Deviance. London Psychic Book 3 (17 page)

They had sent her to a house for unwed mothers to await the arrival of the child, but Magda knew she couldn't stay. She had felt an overwhelming sense that she would die there if she remained. The eyes of the other girls were hollow and haunted, rumors of a pit out the back where hundreds of babies and young mothers were buried, taken back to God.
 

That night she had run from the place, escaping over the fields and heading cross country, eventually reaching the coast. There she had used her body to bargain for a ferry crossing, the pregnancy not yet far gone enough to put the man off. She didn't care for the sexual act, but she certainly understood what it was worth.
 

Once on English soil, she had found an abortion clinic. When they asked for her name, she found herself saying Magda. The harsh syllables were more European than Irish and yet Mary Magdalene had always been the saint she had loved the most. The sinner who Jesus had loved, the woman whom he chose to reveal himself to first in the garden after his resurrection.

Magda looked down at her tattoos. The ink reclaimed her body, but it had taken many years to get to the point where she accepted all of herself. Sex was the only trade she had when she arrived in London, and she had become the very sinner that the nuns claimed she was. But the sex was mechanical, and never meant anything except cash to live on. It was work, and easy enough. There had been some bastards but most were lonely men who needed to be touched, and she had understood their need for love and acceptance.
 

Perhaps she had always loved women, but she hadn't even known it was allowed until London, the city that welcomed all. She had found her tribe here, the sex workers, the junkies, the pagans, those who society had labeled deviant but really just didn't conform. A cast of antiheroes against the backdrop of the greatest city on earth.

The Magdalene had been her first tattoo, embodying both sinner and saint in her many incarnations. She was also separate from the Mother figure, the Mary who Magda could only pity. The Mother had no identity apart from her relationship to the Son and Magda couldn't ever see herself living like that. But the Magdalene – now there was a woman worth admiring.

The flames were dying down now, finally under control by the fire service. Above her, Magda heard the cawing of the ravens. The birds wheeled high in the sky but Magda could still feel her connection to them. Sometimes it was as if she saw with their eyes. Her other full-sleeve tattoo was for them, her totem birds, and for the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of battle who roamed on the wings of ravens, choosing those who would die and those who would live again.
 

On the day the tattoos had been finished, Magda finally felt her own transformation had completed. She tied herself to her Irish-Catholic roots in one way, but her own truth was bound up in the strong female goddess. On that day, she had walked away from sex work – but not from sex workers. This borough was her home now, and her work as an urban shaman was to bring that sense of the otherworld to the physical. But was she too attached to what she had created here, and was this a way to leave it all behind again? Was it time to turn her back on London and seek peace somewhere new?

There was a deep booming sound as thunder rolled across the night sky and it began to rain. Magda turned her face to the sky, letting the drops wash her tears away as she sent up a prayer to the goddess of the dark, she of the moon, the Maiden and the Crone.
 

"Help me," Magda whispered.
 

Ash ran in rivulets around her feet now, remnants of her art mingling with the structure of the building. It would soon flow into the Thames, the droplets becoming one with the great river that kept the city alive. Magda smiled. Her own ashes would be scattered there one day. It was a reminder that all would perish but this city would stand, whatever came.
 

As the rain began to hammer down, Magda huddled back into the doorway. Some of the crowd dispersed while others put up colored umbrellas, their faces in shadow. O returned, juggling an umbrella and a bulging paper bag. She crouched on the step next to Magda, sheltering them both from the downpour.
 

"Here," O said, pulling out two steaming cups of hot chocolate. "Sugar makes everything better." She dug back in the bag and pulled out a large chocolate brownie. "Overdosing on it must seriously help." Magda gave a half smile as they broke the cake in two and shared the pieces, watching as the firefighters finished dowsing the flames and the rain dampened any last embers. The sweet taste in her mouth made Magda focus on that moment, how grateful she was to be alive, to have O by her side.

"Thank you," she said, turning to kiss O's cheek. Her words contained a promise for a future, whatever that would look like.
 

"We'll take it a day at a time," O said. "You'll create new work soon enough, and you can stay with me until we find you a new studio. The insurance will cover it, although I know the money won't replace your art." She paused, gazing into the ruins that lay before them. "What do you think they'll do with this site? Rebuild the studios?"

Magda stiffened as realization dawned. "This block is owned by the same corporation that has been trying to turn the social housing into luxury flats. They've been trying to get us out for years. Now there'll be no more annoying tenants to deal with."

"You don't think –" O's words trailed off, her blue eyes clouding. "Oh no – what if this isn't the only place under attack?" She dug through her bag. "I haven't been checking my phone." She pulled it out. There were ten missed calls and texts.

O stood up, her face pale. "I need to get to the Kitchen."

They came before dawn, black balaclavas over their heads to hide their faces from the ever-present CCTV cameras and matching black clothing with no identifying marks. One of them carried a baseball bat, another one hefted a tire iron, banging it against his palm. The other two held no obvious weapons, but their meaty hands were clenched into fists. They all wore thick-soled work boots. "The uniform of the militia," their leader called it. They were working together to clean up the city and as long as the police powers were curtailed by bureaucracy, this was the only way the deviants could be dealt with.
 

They were silent as they approached the Kitchen, their steps deliberate, single-minded. One of them jimmied the lock, breaking open the door and allowing them into the space. The smell of roasting meat hung in the air, a homely smell that made one of the men briefly reconsider what they had come to do. The leader took charge, gesturing as he spoke.
 

"You and you – get to work on the cooking facilities. I want everything destroyed so it can't be easily fixed. No fire here though, only damage. You – with me out the back."

