The Wound Beneath

 

Paul usually enjoyed darker weather, but this morning was a little too unsettling. Even for him. Elephant & Castle looked strangely colourless on the way here. The sky hung low and grey, flattening the city into a single muted palette. Red buses hissed through puddles, cyclists hunched against the drizzle, and the air smelled faintly of wet concrete and exhaust fumes.

   The coffee shop on the corner of New Kent Road had a good name. Sacred Grounds. Paul had to admit, it amused him. The world was warmer here. Quieter, almost suspended. Edison bulbs glowed amber above reclaimed wooden tables. A barista with a sleeve of tattoos steamed milk with the focus of a surgeon. Indie folk music was playing in the background, making everything feel slightly introspective.

   Paul sat in the far corner where the light was dimmest. He liked shadows; they made it easier to think. An app on his phone was open, the cursor of a half‑finished blog post blinking on the screen.   

   Infernum Est Ars wasn’t widely read, but the few who followed it seemed to be dedicated. He liked to write about religious art, mysticism, the hidden architecture of symbols. It seemed safer—to handle hidden things as symbols first. Sometimes he wrote fictionalised pieces about his real life, often hinting at the gift he didn’t talk openly about. Naming it too plainly always felt like the first step toward misusing it. On the page, he could keep it metaphorical. Ethical. At a distance.

   Right now he was trying to finish an entry on psychogeography, referencing the work of Iain Sinclair. The way cities buried human suffering under bureaucracy, redevelopment, and bright new signage, only for it to keep surfacing in stranger forms.

   It wasn’t just book-learning. Paul had first-hand experience.

  He rubbed his eyes, took a sip of a cappuccino that had long gone cold, and tried to coax another meaningful sentence into existence.

   “C’mon genius,” he muttered to himself.

   A soft chime interrupted him.

   A new email.

  He almost ignored it, then decided to check in an attempt at thoroughness. He saw the subject line.

   PLEASE HELP ME.

   He frowned and clicked.

  ‘Mr Kistori, I’ve read your work for years. Since the rebirth of the blog. I know what you can do. Or I think I know. It’s about my brother. He’s been missing since 1998. I’m still fighting to get the police to reopen his case. Maybe I’m crazy, but I believe you can help me find him. Please. I’m outside.’

   Paul’s pulse tightened. He glanced toward the rain‑streaked window. The street beyond was a blur of umbrellas and coats.

   “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. 

   He flinched as the phone suddenly began vibrating in his hands.

   An unknown number.

   He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Then he answered. “Is this a joke? Because I don’t take kindly to this sort of thing.”

   A woman’s voice, soft but trembling: “Paul? Paul Kistori?”

   “Yeah.”

   “This isn’t a joke. I’m so sorry, but I’m outside. I didn’t want to come in without asking. I feel awkward as it is. But will you meet me? Please. Just for a minute?”

   He closed his eyes briefly. Don’t do this, Paul. He should say no, obviously. Say she was mistaken. But there was something in her voice that tugged at him.

   He sighed and said, “I’ll come out.” He shrugged on his leather jacket over the hoodie, and stepped out into the cold.

   She was standing beneath the awning. Pretty but sombre. Mid‑thirties, mixed‑race, with eyes that looked like they’d forgotten how to rest. She held herself with a kind of poised tension, as if bracing for impact.

   When she saw him, she straightened.

   “Anna Olowo,” she said, offering her hand.

   He shook it. “Paul, as you’re well aware.”

   She frowned at the deadpan humour. “Thank you for coming out. I know this is… strange.”

   Her voice wavered on the last word, as if she feared he might walk away.

   “You said you didn’t want to come inside. Why?”

   “I didn’t want to seem like I was… I don’t know. Stalking you?”

   “Well, this whole spy routine didn’t exactly put me at ease.”

   She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I promise I’m not a stalker. I just didn’t know how else to reach you. And today is sort of important. I didn’t want to waste any time.”

   Paul studied her. “Let’s go in,” he said gently. “We can talk properly.”

   Relief flickered across her face.

   They returned to his table. Anna sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles whitening.

   “I know this is a lot,” she began. “And I know how it must look. I’ve been reading your blog for years.  Not obsessively, I swear. Something in your writing… resonated.”

   Paul raised an eyebrow, wondering if she was trying to appeal to any vanity he might possess. “Resonated how?”

   “You discuss storytelling and art, you make all these cool collage videos, but you write like someone who sees beneath things. Someone who feels the world differently.” She hesitated. “I recognised that. I’ve met a few people like that before. Not many.”

   Paul shifted, uncomfortable. “People like to read into things. That’s why I make the blog so dense and oblique. So they can see what they want to see. Basic artist stuff.”

   “Maybe.” Her eyes held his. “But I think it’s more than that. I’ve had a lot of synchronicities regarding your work. Odd coincidences. So, I don’t think I’m wrong about you.”

   He didn’t respond.

   She took a breath, steadying herself. “My twin brother, Daniel, disappeared in 1998. We were eight years old. We lived on the Wyndham Estate in Camberwell. Mum’s place. Mine now. He was playing outside one day, exploring places he shouldn’t… but when I went to call him in for dinner he’d gone. Just vanished.”

   Paul felt a faint pressure behind his eyes—the early stirrings of something he tried not to acknowledge.   

   “The police searched,” she continued. “But not hard enough. A mixed‑race kid from a poor estate, with an absent Scottish dad and an exhausted African mum. There really wasn’t any evidence anyway, so they closed the case after a few months.”

   “I’m sorry,” Paul said quietly.

   “I’m sure you get it. You’re mixed too, right? Indian and black?”

   “Yeah. My mum’s from Bangladesh. Dad’s from St Lucia.”

   She nodded, studying his dark features for a moment. “The racial thing was an even bigger deal back in the nineties.”

   “I know,” Paul told her plainly. “I remember.”

    “Well, I’ve spent years trying to find answers. Private investigators. Mediums. Psychics.” She grimaced. “Most were frauds. A few… glimpsed something. But not enough.”

   “And you think I can?”

   “I think you hide what you can do,” she said softly. “I think you’re afraid of it. But I also think you’re honest. And I need someone honest.”

   Paul said nothing. Outsiders had a way of naively romanticising these things, but some gifts asked too easily to be trusted. He stared at his cold cappuccino.

   “Look, Anna, you seem like a nice person, and I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I can’t promise anything. I’m not a detective, and this isn’t a movie.”

   “I know. I’m not asking for promises.” Her voice wavered. “Just help.”

   He studied her—the exhaustion in her posture, the fierce hope in her eyes. She wasn’t delusional. Her energy didn’t feel manipulative. She felt like someone who had carried a great burden for too long. But there was also a subtle warmth radiating from her. A sincerity that made him uneasy.

   You’ve got a hero complex, mate. Rachel keeps telling you. Don’t try to white-knight this poor girl. It’ll end in tragedy.

   He’d made that mistake before, letting empathy blur into recklessness, and recklessness into trespass.

   He cleared his throat. “Why me? Why now?”

