Chapter 2
o-O-o
"No more of that ginger lemon tosh from last night?" Liz winked at the child as she poured the hot water.
The little girl just shook her head, studiously staring at the faint grey lines mosaicked on her white mug.
Liz quirked a smile. "Well. You picked a good one. Chamomile is a special kind of tea, you know; it'll put your mind to rest, and ease your stomach if it's upset." She tilted her head thoughtfully and patted the order book sticking from her apron pocket. "Shall I put out another cup, maybe for your mum or dad?"
As snooping goes, it was hardly subtle. The girl tersely shook her head, the skin of her knuckles paling as she clenched the corner of the green Formica table. Liz backed off.
"Well then, I'll check on you in a bit, yeah?"
She simply transferred her attention to the window.
Liz weaved through the chairs and shared a loaded look with Beatriz, who was leaning against the gleaming counter with her cheek collapsed into a hand and staring at the girl with blatant interest. Her co-worker shook her head as Liz slumped against the counter and mimicked the same posture. They had watched the child long enough to know that she would never look up to catch them gawking at her. Her attention was aimed solely at the table, the window, and the door.
"Count down for another thirty cups," Beatriz murmured.
"It must be a new tea-a-day thing. She cleaned us out of Earl Grey on Monday."
"Dunno how her bladder ain't screaming."
Beatriz slack wonderment quickly shifted to amusement as the girl tilted the sugar dispenser towards her spoon. "Ah, here we go."
She had ignored the teaspoon for the large tablespoon, yet only allowed precisely half of the spoon to hold the sugar, extracting the stray grains with a moistened fingertip and siphoned off the excess. She held a careful palm under the spoon as she led it to its destination, peering closely as the tea lapped the grains. Then, setting the mug aside, she unfolded three paper napkins and laid it on the table, pressing the seams tightly. A fourth napkin was gently placed on her lap.
Liz and Beatriz giggled into their hands, charmed by the meticulous idiosyncrasies of her routine. Their smiles turned goofy as she scooped up any remaining sugar grains and attempted to gently blow them back in the tiny hatch of the dispenser. When prepared, she rested an arm on the table, looked out the window and sipped her tea like an old woman content to people-watch.
"Oh, bless her," Beatriz snorted, though Liz just shook her head.
"If we don't learn anything by tonight, we'll call the police."
If the restaurant had been in another district, they would have contacted the authorities much earlier. But being girls from the neighbourhood themselves, they understood better than most the law of the land, so to speak.
The quarter was both working class and welfare class, the resident families often blue-collar, unemployed or single parents working multiple jobs. Child-minding was usually a needless expense in a community where people watched out for one another. It wasn't unusual to see children coming into the café and sitting by themselves, picking at chips until curfew demanded their presence at home. And unless one of them was sporting a black eye or looked in any way worse for wear, the unwritten code was to let sleeping dogs lie. The alternative was almost always worse.
Beatriz nodded in agreement. "It's one thing to put your child out of doors to keep them out of your hair, but it's another thing entirely when they're special needs. And she's here from open to close! It's not right."
"I reckon she leaves about quarter to ten. Slippery little creature." Liz and Beatriz had already made plans to find out where the child lived, in order to gauge her home-life situation, but every time they had prepared to follow her, they would look up only to see an empty chair and coins on the table.
"Right." Beatriz slapped a hand on the table. "Tonight, the first one who sees her leave will drop everything and go after her, while the other covers and remembers to pick up our coats. We'll meet back at your flat."
"Deal."
It wasn't simply the child's welfare that concerned Liz, though it bothered her a great deal more than she let on.
Magic, as she dimly remembered calling it as a child, was not a foreign element since her mother's disappearance so long ago. Liz felt other people's magical signatures all the time, some plucking, some grating, but all in all a low reverberation that held as much personality as its owner's face. It pained her at first, reminding her of Marie, and there were too many awkward conversations which indicated that she was the only one that could spot these people. Eventually, however, that particular sense would tune out like white noise. The occurrences were akin to spotting a set of identical twins; the uncommonness might be cause for a pause, but one moves on.
