Tears in the Fabric of Time

Four

FourFrom her partial hiding place, Ana stood and stared and watched the driver pull out a small, flat device. She could hear his voice, spitting out words, sounding terrified, his arms gesticulating wildly until at last, chest heaving, he stopped and put the device into his pocket, hand shaking. Slowly, he went back to the vehicle and slumped near the rear wheel. Ana wanted to take her chance, run to the sewer and get away, but knew she couldn't, sensing something very wrong was happening. To confirm her fears, she turned her head skywards and saw blue streaks slicing through the cloud. For all her life, Ana had never seen blue skies and, when she listened to the stories from old family friends, she dismissed them as fanciful. But now they were here, and despite their beauty her sense of dread increased. So, she waited.

They came, swooping across her vision like a horde of demons. Flashing lights, squawking sirens, men in uniform disgorging from low, sleek-looking and noisy vehicles, rushing to the driver to help him to his feet. Other uniformed men spilled out of a large, blue thing, rear doors screaming on hinges, men with guns. She knew they were guns because even though the vehicles were unlike the great hulking, stinking things she was used to, these guns were not – a fact which terrified her even more.

The men stretched a barrier around the entrance to the drain, drawn from a roll and made from an unusual bright yellow material that seemed to glow. Ana couldn't read the words, but they obviously spelt a warning. One man, together with a woman not in uniform, stooped over the remains of the militiaman's body and talked quickly. More voices, this time from others who were dressed in different-coloured uniforms, arriving from a large white vehicle with a blue flashing light spinning on the roof. Heated conversations followed and soon the militiaman was put into a sort of bag by these other people and placed in the back of a white vehicle, which sped off.

Flashes of light blazed briefly from a small black box the man in a jacket used to point towards the scene whilst the woman made notes in a small book. More conversation between them until, after an eternity, they clambered into their vehicles and moved away.

A few more men in uniforms mingled about before they gradually began to drift away in various directions, leaving the manhole cover open, the yellow tape still in place. And the blood.

Ana waited until quiet fell over the scene. All that remained of the incident was the huge monolith which had hit the militiaman. She crept forward and chanced a look from around the corner of the wall. No one moved, the area empty, silence deafening. From being a kaleidoscope of movement and shouting and colours flashing, nothing now stirred. She felt hours had passed since the accident, and yet since it happened, time seemed to have accelerated, so much happening in so short a space of time. One moment being pursued through the sewers, the next standing here, alone.

She took in several breaths whilst she struggled to decide what to do. She gauged the distance between herself and the manhole, took a deep breath and made her decision. With face pointing forward, she strode to the drain and peered down.

Should she go in? She hesitated, debating the pros and cons, wringing her hands, not at all sure what decision to make. What if other militiamen were lurking down there? It was certainly unusual for one to be out on patrol alone. The idea chilled her, so what to do? Wait, or return to the inky blackness?

Confused, she did not notice someone approaching until the hand gripped her jacket collar. In that instant, her training kicked in. Those weeks, or could it have been months, of going through the motions, being shown how to defend herself, attack with devastating force. She responded well, determined to become as best as she could, and when she had dumped the chief trainer on his behind, the dark silent ones applauded and grinned. Now, with the stranger's hand touching her, she reacted as if by second nature, turning low, the three-fingered strike hitting the stranger in the solar plexus and swung her knee up into his descending face. As he toppled over and she stepped back, she knew it was a mistake. She'd miscalculated. There was more than one of them, and as she gaped and attempted to assess the situation, a shadow fell behind her, followed by a tremendous c***k on the back of her skull. Everything went black as she pitched into unconsciousness.

The assistant in the museum was polite enough, but no real help. He leafed through some oversized books, scanned the computer, but in the end the look on his face said it all. Marilyn sat back in her chair. “Do you think it could be just a private thing? You know, made up by a group, a local club perhaps?”

“Possibly. The insignia is the curious part.” He tapped the close-up photograph of the soldier's uniform jacket. “It seems too intricate, too well designed. Why would a club go to all this trouble?”

“Lots of them do. They like to identify themselves, make themselves stand out.”

“Hmm…” The assistant rubbed his chin. “Can you leave it with me? I'd like to run a few more searches, get in touch with the royal Armoury in Leeds. They might have something.”

“Sure. Just one thing I need to know to begin with – you can definitely confirm that it is not the uniform of a police force in this country?”

