––––––––
Because of Razor it didn’t take me long to organise another identity; it was shockingly easy. But he’d promised that after this he was giving it all up for his two kids.
Razor trusted me. It was a trust between criminals, as he probably surmised I was soon to become one. There exists a strange respect within the underworld for ex-detectives who wander to the other side. Razor was supremely indignant at what had happened to my family and I.
The internet café was busy. The computer I was working on needed retiring, so I’d asked the girl on duty, Veronica, who wore an outrageous fuchsia-coloured jacket that seemed out of place in the greyness of the café, if I could be first in line to use another when it came free. She saw my impatience, saw that I was well dressed, saw I should have a computer at home and perhaps questioned what I was doing there. It wasn’t that unusual, computers break down all the time; but my nerves waterlogged my usual logical thoughts. Veronica probably thought nothing.
I’d already given up my computer and mobile phone. They were safely locked away. I wanted to become familiar with not having the devices as a crutch, with being non-contactable. I was alone, in every conceivable way –and that was the way it had to be.
‘Hey, missis, it’ll be a while before another terminal comes free,’ Veronica said. ‘Come with me, you can use the spare one in the back office.’
I followed Veronica, with her pink jacket and her efficiency. She reminded me of myself in another time, in the job that I had lived for. Before Joe.
‘You can have the room and the computer for as long as you like.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, until three, that’s the end of my shift.’
‘That’s great, thank you,’ I said. This room had no ventilation and was stiflingly hot. I took off my jacket. Veronica took a step back and wavered. God, I hope she wasn’t about to get friendly; ask me what I was doing. She didn’t strike me as that type.
‘No probs.’ She studied me. ‘Do I recognise you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I haven’t been in here before.’ Maybe she recognised me from photographs in the papers from the trial, although that was a long time ago now.
‘You look familiar.’
‘No, you don’t know me.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You work out?’
Her question threw me. ‘A bit.’
‘A lot, I’d say. My other job is personal training.’
I studied her in more detail. I could see that. Muscular but not skinny. ‘Good to have more than one string to your bow,’ I said, wondering how long she wanted to chat.
‘You’re in fabulous shape, I have to say.’
I felt a little uncomfortable. She saw it.
‘I’m not a dyke or anything. I just love a good body, on a man or a woman.’
‘I know what you mean.’ And I did know what she meant. I’d always admired women who were toned and fit. I had been before Joe; I’d let myself go afterwards, as Razor had noticed. Two stone heavier, and all around the hips – just like Margaret.
‘So, you planning on entering competitions then?’ she smiled. ‘There’s a big trend now for older contestants in these things.’
I laughed too loud. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Doing it for self-esteem?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sure I don’t know you?’
‘Absolutely sure. I’m new to the area.’
‘Well, good luck with the training, you know where I am if ever you need a trainer, but looks like you’re doing fine by yourself.’ She turned around, theatrically and athletically, and left me alone.
I began my work on the computer, more research, more emails.
The time was getting near. News seeping out from Littleworth told me it was soon.
An email popped into my inbox, but not from Razor. I peered at the screen. The new email was from Marek Gorski. I’d messaged him two days before, asking a favour that I knew was too much. I expected a definitive no.
Hi Rachel,
In reply to your request, I hesitate in saying yes, but would rather it was me than anyone else. Let me know a timeframe when you have one.
Also, sorry to hear about you and Liam.
M
I pressed the delete button and, as I did so, another email appeared. I squinted at the computer screen. Razor. I pulled the damp fabric of my blouse away from my chest. He said a week. I emailed back saying I needed everything within three days. The reply didn’t come through straight away. I sat and waited.
Finally Razor replied. My new ID would be delivered to me, at the address I’d given him – a PO Box at Birmingham’s main post office – within seventy-two hours.
I stared at the screen, imagining Razor at his. We’d spoken about other areas of the dark web in our last physical meeting. I tapped my foot rhythmically on the cheap plastic tiles. I emailed him back asking for web addresses. Within ten minutes he’d sent them: six dark websites that would lead any paying punter towards an innocent child. Good man. He would give all this up.
And I created another email address. Totally untraceable. Razor had taught me that.
I composed an anonymous email to Tom Gillespie, to his private account, guessing few people knew that address. To send it now wouldn’t be a good idea; half of me wanted to be reckless, but I had to be careful. I put the email in my draft folder. I would come back to it later.
After all this, I intended to do something to address the problem of the dark web – the children, that was – if I survived.
I felt Joe’s presence again, and wasn’t sure if this meant he approved or not, but I convinced myself he did and attempted to ignore the painful hunger that sat deep inside me, inhabited me. Owned me.