The previous Friday, as Liz was elbow deep in the sink covering dishwashing duties, she felt a great gust of magical energy surge at her back, like a porch screen blown open by the wind. She had walked out in the dining area trance-like, soap suds sluicing down her arms, and stared in disbelief as a child with almond-shaped eyes skittishly made her way to the table by the wall.
Liz had never felt a magical presence like the one emitted by the small girl with garishly cropped hair. There wasn't much that she knew about magic, but she felt certain that it was unusual to be possessed by one so young. She had watched the child all day, and then again on her next shift, and the next, trying to figure her out. The level of magic was significant, Liz was sure, but far be it for her to try to explain why. The magic felt palpably thunderous, tectonic; Marie's magic felt like a skipped pebble in comparison.
It was difficult to gauge her age. Her stature was small, smaller than her sister, but her lack of conversation and the facial distinctions from her obvious Down Syndrome made it impossible to tell for sure. Liz guessed somewhere between 6 and 8.
She couldn't tell Beatriz about the magic, for obvious reasons. Good friends were hard to come by, and as it happens, serious comments about magic had a tendency towards spoiling easy camaraderie. Fortunately, they were in agreement over their mutual disapproval for a special needs child to be alone for all hours of the day, unaccompanied.
The lunch rush eventually broke them apart, and Liz quietly fell into the lull of automatic orders, softly clattering of utensils, and the bright laughter of friends and colleagues enjoying a cuppa. Liz liked the routine of the restaurant and its customers; the sameness of things. She wiped crumbs off the tables, mopped slush from the doorway, and coffee poured and sputtered continuously, but she didn't take her mind off of the girl. The whole situation made her anxious.
The child looked out the window, as usual, watching old men clutching their collars against wet flakes of January snow; the busy world orbiting around her as though held apart by a radial wire.
When things quieted down, Liz prepared a large plate of chips from the kitchen and then plopped herself down beside the girl, exuding the best flippancy she could muster.
"Don't mind if I share your table, love? You'd be doing me a favour."
The child looked sincerely afraid. Liz's heart clenched, but she leaned in conspiratorially. "It's my break, you see, and sometimes when the customers see the waitress sitting by herself, they think it's okay to ask for another cuppa or put in an order. And I'm done in. I couldn't serve one more customer without falling flat on my face.
Now that I have company," she continued brightly, resolutely, "They'll leave me alone and I'll finally get some peace and quiet." She tapped her temple, "Old trick of the trade, that."
Nothing. The girl gave an agitated glance out the window, then squeaked as Liz swung her feet off the ground and held them aloft. Liz stared dejectedly at them.
"Look at these feet. Now, it's hard to tell seeing as I'm wearing these ugly loafers, but these are the sorriest-looking feet in all of Britain. And its colonies. And its embassies. These feet are world-weary. And the poor toes have been stubbing corners and chairs all day. If these feet had a face I'd call them Mr. and Mrs. Magoo."
Liz was disappointed to receive only a bewildered stare; the Magoo joke would have her little sister Penny in stitches. She swung her feet back to the ground and looked beseechingly at the girl.
"If I serve one more plate my poor little feet are going to detach themselves from my ankles, say 'it's been a pleasure, ta very much, but we have needs too' and go on strike. As the union representative for Mr. and Mrs. Magoo, I am here to formally ask for your assistance in saving them. May I please sit here, in your company?"
Okay, the union joke was pushing it, but Liz was heartened by the reluctantly permitting nod.
"Excellent!" She beamed at the child. "I've come bearing gifts. One fizzy drink, and chips to share."
The girl blinked at the proffered food.
"Go on, then." Liz nudged the plate closer. A hesitant hand reached out for the Vimto, stubby nails picking at the aluminium.
She watched her struggle for a moment, flummoxed at the notion of a child who didn't understand how to open a can of soda. Even one with Down's. She reached over to pull the tab, and smiled at the girl's cautious first sip.
