Water's Edge

Chapter XXIX

She's My Question Mark

"Half a Stella." I found a stool at The Thornbush. Although I had come entirely in the hopes of bumping into Becky Aster again – I had evidently left no impression on the young woman; I was showing my age – I hoped as well to maybe see Shanks and his boys. No chance. The pub was busy, weekend rush and all that, but it seemed all the workers were at home resting. Tonight was everyone else. A band was setting up, a pop punk trio, with a name as ironic as you'd expect of the times.

If Soames Construction was cutting corners on the build, siphoning funds, other illicit activity, I'd be able to find paperwork. Now I really did need to see Becky; I could have someone on the inside. Problem with being a P.I. was warrants were far harder to obtain, and although the laws were softer around breaking & entering, I couldn't risk it with something as high profile as Soames. They owned everything. Soames Housing. Soames Pharmaceuticals. Soames Construction—it went on and I didn't want to get lost in that warren just yet.

Article 50, the band, put down all their gear and sighed. I could feel how exhausted they were. The lead, a lass with short green hair, got just a glass of water much to the barmaid's disapproval, "Red wine is good for the vocal cords." She said, and the singer just nodded with the half smile of a teetotaller.

I took a moment to be thankful I had a case. Rent was due. I was sleeping in the office. And I wasn't fighting for the job with other Bow Street Runners on the scene. Just me, the case—and Becky Aster walked in, and I made sure she clocked me by turning on my seat, and lifting my glass in mock surrender. Surrendered to what? That I had become a dirty, old man.

We laid on our backs and passed a Marlboro Light between us, as if kissing through the smoke. I traced her thigh with my finger, the dirt of Hedon falling from under the nail onto it. It felt like a desecration. She'd not think that, or even notice. She was just a uni' lass with a part time job. Just. It's a big word for something so inconsequential.

"I need you to do something for me." I asked her, watching those thick lashes cage her eyes.

"Oh?" She muttered, lazily. I tried to see her as a person, failed. We all have crosses to bare.

"When you go to work..."

"Yeah?" She looked to me, caught by my hesitation.

"Get me some files, yeah?" I knew I was breaching so much: her confidence, the rule of law.

"What kinda files?" She teased in that Sunken Isle accent, eyes bright like a rabbit's; she still thought I was some naughty left-over from a mysterious era of detectives, of cops & robbers.

"Anything on where the money is going, or where the materials come from. Memos. Delete after reading emails. You know?"

"I think I do." She giggled and hugged me before getting out of bed, pulling up her knickers, "Am I a spy now?"

I sat up and finished the fag, "It's dangerous, love. Don't get lost in this." As I had got lost in her; perhaps not the mind, but the body. Soft curves like a question mark at the end of a very long sentence—

"Oh," She cooed and kissed my forehead, "I'm not your love. I'm your fuck." And with that she picked up her bag and left.