Bleeding, pressure, coma. Death. The doctor had said then—and still said now—that Jodi might not survive, but she was wrong. Jodi wouldn’t die. He couldn’t, because aside from his propensity for anarchy, Rupert wouldn’t bloody let him.
* * *
December 26, 2009
Jodi stumbled out of Tottenham’s dodgiest gay bar. He tripped over the kerb and dropped his wallet and phone straight into a murky puddle.Oops.Lurching, he retrieved them. His wallet looked salvageable—not that there was much in it after tonight—but his phone was butt-fucked. He sniggered. “Butt-fucked” was the name of the sparkly pink powder he’d been snorting all night, a legal high, apparently, though it hadn’t had a big effect on him, save his wobbly legs and a bad case of the giggles.
Still swaying, he stuffed the wallet in his pocket and considered his phone. The screen was waterlogged. He swiped it a couple of times, but nothing happened. Damn it. He’d dropped three phones in the last year, and the death of number four was probably a sign that it was time to go home.
Luckily for him, home was a five-minute walk away. He left the dodgy bar behind and drifted along the pavement, weaving between the revellers who’d come out to party on a frosty Boxing Day night. He crossed the road outside the chicken shop, in a world of his own until a commotion ahead startled him.
A fight had broken out in front of the pub the footie boys favoured. Three blokes on one. Jodi winced. Shit like that never ended well. He bypassed the commotion, looping a bus stop, letting the curses and screams wash over him. Trouble in Tottenham was nothing new, but as he left it behind with half a mind to mention it to the next pub’s security team, a shout rang out above the others and made him look round in time to see a doorman enter the fray—a tall, blond doorman who was just about the hottest bloke Jodi had ever seen.
Dressed in black, he waded into the fight and seized two men by their collars. “All right, all right. Pack it in.”
He sent the first two men flying, launching them in separate directions. The altercation seemed abruptly over, both men stayed by the doorman’s fierce glare, but the third man was less obliging—or more stupid. Either way, the doorman appeared unmoved as the remaining attacker picked up a bottle and charged him.
With good reason, it seemed. The bottle was gone before Jodi could blink, and the third man facedown on the wet pavement, the doorman’s foot on the back of his neck. “Stay there, shit-tits. The coppers are coming for you.”
Wow.Jodi’s pulse quickened as the fourth man scrambled to his feet and scarpered. The man melted into the crowd, and Jodi turned his attention back to the doorman, hoping he’d say something else in the Irish brogue that was rough enough to make Jodi shiver. Approaching sirens should’ve moved him on too, considering the state he was in, but he couldn’t look away. Bathed in the orange glow of a nearby streetlight, the doorman was enthralling. Though powerful and strong, he wasn’t as big as Jodi had first thought. Yet his strength was striking, enticing, and Jodi’s breath caught in his throat.
The police arrived and cleared the scene. Jodi took a seat in the bus stop and lit a fag, blowing smoke to the moon as he watched the doorman turn the third man into their custody and give his account of events. Jodi thought about going home when the doorman went back into the pub, but garbled signs of life from his half-drowned phone distracted him.
He was still poking at it when a shadow blocked out the light of the bus stop.
“Lost your Oyster card, mate?”
“Hmm?”
The doorman raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been sat out here for hours. Must be time to go home, eh? You need anything?”
“Um ...” Jodi rarely found himself lost for words, but the power of speech evaded him now. Instead, he held up his phone, showing the doorman the buggered screen.
“Ah, dropped it in the bog, did ya?”
“Puddle, actually,” Jodi said. “I think it’s fucked.”
The doorman took the phone and held it up to the light. “Nah. Bury it in a bowl of rice and stick it in the airing cupboard. Be right as rain in a few days.”
“Really? Sounds like witchcraft to me.”
“Suit yourself. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Do you need anything? We’re all closed up here. Probably time you went home. Got far to go?”
Jodi ran his gaze over the doorman and saw that his earpiece was gone and he had a bag slung over his shoulder. “I live round the corner. Where areyougoing?”
“Bedsit in Harringay. It’s a heap of shit, but I need my bed, so come on, off you fuck. Get your arse home so I can rest knowing I’ve done my job for the night.”
“What are you? Some kind of social worker?” Jodi stood and absorbed the drunken buzz that washed over him. Damn. He’d forgotten how wasted he was. “I’m just sitting here, mate. Minding my own business. Didn’t ask for no help.”
He said the words with a smile, but the doorman frowned. “You’re fucking twatted. Can I walk you home?”
“Not a serial killer are you?”
“No, I’m Rupert.”
“Rupert?” Jodi covered a treacherous, buzz-fuelled giggle with a cough. “Like the bear?”
“If you say so. Far as I know, Rupert Bear never killed anyone, so I guess it fits.”