The surprised pleasure prompted a laugh from Liz. "You won't forget that in a hurry, will you?"
Aware that the girl's timidity was like that of a feral cat, Liz shifted her chair so she was angled away, facing the opposite wall. She rested her head on the back of the wall, idly picking at the chips, occasionally drooping her eyelids to promote the notion that she was relaxed enough to nod off.
The child wasn't well, that much was clear. Though not malnourished, exactly, she had a sallow tinge to her face that spoke of illness and confinement. Her skin was as sheer as skimmed milk, purple lines threading like a spool under her eyes. Her hair looked like it was cropped with a blunt knife, its length exposing her broad, squat neck. Liz closed her eyes and tucked her fingers close to the radiator, listening to the door jangling and customers stomping the snow off their boots.
After a long while she straightened up, stretching her arms and mewling a satisfied groan as her back cracked. She looked at the plate, happy to see that it had been picked clean.
Liz smiled contentedly. "That was lovely. Much needed."
They looked at each other, feeling safe enough to examine each other's features. Liz lowered her voice.
"May I ask you a question?"
A hesitant nod.
"Can I ask you your name? You know mine well enough, I'm sure, with my boss screaming it from the rafters all day."
She tucked her chin into her neck. "Your name is Liz."
She spoke as though her words were round, her cheeks stuffed with cotton balls.
Liz grinned. "That's right! And what can I call you?"
She tilted her head, her eyes angling awkwardly from under her folded lids.
"I'm Rosie."
Liz clasped her hands excitedly in her lap, avoiding any sudden movements.
"Rosie. What a lovely name, Rosie."
The child's eyes shifted back to the window, almost dismissive.
Liz quirked her lips. "Well Rosie, you saved my feet an' all. It's been a pleasure"
There was no point in pushing her too hard. She didn't want to scare her away, skittish as she was. But as she resumed her shift, laughing with customers and weaving around chairs, she could see Rosie surreptitiously watching her from the window reflection as the afternoon darkened into dusk, and her heart swelled. It was a step forward, at any rate. Now that she bridged some mutual interest, she could work on establishing trust.
When evening rounded, a team of a dozen regulars barrelled through the front door, and Liz swiftly sorted through the orders and habitual banter. She had just settled the last plate when she looked up and saw Rosie staring at her with disconcerting attention. Liz scuttled through the tables towards her, brows raised.
"Everything alright, love?
Her chin was near pasted to her chest, but her solemn eyes, small but prettily framed by sooty lashes, looked down at Liz' feet somewhat… impishly.
"The Magoo's", a shy whisper.
Customers be damned, but Liz collapsed into a dramatic heap on the ground. As she made a dramatic fuss at her world-weary feet, she was rewarded by a high-pitched huffing noise, a strange laugh, that the child immediately hid in the crook of her arm.
o-O-o
Liz was occupied with changing the till roll when Rosie disappeared. She hadn't heard the bell atop the door, or the settling of coins she now saw on the table, but rather felt the sudden ebbing of magic. She swung her head to see Beatriz sourly scraping gum from the underside of the counter, oblivious to the girl's departure. It was time.
She went outside, bracing herself against the cold as she scanned the narrow street. She couldn't see the girl, but she could feel the tendrils of her drum-like magic fading past the corner. Liz pushed through a throng of people and jogged down the slush-coated pavement. Though the next street over was well-lit with shop signs and neon lights, she still couldn't see Rosie. She closed her eyes and felt the swell of magic, and began to jog again, choosing to trust her senses over her sight.
Lord, but she was freezing. Her service uniform was short-sleeved, and her bare arms bristled with gooseflesh. She hoped Beatriz would remember to meet her at her flat.
The street cornered into a skinny lane, and Liz hurried when she realized that the path led into a sprawling park, bereft of streetlamps. She dodged a party of young lads out for an early-night pint and at the park gate she brushed past two men looking at the street sign. It wasn't until one of them called out to her that she felt the thrums of their magic bristle her senses.
"Marie?"
