Reflection

The whiskey burns down the back of my throat. I feel its warmth spread through me for a moment, close my eyes to savour it, close my mind to keep the sensation in.

I'd let Baltam back down badly. Hell, I'd let myself down. Staring into that kid's lifeless brown eyes. I carried him to the edge of Stanmer Park, forcing myself to carry the load through the morning air and hide the body, before I can take it to Baltam.

Staring through the office window into the night, I catch my reflection in the glass. But instead of my own eyes staring back at me, I see two brown eyes staring into infinity. I turn the light off, and te reflection fades.

Baltam handled it well. He stood in silence a while, just trembling. But he didn't say a word, he didn't blame me. I left him in the dark and quiet in the end.

City lights are bright outside the window now. Car headlights sweep across a road nearby. So many people out there, so much life. Even in the dark, I can still see the shade of my reflection. I close the blinds.

It sickens me to my very core, but I still need to get paid by Baltam. At least I was able to bring the body back. Damn, I can't believe I'm thinking this. But I need to eat. I've put the time in. I've risked myself. Baltam owes me something. Damn. I need another whiskey.

Between the shutters of the window, I can just about see the black of night. I stare into it, praying for some kind of absolution.

Fog

I'm awake and out of the flat early. I walk outside into the inky dawn to find the world smothered by a blanket of fog, squeezing and choking the life out of the Earth for its sins.

I walk across and out of town. I got lucky last night, I heard the Eigonvectors are hiding out in Stanmer House, and they have a hostage. It can only be Baltam's cousin. I try to focus, center and calm myself on the hour long walk. The air is thick and heavy, cool on my face. It hides the corners and edges of the world from me. Secretly, I thank it.

The estate stands grand and square in Stanmer Park. Grey light fills the world, fog seems to swirl around the building. Last I heard, it was recently restored a usable state. I wonder that no-one has forced the gang out. How high does their influence spread?

I sneak in the back, through a kitchen door, Faith resting loosely in my hand. This time of day, none of the bastards will be awake. Inside the house is all stone floors, grand ceilings and dust sheets hiding furniture. I sneak around, poking my head through doors. In the entrance hall a set of stairs leads upwards. I follow it. Chinese gangsters lie in some of the rooms, most collapsed in a heap of empty bottles.

The Baltam kid is chained to a radiator in on of the bedrooms. A guard starts up when I sneak inside, drunk and confused. I tell him to sit down. I insist. He doesn't get back up. I cut the teenagers handcuffs, and lead him back out onto the corridor.

My luck runs out when I reach the entrance hall again, standing on the landing. Someone heard something, and the Chinese are waiting for me. Shots ring out as I round the corner. I fire back meekly, staggering behind some cover. I call to the Baltam kid to hide behind me. He lies on the floor, unmoving, blood seeping underneath him like he was a leaking bag.

That sick feeling rises in my stomach, stretching icy tendrils through my gut and up into my throat. For a moment, it threatens to consume me, to drag me under, to pin me down and hold my breath. But I force it down. The kid was dead. After everything. I draw Providence from inside my jacket.

By this point, I can't even feel angry any more.

I rise up in a daze, swing out onto the balcony, and open fire. Everything seems to move slowly. For a time, I can't hear anything above the rush of blood in my ears. Then a wave of something dark passes over me and everything goes red.

The Twins roar their shame and fury with all the bloodshot zeal of a tumor-crazed preacher. Shots echo around the room, kicking up dust and plaster and blood.

Then, after a second, a minute, and eternity of moments, a nothingth of forever, a heartbeat and a lifetime, it's all over. The Twins run out of lessons to preach. I stand and catch my breath in the silence, straining to listen. My throat is red raw, my breaths ragged, and some noise dully echoes through the room, clinging low and rough to the corners. But I don't remember screaming out.

Everything is quiet now. I carefully raise the corpse of the missing Baltam. The kid can't be more than seventeen. I walk out through the front door.

Walking back down Stanmer park, the air begins to clear. To one side of me, rich blues seep through the air, getting stronger and brighter by the minute as the air comes to life. To the other side, the thick fog boils and rolls, burning away before my eyes at the pure touch of the Sun. I stop and watch, straining to watch the movement of grey air which vanishes moments after I look at it. It is an eerily beautiful moment, the sky torn smoothly between pure white and brilliant blue.

I shift the Baltam kid on my shoulder, and keep walking.

Rope Burns

The rope is thick and coarse. It cuts deep into my wrists, making them itch from the blood that trickles down over the burns. My hands, pulled tight behind me, are a dead, numb weight. I wait for the next blow.

When it comes, the world turns to black for an endless second. The Chinese bastard has been tickling me for a while now. This is the first I actually feel. As blackness fills the world, shadows in the dark carry me back to the morning.