   Anna hesitated, then reached into her bag. She pulled out a printed screenshot of one of his blog posts—an essay about Caravaggio’s The Incredulity of Saint Thomas.

   “You wrote,” she said, reading softly, “‘Some truths are not seen with the eyes, but with the wound beneath them.’”

   Paul blinked. “That’s pure metaphor. An artistic conceit.”

   “Maybe. But it felt like something else. You write like someone who knows the difference between looking and taking.” She held his gaze. “I’ve met people who pretend to have gifts. They take, but you look. You care.”

   He glanced away. “You’ve been reading my blog for a long time.”

   “Yeah. And I know how that sounds. Listen, today I’m supposed to hear back from the police about the appeal for Daniel’s case. I’m praying it’ll be reopened. I just don’t want to waste another minute not knowing what happened to him. It’s a shitty way to live, Paul. Believe me.”

   Paul grimaced at the thought. “I can only imagine.”

   “I know I’m a stranger asking for something impossible. But I didn’t know where else to go.”

   Her voice cracked on the last word.

   Paul felt something shift inside. She really didn’t seem to be trying to manipulate him. She was trying not to fall apart.

   He leaned back, studying her again. “All right. I’ll try.”

   Relief washed over her face, softening her features. “Thank you. Truly.”

   A moment passed. Quiet, almost fragile.

   Anna stood up from the table. “We should go. I want to show you where it happened.”

   “Now?”

   “If we wait, I’ll lose my nerve.”

   Paul thought for a moment, then nodded. As they stepped back into the rain, Anna pulled up her hood. He did the same.

   “Do you always meet strangers from the internet?” he asked lightly.

   She smiled faintly. “Only the ones who write about angels, demons, and Renaissance paintings.”

   “That’s a very small demographic.”

   “Lucky for me.”

   They walked toward the bus stop, the city moving around them in greyish, rain-swept currents.

   Paul felt the familiar unease rising. The sense that he was stepping into something he couldn’t step back out of. But beside him, Anna walked with quiet determination. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, he trusted her.

   A bus was already approaching. Anna turned to him. “Whatever we find—thank you for not dismissing me.”

   “I wouldn’t do that.”

   “Most people do.”

   He met her gaze. “I’m not most people.”

   A small, genuine smile touched her lips — the first he’d seen.

  

*

 

The top deck smelled of damp coats. A group of teenagers were sprawled across the back seats. Phones glowed in their hands, reggaeton music irritating everyone. An elderly man in a flat cap kept glaring back at them with the weary indignation of someone who’d been annoyed by children for decades.

   Paul and Anna were sitting halfway. The city blurred past. Betting shops, shuttered storefronts, the occasional neon from a chicken shop sign flickering defiantly against the overcast.

   For a while neither of them spoke.

   Paul watched the condensation gather on the glass, forming rivulets that raced each other downward. He felt the weight of the morning settling on him. A decision he’d made perhaps too quickly. He’d been here before. Not this exact situation, but close enough. Someone desperate and hurting, who sensed something in him and wanted him to put it to use.

   It never ended well.

   Anna sat with her hands folded in her lap, her posture composed but tense. She kept glancing at him, as if afraid he might vanish if she looked away too long.

   “So, you said you didn’t want to seem like a stalker.”

   She winced. “I know how it must’ve looked. The email. The phone call. Waiting outside.” She shook her head. “I rehearsed a dozen different ways to approach you. All of them sounded insane.”

   “You don’t sound insane,” Paul told her.

   “Just desperate?”

   He hesitated. “I’d be desperate too, if someone I loved had been missing this long. Don’t sweat it.”

   She gave him a small, grateful smile. “Cheers.”

   The bus lurched forward, sending a ripple through the passengers. A toddler began crying downstairs. The teenagers laughed at something on a screen. Rain continued to blur the windows.

   Paul shifted in his seat, uneasy. It felt weird to already be this close to a stranger. Especially a woman who was clearly in such a vulnerable state.

   “How long have you been reading my blog?” he asked her.

   “Since 2019. I found it by accident. I was researching a painting — The Nightmare by Fuseli. Your entry came up somehow. The incubus as a vessel for suppressed sexual or psychological trauma. Part spirit, part metaphor.” She paused. “It made sense to me.”

   Paul looked at her. “Most people don’t take that kind of thing seriously.”

   “I’ve lived with nightmares and shadows my whole life, Paul. Not literal ones, obviously. But—you of all people must know what it’s like.”

   He nodded slowly. “I do.”

   Anna’s voice was quieter now. “I didn’t reach out to you right away. I thought it was ridiculous. You were just some guy on the internet. But the more I read, the more I felt like you understood something most people don’t.”

   Paul felt a flicker of discomfort, and something else. A pull. He forced himself to stay guarded. Anna was pretty in a soft, quiet way, but that wasn’t the danger.  Paul had Milena waiting for him at home every evening. Bright and beautiful, with a wicked sense of humour. The sort of woman he admired a little more each day. Milena adored him, but she also knew how badly this gift could damage him. She knew better than anyone. No, the danger was the sincerity in Anna’s voice, the way she looked at him like he might actually be able to help.

   He’d been pulled into people’s pain before. It had burned him.

   “Why now?” he asked.

   Anna’s expression tightened. “Because I’m running out of time.”

   “What do you mean?”

   She took a breath, steadying herself. “My mother died last year. Liver failure, officially. But I think she died of a broken heart.” Her voice wavered. “She never forgave herself for losing Daniel. She never stopped looking for him. Even when she was too sick to leave the flat, she’d sit by the window and watch the estate, like she expected him to walk back any minute.”

   Paul felt a pang of sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

   “She was a good mum,” Anna said softly. “Not perfect. But she loved us. Both of us.” She looked down at her hands. “After she died, I found her old notebooks. Pages and pages of theories, names, places she’d searched. She never gave up. And I realised… I couldn’t either. Like I said, I get the results back for my appeal today. Fingers crossed.”

   The bus turned onto Walworth Road, passing rows of charity shops and discount stores. A man in a fluorescent jacket boarded, dripping rainwater onto the floor of the top deck.

   “Tell me about Daniel,” Paul said quietly.

   Her face softened, the tension easing for the first time. “We were twins. Not identical, obviously, but we had that twin thing. You know, finishing each other’s sentences. Hiding in the same places during games without planning it. If he cried, I cried. If I laughed, he laughed.” She smiled faintly. “He was the brave one though. Always climbing things, exploring places he shouldn’t. He loved the estate. Said it was like Neverland.”

   “And the day he disappeared?”

   Anna’s smile faded. “We were playing outside. Mum was inside, cooking Jollof rice. Daniel said he wanted to show me something in the garages. I told him no. They’ve been abandoned for ages, and I was scared of the dark. He teased me for it, said he’d go alone then.” She swallowed, tears in her eyes. “He made me promise not to tell mum where he was going. And like an idiot I agreed. Him and the other boys were always breaking into the garages. Usually it was fine. But not that day. I never saw him again.”

