My dreams woke me every morning with a churning stomach and uneasiness, that made me pale, quiet; forcing me into a fake cheerfulness that everyone noticed. I tried to deny it, eating and drinking like normal but the minute I left the table, it was to race to the restroom and throw up.
Trouble was I couldn’t remember what the dreams were about, just that it left me gasping for air and in holy terror.
Tom and Cammy badgered me to tell but in truth, I couldn’t. I didn’t know why or what the dreams were about.
Boxing Day came and went. Snow fell on the ground and bathed the city in white making it look like a fairy tale park. Tom took me into the city to enact some business and watch the parade. We Hadn’t seen or heard from those detective inspectors in quite awhile and he’d told me the rumors of the cat burglar had died down, no new thefts. As I was stuck at his flats and hadn’t gone exploring.
I had lost another stone and he wanted me to see his physician. I’d refused and thrown a tantrum, which amazed both of them.
“He’s acting like a bloody teenage brat,” Tom complained and Cammy laughed.
“You mean he’s acting normal,” she teased. “Be grateful he’s not out joyriding, burning down flats or doing drugs.”
“He should be married, with kids of his own and running Cryllwythe Enterprises Ltd,” he grumbled. We saw the Cornish Red Lion and purple rose of the farm’s logo on products everywhere.
I wandered the grocers aisles absurdly pleased that my dad’s enterprises were so successful.
Tom called me, told me he was just nipping into the tobacco shop next door and then the vintners if I wanted to come with but I declined, said I would get something to eat at the fish and chips across the street. He warned me to watch for traffic and I rolled my eyes. He said nothing but watched me with a troubled look as I darted out the door. The bell tinkled behind me.
The chip shop smelled heavenly. There were a few tables inside and all occupied. I ordered a three piece and watched impatiently as they cooked it, dumped it into a paper basket, and handed it to me.
I stood by a table waiting for a seat, picking at the chips one by one when I heard a familiar voice, the blonde DI with the Dutch accent was seated in the corner. “Aidan, right?” he addressed me. I didn’t want to look up. “Come sit with me. I don’t mind sharing.”
I hesitated and he smiled. “I can make it an order,” he said. I walked over and sat down. “You’re thinner than last time,” he commented. “Doesn’t Watson feed you?”
“Yes. I throw up.” I flushed, wished I hadn’t said that.
“Throw up? Why? He doesn’t mess with you, does he?”
“NO! Tom hates pedophiles!”
“Does he?’
“Yes. One did it to him as a kid.”
“Really. Why aren’t you in school?”
I didn’t know what to tell him. Tom had never mentioned school and I hadn’t pushed the issue.
“You’re required by law to attend until third form, Aidan. How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“You look twelve.”
“I feel a hundred some days,” I sighed, pushing the basket away.
“I want you to come down to my office and look at some photos,” he said abruptly.
“Why?”
“To see if you know any of the men who are confederates of Watson. He’s a criminal, you know. A drug dealer.”
“No, I don’t know. He’s my friend, had been since he was a kid,” I returned hotly and he stared.
“You mean since you were a kid.”
“Yeah,” flustered, I pushed my food at him and stood up. He reached for my shoulder and forced me down. I sat with a thump I felt in my butt bones.
“I’m going to put Watson away for distributing and selling drugs, Mr. Aidan no last name. I don’t care who I take down with him. Understand? I’ll use you to do it if I have to.”
“No, you won’t,” I snarled and struggled out from under him. I yelled for help. “He’s touching me! Pervert! He grabbed my cock! Help!”
Shocked, he let go and I ran for the door as two of the patrons rounded on him. Behind me, I heard tom yelling to wait but in my panic, I didn’t listen; kept running. In minutes, I was lost deep in the back streets and alleys of downtown. I headed for a stairwell I saw and recognized the name on the sign as a train stop near where Suzy and I had shopped for used books, took a sharp turn and flew down the steps pushing commuters aside with a reckless abandon that no one even commented on.
The station was well lit with placards posted about condoms and AIDS, plays at Covent Gardens and upcoming rock bands.
I leapt over the turnstiles and finally heard someone shouting at em for not paying but I soon outdistanced them when I dove into the crowds. Everyone, tall or short, fat or thin, wore heavy winter coats, hats and mittens. You could see your breath even here in the underground.
I hopped onto the next car and made my way to the end of the line, hiding behind a heavy man with black as midnight skin and deep brown pupils. He was mumbling to himself from the Koran, praying to Allah for assistance. I answered him, out of breath and he stared at me with his jaw hanging. He had bad teeth.
“You speak Arabic?”
I nodded, asked him his name.
“Rashid Ibrahim Darabi.”
“Mine is Aidan Argent.”
“But how is it that you speak my language? Does your father travel, the Foreign Service? Your mother is surely not Arabic, you are too fair. And your eyes are so pure, like amethyst gems.”
“I speak a lot of languages,” I answered. “I have a knack for them.”
The doors closed and we lurched off. I followed him to his stop and got out at the next one, came up the stairs to a dark, quiet street corner near the docks. I could smell the strong odor of the Thames and the sea. Saw the moon and knew the tides would be coming in.
Found myself a doorway between two shops that were shut and huddled on the curb to wait for dawn.