“From what I can tell so far,” he said, measuring her with a steely look, “this isn't the uniform of any police force in the world.”

Her radio was already crackling as she slid behind the wheel. It was Tears. His voice sounded tired. “We found someone down by the docks. I think you should come in so we can have a chat with her.”

“Her? Who is she?”

“A young girl who seems older than she looks.”

“What was she doing down there?”

“We don't know, but I think you should come in so we can get to the truth of it. You've always had a way with interrogating.”

“Thanks.” Marilyn couldn't pick up on any sarcasm in his voice, which was unusual, and she gave a little laugh. “Are you okay, Gerry?”

“I'm fine. Tired, that's all. She's…She seems feral.”

“Feral? What does that mean? Wild?”

“Yes. Street kid, tough, but…I don't know, there's something distinctly odd about her. Just come in and see what you think.”

What Marilyn saw through the interview room two-way mirror some twenty minutes later puzzled her. The girl was certainly wild looking, her huge, black eyes constantly darting around as if seeking an escape route, her body tense, coiled like a spring close to snapping as she prowled the room, backwards and forwards, time after time, never stopping. Somebody had bandaged her head where the truncheon hit her and Marilyn noticed the red smudge through the thick lint material, but this didn't seize her main attention. It was the way the girl was dressed. An eclectic mix of varying fashions from any number of periods. She wore a floral printed skirt which fell to her calves, with black leather studded boots sticking out underneath. A satin lace waist-coat, drawn together at the waist with leather thongs, covering a white blouse with cropped sleeves and frilled collar, soiled and edged with dirt. Over this, a threadbare tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. A mish-mash of styles, chosen from a dozen different second-hand clothes shops. Bizarrely, on her, the collection looked good. Not out of place at all. The girl had style, that was clear enough. Those eyes, however, were something else. As Tears had said – feral.

“What do you think?”

Marilyn glanced across at Tears, who continued to study the girl through the glass. “I don't know. She seems like a throwback.”

“A throwback? From where?”

“Don't know. Seventies; like a university drop-out, or a hippy. What was that thing in the Eighties? New-wave?”

“You said Seventies.”

“Eighties, Seventies, the same thing.”

“Not really. The Seventies were garish, loud and I hated those years. The Eighties had style. Like her. She's got style.”

So he'd picked up on that too. Marilyn smiled. “You were a child of the Eighties, that's why you cherish them.”

“Cherish? I wouldn't go that far, but yes, they were pretty good. In my opinion.”

“I guessed as much. You were probably a punk rocker.”

Tears let out a guffaw. “Please! A punk-rocker! Can you see me with spiky green hair?”

She shrugged. “You never know.” Marilyn peered through the glass. “This kid. Looking at her, the way she seems so tense, she's very, very frightened, I think.”

“Maybe she saw what happened. She was there, at the scene. Anyone who witnessed something like that would be traumatised, possibly for life. But then, what she did at the scene…”

His voice trailed away and Marilyn frowned. “What she did?”

“She put down an officer. It's in the report,” Tears jerked his head towards a table in the far corner. “Like some sort of karate, moved like a wild cat, the other guys said. That's why they knocked her out.”

“Let's go and talk to her,” said Marilyn, who went through the door before Tears could give a response.

The girl stopped, swung around and backed into the corner, palms coming up.

“It's all right,” said Marilyn, her voice low. “We're police officers and we need to talk to you, nothing more.”

“I want Maidley.”

Marilyn frowned, shot a look at Tears, who shrugged. “Who's he? Maidley? A friend?”

The girl expelled a short, sharp laugh. “Friend? I don't have friends…” She pulled herself up straight, narrowing her eyes. “Where am I?”

The two detectives sat opposite the girl, who remained rigid but alert, her eyes flicking this way and that.

“Where am I?” she said again, her voice growing shrill. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Detective Tears, this is Sergeant Marilyn Jarvis.” He studied her. What could she be? A runaway, but a runaway from where? And her age, that was difficult to determine. Originally, when he'd first watched them bringing her into the interview room, he thought she was perhaps fifteen. Now, this close, she seemed older. Her eyes revealed a depth of experience, a hardness, as if they knew and had seen too much.

“Sit down,” said Marilyn gently. “We're not going to hurt you. We want answers, nothing more.”

A long pause followed whilst the girl appeared to struggle within herself, deciding what to do. Eventually, as her shoulders sagged, she stepped forward and slumped into the chair, sullen.