   Paul felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes—the early stirrings of his unwanted ability. He pushed it down.

   “You were eight,” he said gently. “You couldn’t have known.”

   “I should have gone with him,” she whispered. “I should have held his hand.”

   Paul looked away, the rain blurring the world outside. “I’ve got a little sister,” he said. “Rachel. We’re not twins, but… I know what it’s like to have someone be a part of you like that.”

   He felt the old conflict. The instinct to help, to reach into the dark places other people couldn’t see, and the fear of what it would cost him—or the people he loved. Rachel. Or Milena. That would end me.

   He’d tried to help many times before. But the one that haunted him the most was a missing girl named Elsie Bryant. What he now thought of as the Knifegod encounter. A nightmarish experience that almost tore him apart. He’d uncovered some things, but he hadn’t been able to save Elsie. No happy endings for that little one. It wasn’t just what he’d seen that still troubled him. It was how easily desperation could make any gifted person believe they had the right to go further than they should.

   He didn’t want to return to that headspace.

   Anna watched him, sensing the shift. “If you want to change your mind,” she said quietly, “I’ll understand. You don’t have to pretend this is easy for you. I can see it’s not.”

   Paul didn’t answer.

   The bus rattled over a pothole. The teenagers swore. The elderly man muttered something about “bloody youth.” A woman in a hijab gently rocked her sleeping baby.

   Life moved on around them, indifferent.

   Paul stared at the condensation on the window. He felt the weight of his hesitation, the familiar urge to retreat, to protect himself.

   But then he looked at Anna.

   At the exhaustion in her posture, the hope she was trying so hard to hide. She wasn’t manipulating him, or asking him to perform miracles.  She was asking him not to walk away.

   He exhaled slowly. “I’m not changing my mind.”

   Anna blinked, surprised. “You’re sure?”

   “Yes.” He met her gaze. “I said I’d help. I meant it.”

   Something warm flickered in her eyes—gratitude, relief, maybe even trust.

 

*

 

The rain had stopped by the time Paul and Anna stepped off the bus, but the Wyndham Estate still glistened with the aftermath. Pavements slick and dark, puddles reflecting the grey sky. The estate sprawled across several blocks; a brutalist labyrinth of walkways, stairwells, and looming high‑rises.

   Crossmount House rose ahead of them, one of five towers. They were all identical. White and brown cladding, with narrow balconies in stacks of three. Behind them, Otterburn House.

   Anna paused, taking in the familiar skyline with a tight jaw.   

  “I’m halfway up,” she said quietly, “It looks decent from a distance, but it hasn’t really changed. They keep promising regeneration but it’s always cosmetic. A new playground here, a fresh coat of paint there. The bones stay the same.”

   Paul scanned the estate. Children kicked a football against a wall. A group of teenagers loitered near the stairwell. They were smoking weed, their stoned laughter echoing sharply.

   The place felt heavy.  Not dangerous, exactly, but burdened by its own history.

   “Ballard lives in Otterburn House,” Anna said, turning and jabbing a finger at the other tower. “Top floors. He used to do repairs around the estate. Everyone knew him.”

   “Did you?” Paul asked as he scanned the edifice.

   “Not well. He was always around, though. Fixing lights, clearing rubbish, checking boiler rooms. He had keys to everything.” She hesitated. “Mum didn’t like him. Said he watched people too closely.”

   Paul filed that away.

   They crossed the courtyard, footsteps muted by the wet paving stones. The entrance to Otterburn House was a heavy metal door with an intercom and faded signage. Anna pushed it open. “You normally need a fob-key, but the doors get vandalised sometimes. People just come and go.”

   “Lovely,” Paul muttered.

   Inside, fluorescent lights glared an almost pale green overhead. The lift wasn’t out of order like Paul had been half expecting, but it did smell faintly of piss.

   Anna raised her eyebrows, also noting the smell. “Crossmount’s a lot better. Usually.”

   Paul couldn’t help but smile a little. When they reached the nineteenth floor, they stepped out into a surprisingly well-kept hallway.

   Anna paused. “Ok, listen. I’ve researched this guy quite a bit, but kept my distance. He doesn’t know me. He’s usually home though. Apparently doesn’t go out much anymore. Has everything delivered.”

   Paul nodded, though his stomach tightened. He could feel something. Not a premonition, just a heaviness in the air. A residue of someone who had lived too long with their own bitterness.

   “I’ll follow your lead,” he told her.

   Anna knocked.

   A moment passed. Then the door opened a crack.

   Archie Ballard peered out, one eye squinting, the other wide and watery. He was in his late seventies, with thinning grey hair and a face like cracked leather.

   “Can I help you?” he rasped.

   Anna offered a polite smile. “Mr Ballard? Sorry to bother you. My name’s Anna, this is Paul. We’re doing a small piece for our website about the estate. The Neighbourhood Watch scheme back in the nineties, how things have changed. We were hoping to ask you a few questions?”

   Ballard’s eyes flicked between them. Suspicion sharpened his features.

   “Why me?”

   “Well, you lived here then,” Anna said. “You were a janitor on the estate and a team-leader for the Watch. You’d know better than anyone.”

   Ballard grunted. “Everyone else too busy to talk to an old man, eh?”

   “Not us,” Anna said warmly. “We’d really appreciate your insight.”

   He stared at her for a long moment. Then, with a forced smile, he opened the door. “Fine. Come in. Please don’t touch anything.”

   “Of course.”

   The flat smelled heavily of stale smoke.

   The wallpaper had yellowed with age. Patterned carpet covered the floor. The place wasn’t untidy, but looked like it hadn’t been refurbished in decades. A sleek flat-screen television glowed almost anachronistically in the corner, playing a daytime talk show at low volume.

   Paul cautiously followed Ballard and Anna into the lounge. The air felt energetically thick. The accumulated residue of a life lived in isolation and resentment. What a sad little way to leave a mark on a home.

   Ballard moved to an armchair, lowering himself with a silent wince. He lit a cigarette from a fresh pack on the side table, had a few deep drags and then tapped ash into an overflowing tray.

   “So,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Neighbourhood Watch. That’s what you’re after?”

   Anna nodded, taking a seat on the sofa. Paul remained standing, scanning the room. He kept his senses keen but narrow. Observer, not thief. It was too easy, in rooms like this, to start taking more than a person had offered.

   “We’re interested in how the estate used to be,” Anna told the old man. “The community, the Watch. People who kept things running.”

   Ballard snorted. “Community. That’s a laugh. People kept to themselves. Always have.”

   “But you were a team-leader,” Anna pressed gently. “You helped keep the place safe.”

   Ballard smirked. “Safe? This estate’s never been safe. Not then, not now.”

   Paul watched him closely. The man’s signature was heavy, but not sharp. More like a rusted blade—dangerous once, but dulled by time.

   Anna continued, “Do you remember the Olowo family? They lived in Crossmount House.”

   Ballard’s eyes narrowed. “The black girl with the two kids? Why you asking about that lot?”

   “We’re just trying to understand the estate’s history,” Anna said evenly. “They lived here in the nineties.”

