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Get the fuck out of here, it tells me.
I grab a backpack and move methodically through the flat. Phone, passport, knife, clothes. My envelope of cash is still tucked into my waistband; my notebook is in my pocket. The voice in my head screams like a siren.
Get the fuck out of here.Now.
I take one last look at the flat. My posters, my music, my clothes, my books. They’re all just things, I remind myself.Things can be lost, bought, replaced. Things are meaningless. My life isn’t.
Leave. Now,says the voice in my head.
I do.
11
Ten Drops
Luca
Willow Lynch.
Holding her real name in my brain, in the dark marble palace of my mind, feels delicate, precarious, almost ecstatic. I want to savour it, to gently crack her name between my teeth and taste the blood of it on my tongue.
Willow Lynch.
In the end, her name is common. Cheap.Normal.
So is her address. Greenleigh. Fifth most disadvantaged borough in London. I’ve been thinking of her as my nemesis, an opponent worthy of going toe-to-toe against. But this entire time, all she’s been is just some insignificant little thug from the shit-end of London.
I step out of my car with one of Cerberus and wrap his leash around my knuckles, casting a disgusted look at mysurroundings. Willow Lynch lives in a shithole. Ugly, crumbling concrete blocks, dead bushes, walls covered with graffiti. To my left, a small courtyard surrounded by shops with their windows boarded shut. It’s cold outside, and the street is empty. I look up ahead at the tower block.
Apartment 414.
Thisis the fortress my nemesis has been hiding in. This monstrosity of crumbling concrete. I give the entrance door at the foot of the building a tentative push—it falls open under my gloved hand. By the looks of it, the magnetic lock hasn’t worked in a long time.
I make my way up the stairs, Cerberus at my side. My doctor would probably prefer I not take four flights of stairs, but I’m not about to trust whatever rickety death box passes for an elevator around here. When I reach the door marked 414, I pause, turning my head to listen through the door.
Music.
Looks like Willow Lynch is home. Of course she’s not at work—why would she work when she can just blackmail her way through London’s elite? It’s not like that’s the kind of work experience she can just throw on a job application.
I didn’t bring Nadine or her team for a reason. I don’t want to fight Willow, but she might not give me a choice. No rat would let itself be caught without trying to bite, and I have a feeling Willow is a biter. So I wrap my hand around the needle in my pocket; I couldn’t resist the poetic justice of giving her a taste of her own medicine.
Cerberus watches me, dark like a shadow and still as a statue, as I take a step back and slam my foot into the door. It crashes open with a bang, and loud music pours forth from inside the flat.
I walk in and make a beeline for the old-fashioned stereo propped in a corner of the living room.
It’s blaring some sort of heavy rock music, a barrage of instruments and screaming that makes me wish I didn’t own eardrums. I smash the stereo off and turn to assess my surroundings.
The living room is a mess: an old couch, clothes thrown haphazardly around, magazines and paperbacks piled on furniture that looks like it’s existed for far too long and would probably welcome the merciful embrace of death. The curtains are open, grim grey light falling over a threadbare carpet in what looks to have been formerly a red Persian style. There are CDs everywhere, an electric keyboard propped behind the door, empty paper cups and crumpled packets of cigarettes.
The kitchen presents a similar scene: dishes piled up in the sink, the ancient fridge empty but for a few packets of vegetables that have been in there for so long they’ve gone soft and brown, empty bottles and cans of soda and an open packet of biscuits next to an enormous jar of instant coffee. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
When I’ve only got the bedroom left to check, I face the closed door and prepare myself. Either she’s in her bedroom, maybe even barricaded in, or she’s already gone. But if she’s gone, why would her music be on?
I take the door handle in my gloved hand and give it a gentle push. It opens without effort. No barricade.
Just a small room, a messy bed with a red throw on top, a wardrobe stuffed full of clothes, and a dressing table covered with boxes of make-up. Behind the door is a row of hooks on which hang dozens of bags full of what seems to be human hair. On each bag is a tag with names in messy Sharpie capitals: SASHA, ELIZABETH/LIZ, DANIELLE, SAPPHIRE.
I suppress a scoff. How many identities does one person fucking need?
