foster camaraderie and, while success often meant the difference between life and death, it was also measured in coins rather than notes. Maria found it difficult to resent someone who earned enough to buy a whole loaf of bread when she could only afford a slice. Besides, cliques formed quickly on the streets and sharing assets was not uncommon. It wasn’t long before she found herself in a network of street children. Whispers ran from one end of the city to the other: take care with the man with the crumpled hat, he has grabby hands and doesn’t care where he pinches; be nice to the woman in the purple dress and she’ll be generous. And if you see the hooded men, be sure to run and don’t look back.

Not everyone on the street simply begged. Many stole, with quick fingers that could sneak into the bag of an unwary pedestrian and take phones, wallets, or loose change. Maria tried it once but her approach was clumsy and, even under the professional guidance of a friend, she found a hand wrapped tightly round her wrist and the threat of violence in her face. Only a short sharp kick to the shins of her would-be target allowed her to escape. Some young beggars also sold more than blood, leading ‘clients’ down dirty back alleys. Maria only had to see the aftermath, grubby faces streaked with tears, purple bruises and dead eyes, to decide she would rather starve first.

Not everyone took no for an answer but she knew enough from watching her father about where to hit or scratch. She was slippery; she could not be caught. But not all evil lurks in shadowy streets; sometimes it comes in bright daylight, clothed in respectability.

When March rolled around, Maria knew things were different. For three whole days her mother smiled. The cupboards, which were usually bare, were full of brightly coloured tins. Each morning, instead of suffering from an empty stomach, Maria was handed chocolate, a luxury she previously couldn’t have begun to contemplate. When she questioned where all this bounty had sprung from, she received a pat on her head and a low inconsequential murmur. She stopped asking. She wondered afterwards if it would have made a difference if she hadn’t stayed quiet.

On the fourth morning, she was licking delicately at a creamy brown chocolate square when there was a sharp knock at the door. Her mother, wearing her best dress of cornflower blue which made her eyes glimmer brightly in contrast, jerked away from the sink and grabbed Maria’s shoulders.

‘Don’t screw this up!’ she hissed, wetting her thumb with saliva and rubbing furiously at the stains around her daughter’s mouth. She wiped her hands and, with a ramrod straight back that Maria hadn’t seen in years, opened the door to greet the stranger.

Waiting on the porch was a middle-aged man in a suit. He had a warm voice and, when he stepped inside, Maria could see that he was someone who laughed a lot. His eyes crinkled at the sides with tiny crow’s feet that gave him a kindly, benign appearance. He smelled of expensive aftershave which filled their small house until Maria could smell nothing else. When he caught sight of her, he beamed widely and strode over.

‘This must be little Maria!’ He gestured to her to stand up and, when she didn’t, her mother hauled her up by the arms and thrust her towards him. ‘I’m your Uncle Verne,’ he boomed.

Maria blinked. She’d been told that her extended family had died or moved away. She’d never heard of an Uncle Verne before.

He circled round her, his eyes travelling up and down her frame, lanky even at this age.

‘She’s tall,’ her mother said nervously. ‘But she’ll fill out. I certainly did.’

Uncle Verne clapped his hands together once. ‘She’s perfect.’ He met Maria’s eyes. ‘Do you like sweets?’

Maria didn’t know where to look. Feeling her mother’s anxious gaze upon her, she bit her lip and nodded. When Uncle Verne grinned broadly, she knew she’d given the right answer and she felt a wash of relief. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small white paper bag and held it out to her. ‘These are special,’ he promised. ‘You won’t have tried anything like them before.’

Hesitantly, she took one and placed it on her tongue. It was very sugary and began dissolving almost instantly. It fizzed and tickled. She rolled it around her mouth, curious at the sensation.

Uncle Verne and her mother continued to talk.

‘She’ll be looked after?’ her mother asked.

‘Of course! We do everything we can for our charges.’

‘And can I call her?’

‘It’s probably best if you don’t. We find that children settle in more easily when they’re not constantly reminded of their families. It’s also best if you don’t tell anyone about this. People will only get jealous or they won’t understand.’ He passed Maria’s mother an envelope. ‘Here is what we agreed on.’

Maria turned as their words filtered through. She was already feeling dizzy and her tongue felt thick and clumsy. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Be a good girl, Maria. Uncle Verne will look after you now.’ Her mother gazed at her for a long moment, slipped the envelope into her bra, patted it self-consciously and walked out of the door. A second or two later, the world fell sideways.

When Maria woke up, she felt disorientated. Her head hurt and her tongue was furry. At first she thought she was in her own bedroom but it didn’t take long to realise she was actually in the back of a lorry, boxes stacked up in front of her and a bottle of water by her side.

It wouldn’t take a genius – even if that genius was barely a teenager – to understand what had happened. Maria allowed herself one choked sob and then, because she was nothing if not pragmatic, started to assess her situation. She desperately wanted the water but she was wary of what it might contain. Her head remained fuzzy from whatever had been in ‘Uncle Verne’s’ sweet. In the end, however, thirst won. If the water was spiked, she reasoned, it wouldn’t kill her. They wouldn’t go to this much trouble if all they wanted was a corpse. Besides, she was a nobody. No one cared enough about her to want her dead – and that apparently included her own mother.

The water was untainted. She gulped it down and began to plan her next move. It took considerable effort to move the boxes that blocked her in; they were extraordinarily heavy and, despite her height, she didn’t have many muscles. She managed it eventually, creating enough space so that she could squeeze through. By the time she reached the far end of the lorry, she could feel the vehicle coming to a stop.

Maria was intelligent enough to know that she’d probably have only one chance at escape. She examined herself for bruises or aches but, as far as she could tell, she hadn’t been touched. That was something. As harsh voices began to drift over to her from outside, she pressed herself against the far wall, concealed by shadows. Metal clanked on the exterior of the lorry and the door rolled up, revealing the night outside together with three shapeless figures who were barking to each other in a guttural language she didn’t understand. Maria shrank against the wall, sure that her heart was thudding so loudly they’d be able to hear her, even if they didn’t see her. Apparently they weren’t expecting her to have awakened so quickly. They clambered inside and began moving the boxes, their movements calm and unworried. The smell of their acrid sweat tickled Maria’s nostrils but she preferred that smell to Uncle Verne’s. At least sweat was honest.

As soon as the three ventured far enough inside so that she could leave without being spotted, Maria bolted. She leapt out of the back of the lorry and sprinted for the open ground ahead. There was a chain-link fence which, although it was looped with barbed wire at its top, she was sure she could climb. Unfortunately, however, there were more people outside. Someone shouted, alerting the three men inside who were still struggling with boxes. A dog started to bark, a ferocious sound that spoke of anger and violence.

Maria ran. But while she might have had the gangly limbs to outstrip a fully grown man, she couldn’t outrun a dog. She wasn’t even close to the fence when it was upon her, leaping onto her back and making her fall forwards. Then its jaws latched onto her arm.

***

Ten days later, patched up and more terrified than she’d ever been in her life, Maria found herself in a strange building. She was thrown into a room with others just like herself. There were children of all shapes and sizes. Each one had the same look that she knew was in her own eyes, that of the dispossessed, the unwanted, the forgotten. No one complained or cried or spoke but, all the same, the room was filled with fear.