   Ballard took a long drag of his cigarette, his eyes suddenly keen. “Did they now? Well, lots of families lived here. Lots of kids. Estate’s a maze. Easy to get lost.”

   “A child didn’t just get lost,” Paul said sternly.

   Ballard looked at him, amused. “Oh, you’re the mouthy one. Big fella, too.”

   Paul didn’t rise to it.  Anna leaned forward. “Do you remember Daniel Olowo?”

   “Can’t say I do. Kids come and go. World’s a scary place.”

   Paul watched him. He was enjoying this. The power of withholding, the cruel ambiguity.

   “Did you ever see him the day he disappeared?” Anna asked.

   Ballard smirked. “Why? You think I had something to do with it? Your brother, I mean.”

   Anna stiffened. Ballard just chuckled, pointing his cigarette at her. “Do you think I’m daft or something? You aren’t subtle. I don’t think you’re cut out for detective work, missy.”

   Paul stepped forward slightly. “We’re just asking questions.”

   Ballard’s gaze shifted to him. “And who are you? Her boyfriend? Her bodyguard?”

   “Her friend,” Paul said.

   Ballard chuckled. “Friend. Right.”

   Paul kept his voice steady, but put a little more power behind it. “Did you see Daniel Olowo that day, Archie? Answer the question.”

   Ballard leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

   “Police interviewed me about all this back in the day. Told 'em the same thing I’m telling you. I saw lots of kids. They played everywhere. In the stairwells, the garages, the rooftops. Little shits always breaking things.”

   Anna’s jaw tightened. “He was eight.”

   “Old enough to get into trouble,” Ballard said.

   Paul felt a flicker of something. A heaviness around Ballard that felt like a history of violence. But it wasn’t directed at children. It was older, more personal. Fights, rage, regret.

   Paul noticed Anna watching him, searching his face.

   Ballard stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. “You two done wasting my fucking time?” His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He clearly enjoyed unsettling people. It seemed to be his only remaining power.

    Anna got up but didn’t say anything else.

   Paul stepped toward the door. “Have a good day, Mr Ballard.”

   Ballard snorted. “Yeah. You too, big man.”

   They stepped back into the corridor, the air blessedly fresher. Anna exhaled shakily. They didn’t need to discuss it—they both went into the privacy of the stairwell in case Ballard was listening with an ear pressed to the door.

   “Well?” she asked. “What did you get from him?”

   Paul leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. “He’s staggeringly unpleasant and bitter, clearly. He likes to intimidate people. But I don’t think he’s our guy.”

   Anna frowned. “You’re sure? I’d half convinced myself it was him. I mean, he had keys to everything. He had means, he had opportunity.”

   “No real motive though, far as we can tell.” Paul met her gaze. “Listen, Anna. I do think he has a history of violence, but not toward children. He’s a bully, that’s all.”

   Anna peered down the winding stairwell. “Great. So my main suspect is just a professionally horrible pensioner?”

   Paul smiled, but she was clearly disappointed. Her shoulders sagged.

   “Man, I really wanted him to be the one,” she admitted. “Not because I need him to be guilty. But because then I’d have answers.”

   Paul nodded. “I know.”

   They took the stairs, avoiding the lift this time. Outside, the sky was beginning to brighten, the clouds thinning. The estate glistened in the pale light.

   “There’s one place left,” said Anna, eyes closed as she tilted her face to the sky. “The garages.”

   Paul felt a chill. “The ones underneath the estate?”

   She nodded. “They’ve been abandoned for years. But Daniel used to play there. All the kids did. He asked me to go with him that day. Police searched it. Said they found nothing. But I always thought—maybe something happened down there.”

   She reached into her bag and pulled out a huge ring of keys. There must have been at least thirty of them. Most of them very old, some of them brand new.

   “Don’t freak out, Paul, but I bought these under the table a week ago from a security contractor. Two grand, no questions asked. I know it’s breaking the law, but I’m running out of options. I haven’t had the courage to go down there alone.” 

   Paul looked at the keys, then at her.  “Into the belly of the beast, you mean?”

   “Something like that.”

   “Well, you’re not alone anymore,” he told her. “And I’m not entirely new to wandering around like a crazy person in the dark.”

   Anna smiled a little, but her expression was still worried. “Thank you.”

   “Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered. “This could be quite upsetting. I don’t want to alarm you, but I need you to know. If something happened down there, the energetic traces could linger. Influencing people in all sorts of ways. They can be very dangerous.”

   She frowned at the stark warning, and nodded.

 

*

 

The entrance to the underground garages yawned open like a mouth carved into the base of the estate. A long, sloping ramp led downward into shadow.

   Anna hesitated at the top. “I should’ve been here with him.”

   Paul looked at her. “You don’t have to come in.”

   “Yes, I do.” She tightened her grip on the ring of keys. “If Daniel was here, I need to see it.”

   They descended. To Paul, the temperature seemed to drop with each step, the air growing colder and denser. But he knew Anna couldn’t feel that.

   Probably for the best. No one should have to live near a wound like this.

   Ahead of them, a metal wall and two heavy security doors barred their way.

   “These doors weren’t here in the nineties, just railings and a gate. But occasionally drug-addicts would break in too, not just kids. So they properly blocked it off.”

   Paul simply nodded.

   Anna began fumbling with the keys in her hand. Eventually she found what she thought was the right one. “Either this works, or the contractor scammed me and I’ve thrown away two grand.”   

   The large key seemed to fit. Anna turned it, her eyes squeezed shut in desperation. The mechanism in the security door shifted and it slowly swung open with a metallic groan. She let out a sigh of relief.

   “You still sure?” Paul asked her.

   “I’m sure.”

   Inside, the faint bustle of the estate faded until all that remained was the echo of their footsteps and the sounds of water dripping from above. The semidarkness opened into a vast, low‑ceilinged labyrinth of concrete pillars and shuttered garage doors. Some were completely rusted, others dented or hanging crookedly. Graffiti covered the walls—tags, crude drawings, declarations of love, warnings. A few fluorescent lights still flickered weakly overhead, but most were dead entirely.

   Anna pulled two torches from her bag, handing one to Paul. “I thought we might need these.”

   He clicked his on. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating dust motes suspended in the air.

   “Kids really used to play down here?” he asked.

   “Yeah. It was like a secret world. Parents hated it. Too dark and dangerous. But that made it exciting.”

   Paul swept his torch across the space. “I can see why.”

   They moved deeper into the garage.

   Paul felt it almost immediately—a pressure behind his eyes, a faint buzzing at the base of his skull. He could sense the children, but there was something else beneath it. The energies here had been tampered with, as if consciousness itself had been handled too roughly. Paul had no idea what to make of it yet. He swallowed, confused. Something’s interfering.

   Anna noticed his change in posture. “Are you getting something?”

   “Not sure,” he murmured. “Just impressions. Vibes.”

   “Of what?”

   “Children, mostly. Nervously laughing, exploring. It was a thrill for them.”