Yet again, the sun shone a false cheeriness on the world around me. I stumbled my way to a meeting with Baltam in some cafe on St James' Street. Greasy bacon and barely-cooked eggs. I left him to pick up the bill. I wandered the town trying to pick up the scent of the Eigonvectors. Baltam is getting restless. He seems to gain a new worry line in his forehead every time I see him. Besides, I need to get paid.

The roads and whispers lead me to Hove. Wretched place to get lost. The wide roads, terraced houses and brick walls never seem to end. I didn't recognise the Eigonvector hideout until I'd walked through the front door of the warehouse. Seems they don't like strangers. They're kids, mostly, Chinese teenagers looking for some fun. Providence helps me send two of them down screaming before the brick hits my chin.

I don't know how long I've been here. It must be before dinner time. These kids haven't been called home yet. They stagger around the empty building, drunk on alcohol and false power.

One of the Chinese has taken a liking to me though. He comes over to punch and kick at me, screaming nonsense at me all the while. I call him Sam, because he's like a short samurai. He doesn't know why I'm grinning at him. Poor little bastard gets so angry, it only makes my smiles larger and more bloody. I count the punches though. Twenty-five. And six kicks, for good measure. He'll get everyone back by the end.

Faith lies on a table not too far away. Some little bastard took Providence, decided he wanted some target practice. He'll soon learn that it's not wise to seperate the twins.

They'll all learn that it's not too smart to piss me off.

I wince. Twenty-six.

Restless

Today dragged on and on, like a boiling highway leading to no-where, melting in the hot sun. With no clear desination in sight, it's all I've been able to do to keep going. My eyes feel like they're going to melt in the heat, unnatural tears streaming down my cheeks. Damn, but I need a good night's sleep.

Respite came from meeting an old informant of mine. He used to work in a forensics crime lab, in the morgue more often than not. The poor lads there get it pretty busy, especially around the times I need information. Most days, they don't have time to get out for a lunchbreak. For the price of a sandwich, I managed to get a good deal of information. It helped me stay one step ahead of the cops. He ran into some trouble a couple of years back, so I helped him disappear. It's good to see a friend still in one peace. Poor bastard still spends half his free time with stiffs though.

I've plugged just about every contact, favour and meeting point I know, trying to get a lead on Baltam's cousin. But I've got nothing. The more questions I ask, the more I end up with. The Eigonvectors seem pretty well spread. I'm gonna have to hit several hideouts before I get anything solid.

This evening will be an opportunity to get some quiet time with the Twins. They get lonely at night. I need to make sure they're in good spirits though. Me, Faith and Providence: we're gonna have us a ball.

I throw back another whiskey, hoping it'll keep my eyes open for another hour.

Enter Thornton

Today I pay another kind of bill. I always knew the moon would come back to haunt me. But I turned my back, damned fool that I am.

The Eigonvector Gang were up to no good on Saturday night. Seems some girl got hurt. It was her blood which stained the moon. If only I'd been quicker, sharper, and got to the gang. If only I was sober. Instead I sit here, still clutching my bottle of whiskey. Still clutching my regret.

Tonight I'll lie awake, trying to shut out the ghosts of my past and hide from the shadows of my future. That won't change anything though. I need to track down the Eigonvectors soon, and teach them the hardest lesson of all.

But I did get a lead on Thompson. I've tracked down the five personals, and one of them looks to be promising. One of the ads was left by some guy calling himself Thornton. The name rang a distant bell, but I couldn't be sure if it was an alarm or a reminder. I looked it up, checked him out. Seems Mr Thornton is a big cat, stalking the prairie with no fear of getting bitten. He runs various business syndicates, sits on more chairs than they have acronyms for, and has an empire of children and bastards which sink their claws into just about every country around. This guy is big time. He cries bingo, snap and go fish all at once.

So why is this man, powerful enough to sell the world, advertising himself in some sleasy personals? It doesn't add up. Maybe the guy is just lonely, but I'm not a big enough fool to buy that. This guy knows something, and he's communicating with Thompson to get it. I don't know how it fits together yet, but they're part of the same trouble.

Getting hold of this Thornton is proving hard work. Even his secretary's secretary won't respond to me. I'm going to have to come up with a better way to get close to him.

He wants personals? I'll give him personals. Ain't nothing in the whole damn town more personal than a call from The Twins. Then maybe we'll see what this is all about.

Tricks

I decide to get some air, visit some informants. I'm drowning in the stale air of the office again: the streets welcome me, cobblestones whispering their stories as I pass over them.

I find Arbon and Amoe doing a routine near the jewellers. These guys are artists. Arbon sits on an upturned milk pallet, strumming away on a bass guitar. I stand and watch from the corner. A small crowd has gathered round - it's a nice day, and Arbon is putting on a good show. I spy Amoe creeping round the crowds. If you didn't know what to look for, you'd never notice him pinching wallets and phones from pockets. Today's his lucky day: a girl takes out her white earbuds to listen in. Quick as a flash, Amoe unplugs the headphones and swipes the iPod from her pocket. I wonder how long it takes people to realise they've been swindled.