Two of the men got to work in the kitchen. One unplugged the chest freezer, opening the lid to reveal containers of stew, cuts of meat and bags of vegetables. He grabbed a huge bottle of bleach from the cleaning supplies and poured it over the food.
No dinner for the dole bludgers
, he thought. Then he turned to the double fridge, swinging the baseball bat as he walked.
Time to break some shit.
The man smiled with pleasure.
 

Another man began to systematically destroy the inner workings of all the equipment in the large kitchen. With his electrical and engineering background, he understood it wasn't about brute force and smashing things. It was about twisting wires and cutting supply lines and melting specific elements that were hard and expensive to replace. It would take them weeks to get this place running again.
 

In the storeroom, the leader opened the back doors to reveal the small truck they'd arrived in.
 

"Everything needs to go," he said, pointing at the shelves full of canned and packaged food, boxes of fruit and vegetables. "Empty the place and we'll dump it all on the way home."

They began shifting the pallets, loading them into the truck as sounds of muted destruction came from the kitchen.

It soon began to rain, the overcast skies breaking. The leader looked up at the clouds. It would be heavy enough to help firefighters calm the flames from the studio they had torched earlier.
 

"Let's get a move on," he said. "We need to get out of here."

As they finished packing the last of the boxes into the van, a young man rounded the corner, approaching the entrance to the Kitchen. He was blonde, with a blue streak through his hair. He had his hands in his pockets and a half smile on his lips.
 

The men in the shadowed parking area stood still as he approached. The leader held his hand up, waiting to see whether the young man would pass on, just another local out for a morning walk.
 

But he stopped at the door of the Kitchen and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. As he reached for the lock, his face fell. He saw the broken lock and reached for his phone.

The leader nodded at two of the men.
 

They burst from the shadows with no words, only heavy footsteps thumping on the pavement. The young man looked up and saw them, dropping the keys and sprinting away.
 

The first man was on him in seconds, pushing him to the ground.
 

"No you don't, you little fag."
 

He kicked out viciously, slamming his boot into the young man's stomach.
 

The beating was swift and deliberate, the men knowledgeable on the various subcategories of assault, battery and grievous bodily harm. Within a minute, the young man was unconscious, his beautiful face a bloody mess, his body curled in on itself in pain.

They left him there and ran back to the van, jumping in as it roared off down the road. The rain pooled around the young man's body, washing the blood from his broken skin.

***

O jumped out of the cab and ran towards the door of the Kitchen dodging the puddles. Magda paid the driver and followed her, shielding her face from the heavy rain. As she approached the door, O slipped, dropping her bag. Magda bent to pick it up and as she did so, she saw the body on the pavement further down the street.

Magda dashed to the young man's body, O running after her. Magda felt for the pulse at his neck. It was weak and sputtering. She pulled out her phone and called for an ambulance, giving them the location.

"It's Ed," O said quietly, kneeling by his body, uncaring of the puddles. "He works the morning shift." She bent to his ear. "Hold on," she whispered. "We're here now and help is coming. Hang in there, Ed – please."

Magda reached out a hand and laid it on the young man's chest, willing life into him. Above her, a flock of crows began to gather and circle, their feathers dripping in the rain. Their harsh cawing joined Magda's whispered chant of ancient power as O looked on, her eyes fixed on Ed's pale face.

Within minutes, a yellow and green motorbike swerved around the corner, the distinctive shades of the ambulance service marking it out. In central London, they were mostly on scene faster than the larger vans. The single responder grabbed her bike pack and knelt by Ed's side. As Magda lifted her hand and moved back, the crows settled in a nearby tree, silent now as they watched the scene with narrow black eyes.

"We only recently found him," O said, as the paramedic expertly assessed the wounds, calling on her radio for a full ambulance crew.
 

"We can't move him," the paramedic said. "And I'm worried about internal bleeding after an assault like this. The police will be here soon to take your statements."

Magda held O's hand as they watched her work. The ambulance arrived and they soon had Ed on a gurney and in the van.
 

"Where are you taking him?" O asked.

"St Thomas," the paramedic said. "But it will be a while until he comes round."

The police arrived as the ambulance drove off. Two officers emerged from the patrol car, gesturing to O and Magda to stand in the shelter of the nearby houses.
 

"Didn't we see you earlier?" one of the officers said. "At the fire near Borough Market."

Magda nodded.
 

"It's been a busy night."

"How about we do the statements inside the Kitchen?" O said. "We can get out of the rain."

They walked back down the street. The door was open a fraction.

"That's unusual," O said. "It should be locked, unless Ed opened it."

One of the officers bent to the lock.
 

"It's been broken," he said. "We'll go in first."

Magda and O stood back as the officers pushed open the door and proceeded inside. The smell of rancid meat wafted out to them, overlaid with the stink of shit and piss.
 

O's face contorted with pain and she rushed inside, Magda following.
 

The police officers stood looking at the wreckage of the place. Every piece of furniture was smashed, every item in the kitchen destroyed, food all over the floor topped with human excrement. The walls were spray painted with graffiti, the black paint dripping globules onto the floor.

Whores. Fags. Deviants. Get out.
 

The hateful words burned in Magda's mind, somehow worse than the destruction that lay about them.
 

O fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. Magda knelt next to her, wrapping her arms around her weeping lover. After a night of staying strong, this final offense had broken them.

It had been a long day.
 

Blake walked slowly along the crowded streets from the museum back towards his flat. With each step he felt the jarring of the pavement through his bruised body and each breath hurt his lungs. He really should be in bed, but the exhibition opened at the weekend and it was all hands on deck to finish the last pieces of work. He wanted to be part of it.