Liz stopped and turned, staring squarely at the hulking figure who had spoken. He was enormous, tall as he was wide. Barrel-chested with a roustabout build and presently peering at her with some bemusement. Beside him stood the most ridiculous-looking nob she'd ever seen, dressed like a Victorian villain with a cane to boot. He flicked his platinum blonde hair over his shoulder and looked at her with a curled lip, like she was the physical embodiment of a bad smell.
This encounter was important, she was sure. But she didn't want to know any more. She didn't want to know anything new about Marie, not the strange men she knew nor the strange life she led.
Wordlessly she shook her head as a response, and resumed her light jog. Clasping her hands around her arms, she peered into the black brush, trying to shake off her shaken feelings.
This was bad. She didn't know how or why, but she could read an omen as well as anyone. Nothing good ever came from that woman. She wasn't in any hurry to claim a relation. She inhaled, sharply. Yes, this was bad.
Venturing deeper into the darkness, she picked up traces of Rosie at the far corner of the gated park. The tall trees blocked out the surrounding streetlamps, and as she stepped off the pavement onto the snowy grass she felt as though she was walking blind.
Rosie was hiding. But why?
It was a fair point to assume the child was ducking from the overly-intrusive waitress gunning after her for blocks, but Liz sensed she wouldn't have hidden from her.
The temperature dropped so suddenly it stopped Liz in her tracks. She straightened and looked around. Something seemed to swirl in the black silhouettes of the trees. The tension in the night sky grew taut as a familiar fear began to coil in her belly.
Fear is always familiar, but this fear was embodied with an essence she hadn't felt since she was a child. The trepidation of this known fear had cloaked Liz her entire life, at times smothering her until she wound up on the floor gasping for air.
Snow sifted through the spots of dead grass, and she stood stock-still as petrification swelled around her until all she felt was her heart clanking against her chest. She breathed a strangled noise, and lurched forward as though the sound jumpstarted her into action. She ran towards a copse of wood where she could feel Rosie hiding.
"Rosie. Rosie. You're alright love, I've come to take you home. C'mon love."
She stuck a shaking hand through the brambles, frantically snapping off branches trying to feel for a clearing.
"It's Liz, love. Rosie I know you're in there. You need to come out now. You'll be alright with me."
Damn that tremble in her voice! She sounded like a child herself.
She strained to hear for the girl and it was with this focus she suddenly heard the slow staccato step of heel on pavement, accompanied by a recently acquainted thrum of magic. This was too much. It was the man with the cane, and he was headed this way.
Panic engulfed her and she started to hiss Rosie's name. "Come out! Come out! Quickly!"
She thought she could see the outline of a small hand, strangely white inside the black thicket. The heat of ignited blood pierced the cold air that felt like a reaper's breath at her neck. They were connected somehow. Rosie and these men, an archetypal villain and a leering acquaintance of Marie's. Liz would sooner hand her over to a caravan of carnies than see her found by these strangers.
The coldness hung on her, oppressed. She tore through the brambles like a madwoman, her anxiety edging towards a precipice when all of a sudden she felt Rosie's magic dim, then disappear completely. Shocked, she looked ahead, only to see that the small hand was gone.
Then, Liz realized, so was she, seeing herself run past the tree lined fence towards the opposite gate. Released suddenly like a desperate bat on a cord, straight out of hell. Away from the park. Away from those men. Away from Rosie.
It was too much. Too much.
She ran for blocks, bursting through the unlocked door beside the closed Chinese grocery, up the narrow stairs and into the tiny bedsit she rented above the store. She stumbled at the entrance and nearly yanked the door off its hinges as her legs gave way from under her, still gripping the doorknob. Sheer maternal instinct for the child sleeping inside overrode her desire to slam the door, and she pushed it closed with a surprisingly gentle shoulder, bolting it with shaking fingers. She fell on her elbows and gasped out loud, a moan grated by seizing lungs. She tried to catch her breath, raspy and grated, her face half-squashed into the carpet.
What had she done.
o-O-o