“You look tired, angel,” Valdemar says, examining my face. “Are you sleeping?”
“I haven’t slept in ten years,” I snap.
My answer pins him to his chair.
“Do I need to worry about Jacinta?” I ask, breaking the awkwardness as a prison guard moves to the rear door and starts to usher the inmates out one at a time. “Am I going to get my eyes scratched out as soon as I leave this building?”
“You don’t need to worry; I will deal with her.” He’s so sincere that I have no doubt hewilldeal with her, even though I can’t see how when he’s locked up in here.
A prison guard arrives behind Valdemar, though he doesn’t touch him like he did the other inmates, merely waiting for Valdemar to rise.
“Until next week, angel.”
“Next week,” I reply, wondering what will happen between now and then as I watch him being led from the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday night drinkscame about when my colleagues, Una and Pierre, decided that Mondays were so dismal, we needed something to douse the start-of-the-week blues, and although I have no intention of telling them about my meetings with Valdemar, I crave some normality.
I’ve worked with Una at theGazettefor five years. She joined the team wanting to be a reporter, had the drive and the nose for it, but her wildly opinionated nature kept her from producing a story we could print. The first piece she submitted for theGazettewas about a local man who had gone missing, but instead of writing an objective piece on the matter, she turned in a full-page article implicating his girlfriend of foul play. Needless to say, her journalist career never took off, but her photography is out of this world, which led to her being hired as a photographer.
Pierre has been with us for a year and is the baby of the team, being both the youngest at twenty-two and also the newest recruit. He’s still finding his feet, a position I remember only too well. He’s nice, a little quiet, but seems to be immune to Una’s pit-bull nature.
The three of us gravitated to one another, though I’m not sure why, as Una can be feisty, so you have to know how to handle her, and Pierre is quite reserved. And me? Well, let’s just say that I’ve never had a queue of friends all lining up to spend time with me. When I was younger, I had Ed, and he had me. We never needed anyone else. And by the time I got older, no one wanted to be friends with the pale twin who carried an air of death around with her. Which is probably the only reason Una warmed to me when she started working at theGazette, as she’s a total goth chick.
Tonight’s venue is Una’s choice, a newly opened wine bar on Pym Street named Bon Bon. Because of its name, I’d imagined pastel walls and a sweet scent in the air along with a casual atmosphere—not the type of place Una likes to hang out—but I couldn’t have been more wrong. The bar is cloaked in darkness, low-hanging lights casting the tables in a red glow, mauve velvet seat covers, and melancholy-looking staff all giving vibes of dark chocolate truffles rather than pink sugary sweets, which is definitely her preferred environment.
“How did you get lumbered with the college story?” Una asks as she arrives at our table, laden with a pitcher of something looking more like a potion than a drink. Her black hair appears almost blue tonight, the half-up, half-down style bunched into two pigtails on either side of her head conjuring an image of a goth poodle.
Pierre takes the tray from her and hands out the glasses as I play mother and pour the drinks. Music is playing, but it doesn’t seem to have a tune, just a beat and a rhythm. This is not a bar I would have come to if Una hadn’t suggested it. The black walls and crimson lampshades are stifling.
“There was nothing better on offer,” I reply, eyeing the contents of the pitcher with curiosity.
“I would have gladly swapped with you, Evangeline,” Pierre says, his wavy brown hair flopping into his watery eyes. Pierre’s sun-kissed skin and umber hair boast exotic roots, yet his origins change daily depending on what mood he’s in. I’ve heard him tell people he’s of Mexican descent, yet on the same day tell someone else he’s Italian. When I quizzed him about this, he told me that his mother never disclosed the race of his father, so he likes to cover all bases.
He takes a long swig of his drink. “God, what is this?” He glares at Una, his mouth morphing widely like that of a frog as he winces at the glass.
“Just a little pick-me-up cocktail. Sounds like you both need it.” Una grins, her black lipstick looking even darker against her pearly white teeth. Her goth subtype changes regularly and can be anything from nerd goth to faerie goth depending upon her mood. Tonight, I think she’s gone for traditional goth with heavy eyeliner, pale foundation, and a corset top that’s pulling her in and making her appear taller than her five feet two inches.
“I can’t argue with that.” Pierre grips his glass like he’s debating with himself whether he hates the drink or loves it. “I got stuck covering the rat infestation on Arnheim Street.”
“I think I would rather have covered the rats than the college story,” I tell him, and he raises a thick eyebrow at me.
“Really?” he says.
“The college story was a dead end. A parent called in and told us the headteacher had been suspended for the suspected embezzlement of school funds. After a little digging, I found out he hadn’t been suspended at all but had handed his notice in on grounds of ill health. Not really the story of the century,” I explain.
“Still had to be better than rats.” Pierre’s eyes narrow as he sips his drink, the jury still out.
“You two sound like you struck gold, as I’ve spent the day tagging along with Dupin on a sighting of the infamous singer Morella,” Una tells us.
Dupin remains our top reporter, and Captain thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Continually given the best leads, Dupin keeps on shining, whereas the rest of us are left withering in his shadow. Una is our top photographer and would be up there with Dupin in Captain’s estimations if her look didn’t scare the life out of him. Despite her scary appearance and her sharp bite, she can be a softie, but you have to get to know her to see this side of her. It took me a while to see the real Una under the all-black façade.
“Rumour had it Morella was spotted at an elite gym down near the lakeside,” she continues.
“I take it she was a no-show?” I enquire, sampling my drink and grimacing at the burn as the liquid snakes down my throat.
“Oh, she showed up all right, but she was more mozzarella than Morella,” Una laughs.