   Anna exhaled shakily. “Yeah, Daniel loved it down here. He said it felt like a maze. An adventure. Captain Olowo, he called himself. Like a Saturday-morning cartoon. I was just Armchair Anna in front of the telly. Like an old lady, he said.”

   They walked slowly, beams of light sweeping across the concrete. A fox darted out from behind a pillar, startling them both before disappearing into the shadows.

   Anna glanced at Paul and clutched her torch even tighter. “God, I hate foxes! Those weird cries they make. And they always act like they know something we don’t.”

   Paul smiled humourlessly, recalling the collared fox he’d encountered several years ago in the narrow garden of St John the Divine. It had been a familiar to something powerful, and unsettlingly furtive.

   “They probably do,” he muttered

   The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. The playful impressions of children began to thin, replaced by something darker—the residue of genuine terror and panic.

   Paul slowed. “There’s something else.”

   Anna stopped beside him. “What?”

   He closed his eyes, letting the impressions move through him. “It’s like… memories bleeding into each other. Layers of them. But wrong somehow, not faded naturally. Like something’s been smudged on purpose.” He shuddered, opened his eyes and murmured, “It’s the freakiest thing.”

   Anna swallowed. “Do you think Daniel—?”

   “I don’t know,” Paul said quickly. “Not yet. Give me a few more minutes.”

   They continued, turning down a narrower corridor of garages. The air grew colder. Their breath misted faintly.

   Anna’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I used to have nightmares about this place. After Daniel disappeared. I’d dream I was down here alone, calling his name, but the echoes were wrong. Like something else was calling back.”

   Paul didn’t respond. He didn’t want to tell her that the echoes still felt wrong.

   They reached a row of numbered garages with rusted padlocks. Anna stopped at one in the middle.

   “This one,” she said. “I don’t know why, but I always dream of this door. The colour. The dent in the corner. I have a feeling it was Daniel’s favourite spot.”

   Paul examined the door. The paint was peeling, revealing layers of older colours beneath. A deep dent marred the lower right corner, as if something heavy had struck it.

   Anna fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking. “I’m—I’m sorry...”

   “Take your time,” Paul said gently.

   She tried to read the faded numbers for the correct keys. But Paul was already nervous. There was no padlock at all. He stopped Anna from searching the keys, and pulled the door upward. It screeched, echoing through the garage like a scream.

   Inside, the space was small, empty except for debris—old cans, a broken chair, scraps of paper. Anna gasped, recoiling in horror. Her torchlight had fallen on something bright red. A tiny plastic figurine.

   “That’s Daniel’s!” she exclaimed, her voice almost breaking. “He had it with him that day! He took it everywhere! Oh, Jesus…”

   Paul squinted and realised it was a toy. A figurine of Captain Hook, from the 1953 Disney animation of Peter Pan.

   He approached the figurine and crouched to get a better look. He was hesitant to touch it. He knew lost items could still contain a kind of influence. Sometimes violence could taint them. Haunt them, almost. Behind him, he could hear Anna’s voice trembling.

   “Do we take it?”

   “God, no. Not until we know why it was put here.”

   “We bought it at a charity shop,” she said shakily. “For fifty pence. Stupid bloody thing. But he loved it! Oh, God, I don’t know if I want those answers anymore…”

   “Anna,” Paul said, to steady her, “It’s going to be all right. I need you with me, ok?”

  “Ok, yes. All right. Oh, God.”

   Paul stood up straight and began searching the walls of the garage with the torch beam. He froze on a patch of graffiti.

   On the far wall, in faded red spray paint, was a line of verse:

   TO SLEEP, PERCHANCE TO DREAM.

   Anna’s voice trembled. “That’s—that’s a quote from Hamlet, isn’t it? Jesus Christ. Is this someone’s idea of decoration?”

   Paul stepped closer, nausea in the pit of his stomach like oil swirling. The words felt wrong here. Too intimate, too vulnerable for a place like this.

   “This isn’t from the nineties,” he muttered. “This is recent.”

   He reached out, fingertips hovering just above the paint.

   A jolt shot through him—a flash of something sharp and panicked. A child’s breath catching. A voice whispering something he couldn’t make out. Beneath the panic he caught something worse. Not rage. Intent. Someone had reached into a child’s terror and used it for shape.

   He staggered back, horrified.

   Anna grabbed his arm. “Paul? What is it?”

   He shook his head, trying to steady himself. “I don’t know. But something awful happened.”

   Anna’s eyes filled with tears. “Was he murdered here?”

  Paul looked at the graffiti again, at the trembling shadows cast by their torches.

   “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I can’t see it. It’s like the memories are… tangled. Blurred. But Daniel was here.”

   Anna covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking. “I knew it. I always knew.”

   Paul placed a hand on her back, steadying her. He swept his torch across the garage one last time. The shadows seemed to shift, as if recoiling from the light.

   “We should go,” he said quietly.

   Anna nodded, wiping her eyes.

   As they hurried back toward the ramp, Paul felt the weight of the place pressing on him—the lingering imprint of something he couldn’t yet name.  Something down there doesn’t want to be remembered.

*

  

They walked back across the estate in silence, the underground gloom still clinging to them like a second skin. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving the concrete glistening under a pale, washed‑out sky. The air smelled of wet stone and distant cooking oil drifting from a nearby flat.

   Anna led the way toward Crossmount House, her steps quick and uneven. Paul followed a pace behind, watching her shoulders—tense, hunched, as if she were bracing against a blow that hadn’t yet landed.

   When they reached the entrance, she paused, staring up at the tower. “Mum eventually got to own this place,” she murmured. “A right-to-buy scheme with the council. Now it’s mine. Sometimes I can’t believe I still live here. Part of me wants to sell it, but…” She trailed off.

   Paul didn’t push her.

   Even the communal entryway to this tower was prettier than Otterburn. They took the lift to Anna’s flat on the tenth floor. No scent of urine. Paul wanted to make a little joke to lighten the mood, but he could feel Anna’s devastation. He stayed silent.

   She unlocked the door and stepped inside, flicking on the lights. Paul followed her in.

   The flat was small but warm and beautifully maintained. Plants lined the windowsill. A stack of books sat beside the sofa. A framed photo of Anna and her mother rested on a shelf—both trying to smile. Another photo of who he knew immediately was Daniel, his arm around Anna’s shoulder. They were perhaps five or six years old, grinning madly into the camera. Paul went over, glancing at Anna for permission before picking it up.

   “You two look like besties here. Full of mischief and delight.”

   “We were,” she said quietly.

   Anna dropped her bag and keys on the table and sank onto the sofa. Paul remained standing for a moment, unsure whether to sit, unsure of the boundaries between them.

   “Please,” she said softly, gesturing to the seat beside her. “Sit.”

   He did.

   For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence was heavy after their descent into the garage complex.

   Finally, Anna exhaled shakily. “I thought I was ready for whatever we’d find down there. But seeing that quote on the wall…” She rubbed her eyes. “It felt like someone punched a hole through my chest. Why, Paul? If it’s recent—why would someone do that? They want to personally torment me?”