“What were you doing down in the docks?”

He may as well have said nothing at all. She sat back in her chair, looking disinterested, scanning the room. Tears had met others like her before, of course. Toughened by a life on the street, dealing in drugs or something worse. The detritus of a broken society. No education, no hope.

“Perhaps you went down there to do business?”

A slight flicker in her eyes. Her forehead creased a little. A nerve touched. Tears pressed on. “Is that what it was? You were trying to find a punter, earn yourself a few extra quid for your next fix? Is that it? A user, are you?”

He'd seen her arms, the lack of scars, so it was only a chance remark. A shot across her bows. He had to get something from her. She had no ID, not a thing. Her clothes were from second-hand shops, a crude mix of Sixties hippy culture and Seventies psychedelic crap. Tears remembered it from his own youth, the stench of josh-sticks lingering on crumpled shirts and matted hair. The time of progressive rock and Glastonbury concerts where the likes of Genesis and Yes played to audiences of thousands, all of them wrapped in the comforting fug of m*******a and speed. Jesus, what a life. No wonder he preferred the Eighties.

“A runaway, maybe? Home got too much for you, did it? Dad putting the pressure on you to stay on at school, try and get yourself at least one diploma, even if it was only in Home Economics?”

Her eyes narrowed; something danced around inside her head, confusion or recognition of the truth.

Tears leaned forward, growing more confident, knowing he was getting through. “You're a runaway, aren't you? Maybe you tried London, decided to come up here and give it another go? It's tough on your own, though, isn't it? Maybe your pimp put too much pressure on, took too much of your money, is that it?”

A blaze ignited in her face and his stomach tightened. The sheer intensity of her stare sent a shot of steely hatred through him, forcing him to sit back in his chair. At least it was something, a reaction. The first sign she could be reached.

“Where did you learn to fight the way you did?” The frown again. “You put an officer down in the blink of an eye. That's an offence. Punishable by a spell in prison.” Not a flicker. Tears glanced across at his partner who, up until then, hadn't spoken a word.

Marilyn took up the lead in the old double-act of good-cop, bad-cop, leaned forward and gave her best gooey-eyed concerned-mummy look. “It's all right, I can see you're hurting.” She reached out her hand and laid it on the girl's bare arm. “You can trust me. I promise. Just tell us something, anything.” Another smile, warmer still. “What's your name, sweetheart?”

“Ana.”

Marilyn nodded. “We're here to help you, Ana, not accuse you of anything. You've done nothing wrong, but you must have witnessed what happened to the man, the one in uniform?”

Ana nodded.

“So, who was he?”

“Militia. Who else would he be?”

Marilyn stopped patting the girl's arm and looked across to Tears. “Militia? What does that mean, Ana? And Maidley. You mentioned this man, Maidley? Was he the man in the sewer?”

“Maidley's not militia. You know he's not, so stop trying to fool me, it's not going to work. You're Silencers, aren't you? Or at least you work for them, so stop with all of this and let me speak to them.”

“We're police,” said Tears, his voice sounding bored. “We told you before, we're detectives. So you stop trying to make a fool of us and tell us who the b****y hell you are and what you were doing down in that sewer!”

The spring snapped at that moment. Ana came over the table like a wild beast, fingers spread out like claws. She screamed, gripped Marilyn around the throat, pushing her over her chair, both of them hitting the ground hard. Tears kicked back his own chair, caught the girl by the hair and yanked her backwards. Marilyn was screeching, long vicious-looking welts across her throat, blood beading where the girl's nails had punctured flesh.

Ana turned in Tears' grip, held onto his hand and twisted it. He gushed wind and yelped as she slammed her knee into his groin. The nausea hit him like a wave, and he bent double, eyes springing water and everything out of focus. He staggered away, groping for the table edge. He thought he could sense Marilyn trying to get to her feet. He fell on his backside, sat there, winded, trying to catch his breath and stop himself from throwing up. Through the tears he saw the girl kick his colleague hard under the chin. This wasn't good. The girl was more than feral; she was out of control.

He put his palms on the ground and pushed himself up just as the girl put her hand on the door handle. He pulled out his g*n. “I wouldn't do that.”

She looked at him, then at the g*n. In that instant, the fight went out of her and her shoulders relaxed. Then she did a very curious thing.

She smiled.