Black & Blue by Emma Jameson

Author:Emma Jameson [Jameson, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyonnesse Books

Upon arrival in the United Kingdom, Sunny had listed a flat in Shoreditch, leased to one L. M. Dase, as her residence for the duration. But L.M. Dase, presumably Buck’s sister-in-law, Maisie, had either suspended her phone service or failed to pay the bill. Either way, Kate couldn’t get through. She felt desperate to escape the Yard, so off to Shoreditch it was.

The Tube ride from St. James Park station on the District line, changing to the Central at Monument, then out at Bethnal Green, placed her within easy walking distance of L.M. Dase’s address. And the Tube had been lightly-traveled and quiet, apart from a crocodile of French schoolchildren en route to Tower Hill. Kate felt a bit sorry for two American women, bewildered by the simultaneous rush to alight and board at one of Monument’s busy platforms. Yes, in England, the queue was sacred. But boarding the Tube involved no queues, strictly speaking, and those who hesitated would be pushed past, left behind, or possibly flattened.

Shoreditch was part of Hackney in London’s East End. In recent years it had become increasingly gentrified yet was still known for its street art (temporary) and its graffiti (permanent, at least until the Council took action.) Sometimes Shoreditch’s street art was simple: chalk drawings on sidewalks or stickers all over a sign post. Other times, entire streets were transformed by spray paint; by giant sculptures erected on rooftops; even by fanciful decoupage, such as paper lilies blooming inside phone boxes. It was all left of center, unexpected, and mostly anonymous, although a genuine Banksy graced Rivington. Once upon a time in the Victorian era, rich young men in top hats and tails had gone slumming in Shoreditch, sampling its music halls and prostitutes, safely scandalized by how the other half lived. Now doubledecker buses packed with tourists trundled through, showing off a district that had become a sort of open-air gallery.

L. M. Dase’s building, however, proved no tourist attraction. It was run down, the manager’s office shut without explanation. A few neighbors opened their doors to Kate, frowning at her warrant card and claiming no knowledge of Maisie’s whereabouts. Kate hadn’t seen so many shifty looks and weak denials since Henry and/or Ritchie had caused the downstairs toilet to overflow. Either Maisie’s neighbors were curiously wary of such inquiries, or she’d chosen a building where coppers weren’t welcome.

Wonderful. Sunny’s an unemployed American on a tourist visa. It could take hours to track her down. I’m better off camping in this dank hall and waiting.

Another option came to her. Pulling out her mobile, Kate opened Twitter and searched for @SunnyDase. The very first hit was the one she wanted. The profile picture showed a Mrs. America-style beauty, about forty, with cascading blonde hair and blindingly white teeth. A frequent Tweeter, Sunny’s most recent submission to the digital void had been posted at half-two the night before. It read:

I never felt more free. #nofear #noregrets

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