   Paul frowned. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

   “My mum knew that quote,” said Anna. “‘To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream.’” She swallowed. “She always thought it was beautiful. Melancholic, but beautiful. Man, I can’t believe this is happening.”

   Paul leaned forward, taking her hand to comfort her.  “Look, I can stay for a few hours. We can discuss Daniel some more, bounce ideas around. Maybe I’ll sense something important. But I need to get home by eight, ok? My girlfriend will be finishing work. She worries whenever I do stuff like this.”

   “Good,” she said quietly, gazing at him. “Someone should. This is scary stuff.”

   “It is,” Paul admitted, touched by her concern. He let go of her hand. She didn’t seem to mind.

   “You’re a nice guy, Paul,” she muttered. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

   “Milena. She’s wonderful. She has this way of bringing me back to myself when I start disappearing into things.”

   She smiled faintly. “I’m happy for you.”

   “So, you inherited this place from your mum. But what do you do for a living, Anna?”

   “I’m a case-worker for disadvantaged children. It’s gruelling work, but I love it.” Her smile was a little brighter this time. “Turn the misery into magic, right? That’s a line from one of your blog posts, I believe.”

   Paul smiled again. “So you are a stalker.”

   She chuckled. “Well, I did my due diligence. Facebook, Instagram. I love your blog, but I didn’t want to team up with a nutcase.” She stared at him, her mood becoming serious again. “Paul, do you think he died down there?”

   He hesitated. “I honestly don’t know. I felt his fear, I think. But it wasn’t clear. It was like trying to hear a voice underwater. Usually, at the sites of extreme violence, the trace is louder. Brutal, but honest. That wasn’t honest. It felt interfered with. Distorted. Like someone wanted memory itself to obey. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

   Anna wrapped her arms around herself. “Well, that’s terrifying.”

   Paul shook his head. “I know. I’m sorry. But you wanted the truth.”

   She nodded, tears bright in her eyes. “That’s why I came to you. Your writing gave me hope, you know. That some people can look at darkness without letting it swallow them.” She glanced away and added, “Anyways, I’ll put the kettle on. We can have some tea, and I’ll show you some of Daniel’s things. Maybe it’ll trigger something.”

   “That sounds like a plan,” Paul said.

   A soft knock sounded at the door.

   Anna blinked. “That’ll be Tracey. She should have the appeal verdict with her.”

   She stood, smoothing her hair, trying to compose herself. Paul watched her—the way she forced her breathing to steady, the way she straightened her posture. She was preparing to be strong again.

   She opened the door.

   Tracey Moore stepped inside with a pleasant smile. Early sixties, short silver hair, kind eyes behind round glasses. She wore a navy coat and carried a folder tucked under one arm.

   “Hello, love,” she said, giving Anna a gentle hug. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic on the main road was a nightmare.”

   Anna managed a small smile. “It’s fine. Come in.”

   Tracey stepped into the living room and noticed Paul. “Oh! You must be the blogger. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She extended her hand. “Tracey Moore. I help Anna sometimes.”

   Paul shook her hand. He hated being suspicious of literally everyone, but over the years he’d learned to pay attention. Her grip was warm, steady.

   “Nice to meet you,” he said. “You’re a social worker too?”

   She nodded. “Soon to be retired. But I’m also a community liaison with the Metropolitan Police.”

   Tracey took Anna to the sofa and they sat down together. Paul sat in the armchair closer to the window.

   The older woman placed the folder on the coffee table. “I brought the documents.”

   Anna’s expression tightened. “Just tell me.”

   Tracey hesitated for a moment, enough for Paul to notice. She glanced at him, then back at Anna.

   “Before we get to that,” she said gently, “I need to know you’re all right. You look pale. I know how far you push yourself wherever Daniel’s concerned. It’s not healthy, Anna.”

   Anna let out a shaky breath. “I know. Paul came with me... to the garages.”

   Tracey’s face softened. “Oh, sweetheart. Hang on—the place is secured tight. How did you even get in?”

   Anna glanced away guiltily. “Bought a set of keys under the table from a contractor.”

   Tracey frowned and muttered, “Anna, that’s breaking the law.”

   “I know,” Anna whispered. “But I needed to see it.”

   Tracey placed a hand on her arm. “You’re very brave. But we want you healthy, don’t we?” She gently touched Anna’s temple. “Up here, I mean. Breaking into restricted areas doesn’t help at all.”

   Anna sighed and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Paul watched them—the genuine affection, the older woman’s concern. If this is performance, it’s masterful.

   Tracey turned to him, a little annoyed. Perhaps she was afraid that he was feeding a delusion by journeying with Anna into the dark.

   Her face quickly softened though. “Thank you for going with her, I suppose. Can’t say I approve, but I’m glad she didn’t have to do that alone.”

   Paul nodded. “I’m glad I was there.”

   Anna glanced at him, gratitude flickering in her eyes.

   Tracey sighed softly, picking up the folder. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

   Anna’s hands trembled slightly as she opened it. Paul leaned forward, sensing the shift in the room—the tightening of breath.

   Tracey spoke quietly. “I’m so sorry, love. They rejected the appeal.”

   Anna froze.

  Tracey continued, her voice gentle but firm. “They said there wasn’t enough to justify reopening the case. Lowell, Garrett, Ballard; none of them fit as suspects. But it’s not the end, Anna. You hear me? We can reappeal. If we find some new evidence, or a new connection, we can build a better case.”  Tracey peered at her. “We don’t give up, ok?”

   Anna stared at the papers, her eyes wide, unblinking. “But—but I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought they’d listen this time.”

    Tracey reached for her hand. “I know. I know you did.”

   Paul stood instinctively, moving to her side. Anna turned toward him, her face crumpling.

   “I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. “I can’t keep losing him.”

   She collapsed against him, burying her face in his chest.

   Paul froze for a heartbeat, startled by the sudden closeness, by the rawness of her grief. Then he wrapped his arms around her, holding her as she sobbed.

 

*

 

The flat had settled into a fragile calm. Anna had composed herself, though her eyes were still swollen from crying. She’d changed into a soft grey jumper and tied her hair back, the domestic gesture making her look younger, almost childlike.

   Tracey had insisted on making tea. “Let me fuss over you, love, you’ve had a day and a half.”

   Now the three of them sat around the little kitchen table, a vase of yellow flowers in the centre, mugs steaming between them.

   Outside, dusk had deepened into violet. The estate lights flickered on, casting long shadows across the concrete courtyard below.

   For a moment, it felt almost peaceful.

   Tracey blew on her tea. “You two make quite the pair, you know.”

   Anna blinked. “Trace, it’s not like that. We only met a few hours ago.”

    Tracey gave a sly, grandmotherly smile. “Planning on a date, then? At some point?”

   Anna nearly inhaled her tea. “Oh God, no.”

   Paul raised an eyebrow, amused. “Gee, thanks.”

   Anna waved her hands. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just—Paul is a friend.” She glanced at him. “Hopefully.”