I prefer the 'free hug' scam, myself. They'll stand in Churchill square with big poster signs and warm, fuzzy hats. As giggly school girls and lonely parents are coaxed into a hug, the boys swipe whatever they can get from rear pockets and handbags.

Artists.

Arbon finishes up the song, and I walk over. These two know the streets better than anyone. They give me some background information about the Eigonvector Gang. Not much - their turf, typical activities. No names, but it's a start. The boys are good to me, I barely even have to coax the information out of them.

Amoe and Arbon are always good to me. Ever since I helped them out with a police officer who got wise to one of their games. It was easy enough to do, but it bought their loyalty. Maybe even their friendship. All it took was a hooker, a video camera, and a jar of vaseline. The case was dropped the next afternoon.

Arbon packs up and heads off. Amoe waves, turns and walks off. I call to his back, politely asking for my wallet back. He grins wolfishly and hands it over. I know that the twenty pound note inside will have vanished. Service rendered, service paid.

The boys are good to me.

The Eigonvector Gang

It only took one day of sheltering behind my four office walls to get restless. A man can only stick to one place for so often before he turns into a rat. Seth's cousin has, so far, proved to be the most boring executive to walk the Earth. I've found nothing in his background to use against him. No one can be that clean. Cleaning up after yourself always leaves a mess somewhere else. It's only a matter of time before I track it down. But with my eyes aching like they've just cycled the London-Brighton marathon, I decided enough was enough.

I've been hanging around The Gladstone, trying to get a lead on the Baltam case. An afternoon cradling whiskeys and watching barmaids is no bad thing. After about an hour of flashing Baltam's photo around, I hit upon a lead. Some Korean almost coughed up his drink when he saw the picture. Poor kid. He let slip that Baltam's boy is being held by some group calling themselves 'The Eigonvector Gang'. And here was me, thinking I had an easy case on my hands. The kid ran off when he got a glimpse of Faith inside my jacket. Hopefully he'll be wise enough to keep his mouth shut. My guess is, if the gang founds out he's squeked, he'll have more to worry about then holding his drink down.

These Eigonvectors will take more looking into. I'm still jumping at shadows after Thompson's games. Next time I walk into a darkened corridor, I want to be damned sure who turned out the lights.

The Walls

This line of work, there are good days, and there are bad days.

Of course, the good days are just the bastard offspring of a bad day and payday. But that counts for something in my book. At least it keeps the snoops from the bank off my back. One less shoulder to look over.

But right now, right here, are the really bad days. I've got no leads on the Baltam case, despite a day of pen pushing. I've spent twenty-four hours trying to make some headway on Project Thompson. That means a day of shifting through files, paper work, accounts. A day of sitting in the darkened office, my only company the demons on my shoulder and the whisky bottle by my hand. Days like these, even the walls start to come after me. The office gets smaller and smaller, swallowed by shadow as the light of day fades. The walls creep up on my blind spot and whisper that they hate me.

Eventually I'll put the pen down, rub my fingers against my eyes, and fall asleep in the hard office chair. I know this as surely as I know the weekend is going to get bad. Bad like the M25 on Friday evening. But not yet. Not while the walls are whispering in my ears.

Here's to the good days. I've gotta be due a paycheck.

The BALTAM case

A new case arrived today. Like I need more to worry about.

A mister Baltam was stood outside the office this morning, twitching and looking over his shoudler like he'd been on Crimewatch last night. Baltam is Chinese. He explained his problem in halting, broken English. I didn't get a chance to hear what the bastard said before he stuffed a fat envelope in my hand and strutted off. The envelope contained a load of pictures, receipts, and bills. I figure it's some kind of wandering son job. Maybe he's a twink, and his lover has fled off. that seems quite likely, judging from the strapping young Chinaman in the photos. It's going to take a lot of fingers to figure out what this guy wants. Damn you Baltam, why couldn't you make it simple?

Just once, it should be simple.

The Baltam Case

The Baltam Case is turning out to be a strange one. Mr Baltam is a middle aged Chinese man. Very neat, very smart, very well turned out. Except the damn guy can barely speak a word of English. I'm currently trying to find out just what the Baltam case actually. Judging by the photograph which came in the file, it's a missing person job.

My suspicions are confirmed when a terrified informat tells me that the kid in the photo is being held hostage by a gang. Some Chinese group calling themselves the Eigonvector Gang. I'm going to have to find out about the gang, find where the kid is being held, and break him out.

It takes quite a while to track down the kid. The Eigonvectors have several hideouts across town. I end up being locked in one of them for a sore night as the guest of honour. Eventually, I track down the kid's location to Stanmer House, a tired estate just out of town. Things go wrong as I try and break him out. Baltam's kid gets gunned down in the crossfire.

I returned the body to Baltam, who accepted it sadly. I don't yet know whethe Baltam will send a cheque. But I know damn sure that I don't deserve much for letting the poor kid down.