   Paul was touched. “If you’ll meet my girlfriend,” he told her. “Then sure. But I think she’d love you.”

   Anna almost beamed at the thought. “That’s a deal.”

   Tracey’s smile widened as she reached for her mug again. And Paul saw it. A tiny tattoo on the inside of her wrist. Barely visible beneath the sleeve of her cardigan.

   A single word, in clean serifed Latin: ARCANUM. Hidden. 

   Paul’s breath caught.

   Oh, God. Not her. Not here.

   He knew that word. He knew what it meant in the circles he’d spent years on the edges of. It was a marker. A quietly brazen declaration from those who didn’t merely possess gifts, but believed in using them deliberately, without shame or restraint.

   His blood went cold. Tracey sensed the change.

   Her eyes flicked to her wrist. Then to him. A tiny smile curved her lips. Not warm, or maternal.

   “Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice almost trembling.

   Tracey tilted her head. “Oh, this old thing? Got it when I was sixteen. My rebellious phase. Dad hated it.”

   Anna looked between them, confused. “What? What’s wrong?”

   Paul’s voice was low, steady. “Arcanum isn’t just a random tattoo. Not where I come from.”

   Tracey’s smile widened. Slow, feline. “Isn’t it?”

   “You’re gifted,” Paul said. “Aren’t you?”

   Tracey’s eyes glittered. “Oh, Paul. You have no idea.”

   Then she moved.  In one fluid motion, she grabbed her mug and flung the scalding tea at Paul’s face. He reacted on instinct—arms up, chair scraping back—the liquid splashing harmlessly against his forearms instead of his eyes.

   Anna gasped. “Tracey!”

   Before Anna could move, Tracey snatched the vase of flowers from the table and hurled it at her head.  Anna threw her hands up too, but it struck her with a sickening crack. Enough force to make her crumple instantly.

   Paul cried Anna’s name as Tracey bolted for the door.

   He was about to lunge after her but hesitated, glancing at Anna instead. The older woman was already racing through the corridor.

   He quickly knelt beside the younger woman. “Anna, look at me…” She was dazed and bleeding, but not profusely. She’d gotten lucky. They both had.

   She groaned, eyes fluttering. “Go,” she whispered. “Paul, go after her.”

   He hesitated—torn between staying and chasing.

   Anna weakly grabbed his sleeve. “Go!”

    Paul ran through the flat. Out into the empty communal tenth-floor hallway. The lifts weren’t descending. He sprinted to the stairwell and stopped, listening. Silence. He closed his eyes, reaching out with the part of himself he hated—the part that sensed things others couldn’t.

   He felt her, but not below him.

   Above.

   Paul’s eyes snapped open. He took the stairs two at a time, pulse racing, breath sharp in his chest. The air grew colder as he climbed, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead.  At the top of the stairwell, the security door to the roof hung open, swaying slightly. Paul stepped through, past a warning that declared: RESTRICTED ACCESS.

   The night wind hit him with a blast to the face.

   Tracey stood on the edge of the roof, her silhouette stark against the city lights.

   She turned her head slightly, sensing him.

   “Come any closer,” she said softly, “and I’ll jump.”

   Paul froze.

 

*

 

The wind on the rooftop was vicious—sharp, cold, carrying the metallic tang of the city. It whipped Paul’s jacket around him as he stepped onto the gravelled surface, breath coming fast from the sprint up the stairs.

   Tracey Moore stood on the very edge of the roof, her back to him, her silhouette stark against the sprawl of London’s nightscape. The lights of the city glittered below.

   She didn’t turn, but she spoke as if she’d been waiting for him.

   “I’m not fucking kidding,” she shouted. “I’ll do it!”

   The wind howled between them.

   “Tracey,” he called out carefully, “you don’t have to do this!”

   She laughed. A brittle, fractured sound that was almost lost to the wind. “Oh, Paul. Still trying to be the hero. You’ll save the damsel from the demon this time, will you?” She laughed again. “Yeah, I read your blog. What a load of self-indulgent rubbish.”

   He took a slow step forward. “I’m not trying to be anything, Tracey. I just want to understand.”

   She finally turned her head, just enough for him to see her profile. Her eyes gleamed with something feverish.

   “You already understand,” she said. “You saw the tattoo. You felt me deflecting you. You know what I am.”

   Paul swallowed. “You’re gifted.”

   “Gifted,” she repeated, tasting the word. “Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.”

   She shifted her weight slightly, nearer the edge. His heart lurched.

   “Tracey, please—”

   “Don’t patronise me,” she snapped. “You think I’m some mad old woman? You think I’m stupid?”

   “No,” Paul said quickly. “I think you’re hurting.”

   Tracey’s expression softened with pity.

   “You’re so naive,” she murmured. “You hide from real power like a coward. Burying it in that morbid little blog of yours. Always circling the truth instead of taking hold of it. Shackling your gift. But you and I—we’re not the same. Thank God.”

   He took another step. “Then tell me how we’re different.”

   Tracey turned fully now, facing him. The wind tugged at her silver hair and flapped her unbuttoned coat.

   “I didn’t run from my gift,” she said. “I had the courage to really use it.”

   “Use it how?”

   Tracey smiled—a slow, unsettling smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “To save him.”

   Paul’s breath caught. “Daniel.”

   “His name…is Marcus. Such a sweet boy. So bright. His mother was useless. Lost in a foreign country and too proud to ask for help. She didn’t deserve him.”

    “You took him.”

   “I rescued him,” Tracey said sharply. “I gave him a real life. A good life.”

   Paul shook his head, incredulous. “You stole him from his family.”

   Her eyes flashed. “His family was killing him. This estate was killing him. Depressed mum, absent father. I saw what he needed, what he could become with a little guidance. And I made it happen.”

   “By erasing his memories?”

   Tracey’s smile widened. “You have no idea what it’s like, Paul. To be able to reach into a human mind and reshape it. To take away pain. To give someone a new beginning.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I gave him love and safety. I gave him everything.”

   For one sickening moment, Paul understood the temptation in it. The certainty. The belief that seeing into a soul so deeply entitled you to decide for that soul.  

   He recoiled. “You crossed the line. You abducted a child.”

   “I raised a son,” she said fiercely. “That’s what mothers do!”

   The wind roared between them.

   Paul took another step. “Tracey—where is he now? Did you kill him?”

   She looked out over the city, her expression softening. “I would never hurt my little boy. He’s grown now. Successful, happy. He has no idea what I did for him. But that’s all right. Mothers don’t need gratitude. We just need to know our kids will do better than us. Be better than us.”

   His voice cracked. “Then why those awful words in the garage? The toy? Just to torment Anna?”

   “Torment? Are you for real? Anna’s a good girl. She didn’t deserve any of this. I could’ve gotten her over the grief eventually, if you hadn’t stuck your nose in.”

   Paul suddenly recognised the truth. She actually believes it. Dear God.

   The graffiti on the garage wall, the toy—it was part of a binding ritual. To supress Daniel’s memories at the very site he was taken. But only an extremely gifted clairvoyant could pull off something like that. Paul swallowed. That meant she’d been returning to the garages year after year.

   You absolute monster.

   Tracey’s jaw tightened, as if intuiting his thoughts. “You think I’m sick, don’t you?”

   Paul was incandescent with rage. “You have no idea.”

   A door slammed behind them. Anna stumbled onto the roof, one hand pressed to her bleeding temple, breath ragged.   

   “Tracey!”  The woman flinched—the first sign of fear Paul had seen in her. Anna’s voice broke. “How could you? I trusted you! You were my friend!”

   Her face twisted. Grief, guilt, rage, all tangled together. “I never wanted to hurt you, love. I just… I had to do what was right.”

   Anna took a step forward. “Where the hell is he!”

   Tracey shook her head. “He needed me.”

   “He needed his family!”

   “He needed a mother,” Tracey hissed. “Not a broken twentysomething left alone with two kids she didn’t even want.”

   Paul took another step toward her. He was almost within grabbing distance now. “Tracey, listen to me. Tell us where he is. You can still make this right.”

   The woman's eyes filled with tears—real tears, shimmering in the wind.

   “I can’t,” she whispered. “It’s too late.”

   “It’s not,” he told her. “You can come down. We can talk. We can—”

   Tracey cut him off with a soft, broken laugh.  “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m fucked either way now, because of you. If Marcus watches me go to prison it’ll break him. I won’t let that happen.”

    Anna sobbed. “His name is Daniel, not Marcus! He deserves to know who he is...”

   Tracey’s voice softened, almost tender. “He knows who he is. I made sure of it.”

   Paul took one final step. “Tracey… please.”

  Tracey looked at him. Really looked. For a moment, Paul saw the woman she might have been. Kind. Lonely. Desperate for purpose and connection.

   “Tell him I love him.”

   And then she stepped backward off the edge. Anna screamed.

   Paul lunged too late—his fingers grasping empty air. Tracey fell silently into the night. The wind swallowed her. 

   City lights flickered like stars. And the rooftop was suddenly, impossibly still.

 

*

 

The morning light in Notting Hill had a different quality to it. Softer, warmer. Touched with a kind of calm that felt a world away from the Wyndham Estate. The sun was still low, casting long golden streaks across the pastel façades of Victorian terraces. The air smelled faintly of fresh pastries from a nearby bakery. In the distance, the hum of early traffic.

   Paul and Anna stood on the pavement outside a handsome ground‑floor flat with tall sash windows and a small, manicured front garden. A sleek blue Mercedes was parked in the drive, its surface gleaming in the morning light.

   Anna clutched her coat around her, breath visible in the cool air. The last week had been a blur of police statements, phone calls, and interrupted sleep. They were both exhausted, but Anna had insisted on coming.

   Paul stood beside her, hands in his pockets, watching her with quiet concern.

   “You don’t have to do this,” he said gently.

   She shook her head. “I do. I’ve waited twenty‑eight years for this.”

   He nodded. “Then I’m right here.”

   The front door finally opened.

   A man stepped out—tall, well‑dressed, mixed‑race, with sharp features softened by a hint of morning grogginess. He wore a tailored coat, a leather satchel over his shoulder. He paused when he saw them, frowning slightly.

   “Can I help you?” he asked, voice cautious. “Are you police? I don’t want to talk about this anymore. At least, not right now. Just give me a few days. It’s a lot to take in.”

   Paul stepped forward. “Marcus Moore? We’re not police. I’m a friend of Anna’s.”

   The man’s eyes went wide as he made the connection. Tears welled almost immediately.

   “Oh, God…” he murmured.    

   Anna’s breath caught in her throat. “Daniel?”

   The man stiffened. His eyes narrowed. “The police already told me everything. About her.” His voice cracked on the last word. “About what she did.”

   Anna’s eyes filled with tears. “Tracey Moore,” she said quietly, like the name still had an unsettling power.

   He looked away, swallowing hard. “My mum,” he corrected. “They said she jumped. That she wasn’t who I thought she was.” He let out a shaky breath. “I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

   Anna took a tentative step forward. “I’m so sorry.”

   He held up a hand, stopping her. “Please. I don’t—I don’t know you.”

   She froze, her face crumpling.

   Daniel rubbed his forehead. “They said she wasn’t my biological mother. That she abducted me. Must’ve drugged me, kept me confused somehow.” His voice wavered. “But she was the sweetest woman. She loved me. She had a temper sometimes, sure, but it was only to keep me safe. She was… good to me.”

   Paul nodded. “We know.”

   The man's eyes glistened. “I want to hate her. God, I want to. But I can’t. Not yet. Maybe in time. But right now—I just feel sick.”

   Anna’s voice was just above a whisper. “The police said they think Marcus was the name she was planning for her first child, until the miscarriage at sixteen.”

   “I know,” he said quietly. “They told me the same thing.”

   Silence settled over them. Heavy, fragile.

   Daniel looked at Anna again, really looking this time. Something flickered in his expression—confusion, recognition, fear.

   “I’ve been having dreams,” he said quietly. “Memories, I think. This whole week since she died. They come in flashes. A tower block. A girl with braids. A voice calling my name.” He swallowed. “I thought I was losing my mind.”

   She inhaled sharply. “You’re not. Tracey had certain gifts. Maybe you sensed it, at times?”

   Daniel frowned, nodding like he finally understood something. He stepped closer, studying Anna’s face with trembling intensity.

   “You…” he whispered. “I do know you.”

   Anna’s tears spilled over. “We’re twins.”

   Daniel reached out, hesitating—then gently touched her cheek.

   “I remember,” he breathed. “I remember you. Always watching TV whilst I played outside. Armchair Anna.”

   Anna let out a sob—a sound of pure, aching relief—and threw her arms around him. Daniel held her tightly, burying his face in her shoulder.

   Paul stepped back, giving them space.

   She clung to her brother, shaking. “I missed you,” she whispered. “Every day.”

   Daniel’s voice cracked. “I didn’t know what I was missing. But I felt it. All my life, I felt it. Thank God.”

   They held each other for a long time, the morning light warming their faces, the city moving quietly around them.  Paul watched, a smile on his lips. He had seen too much darkness recently. But this moment steadied something in him.

   Let this one linger.

   Anna looked up at him, eyes shining. “Paul, thank you. For everything. Tell Milena I can’t wait to meet you guys for another coffee.”

    He smiled again. “I will.”

   Daniel pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes. “I don’t know what happens now.”

   Anna squeezed his hand. “Me either. But I’m here, Daniel. I’m here.”

   Paul stepped away, hands in his jacket pockets, turning toward the street.

   He didn’t need to stay to witness the rest.  He’d done what he came to do. Not by forcing anything, or bending anyone to his own version of the truth, but by simply remaining open.

   There was a difference between tenderness and trespass. He’d seen it so starkly on that roof. The lines only blurred if you let them.  Paul closed his eyes as the sun warmed his back, determined that his heart would stay soft enough to know the difference.

 

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