At 9:32 PM on a frigid Wednesday evening, the telephone in Dr. Archibald Hopper's dark flat rings four times, shrill and urgent. On the fifth ring, an old answering machine clicks on and whirs to life.
"Archie—Archie, pick up. Please, pick up. It's Belle…"
At 9:35 PM, on a sticky pub table, a mobile phone begins to buzz. Its tiny, backlit screen glows a sickly shade of green, and it anxiously flashes the name Belle French. Dr. Archibald Hopper is standing near the crowded bar, waiting on a pitcher of premium bitters for his trivia team. He does not hear his mobile, and the phone quiets before he returns to the table.
The call goes to voicemail.
"Archie! Archie, please—I need to talk to you. I don't think he's… Nosty isn't coming back. He isn't coming back, and I…"
There is an unsteady intake of breath, followed by wet, muffled sobbing. In the background, a radio broadcasts the nightly news. Another man's been stabbed near Charring Cross. Stock prices are holding steady. Sleet is predicted for the morning commute.
And then—fiercely, finally: "Archie, I'm going after him."
At 11:02 PM, underneath the noisy Waterloo Bridge, Nosty is longing for a wee bit of fucking shut-eye.
He shifts his arse around uncomfortably on a cracked, plastic milk crate and takes a long pull from the fag he has clamped between his chapped lips, remembering the smell of Belle's clean bed sheets. Before his lengthy, ill-advised field trip to Eaton Square, he slept just fucking fine sitting upright, shoulder blades against the cold cement, letting his chin fall forward against his fucking chest.
But now—everything feels too raw and nettlesome.
Will he ever be able to blot out the memory of Belle French?
Now that he has become somewhat accustomed to taking his catnaps lying down, tucked beneath a warm duvet, wrapped up tight in the arms of a woman who swore she loved him—loved holding on to him, loved the feel of his skin, the smell of his hair, the taste of his lips, the sound of his voice—after all that, can he ever go back to snatching sleep whilst some drunk waster takes a smelly pish not three yards off?
"Christ, Sammy! The fuck you doin'? This ain't your fucking lavvie!"
Nosty plucks an empty beer bottle up out of the dirt and chucks it at Sammy's ugly, ratarsed mug, missing only by scant inches. The glass explodes with a satisfying, high-pitched burst, bringing to mind the shattered lamp in Belle's elegant flat. Nosty flicks his lit fag end onto the ground and hoists up another bottle, thinking to throw it. Instead, he lifts the stale gin up to his lips and takes a long, greedy swallow. The fingers of his free hand creep unconsciously into his jacket pocket, seeking out the wee, brass key to Belle's front door.
Sammy staggers off, slurring curses, his trousers unzipped.
"Oi! Nosty! Found a bit o' something that belongs to ya."
It's fucking Marley, the other reason Nosty can't catch any proper rest nowadays, engaging in another tiresome piece of public theatre.
The two men have been circling each other warily for well over a week now, each looking for some sort of a fucking toehold, offering the lads beneath the bridge a welcome bit of excitement. Something juicy to whisper about over the trashcan fires, whiling away the bleak, freezing hours between dusk and dawn.
It won't do to look too interested in anything Marley has to say.
"That right?" Nosty replies flatly.
He chucks the near-empty gin bottle back onto the dirt and slowly rises to his feet, knees popping. With his right hand tucked deep into his leather jacket pocket and a jaunty spring in his step, Nosty walks out from beneath the bridge, long hair swinging.
Overhead, the winter moon is full and bright. It glitters across the swirling surface of the River Thames.
Marley stands not five yards off, over near the steep river embankment. An angry, puckered scar begins at his left temple and meanders downwards to the twisted corner of his mouth—Nosty's brutal parting gift. The scar has healed piss-poorly, creating an unseemly crater in Marley's ruddy, stubbled cheek. Tucked tightly beneath his thick, right forearm, large hand clamped securely over her mouth, is Belle.
She is shaking like a leaf in a winter squall.
Belle's nostrils are flared, and her wet eyes are wide and frantic. They roll around wildly in her small skull, dark pupils full-blown with fear, swallowing up the delicate blue.
When her eyes alight upon Nosty, Belle's trembling body makes a desperate, futile jerk towards him.
Marley laughs.
"I found Missy here up by the Strand Underpass, cryin' and callin' out for you. Oh, Nosty! Nosty!" Marley's rough voice skitters up the octave to a high, mocking falsetto. "She's a fuckin' fit little totty, ain't she? None too bright, though, I'm afeart. I told her I'd take her to you straightaways—didn't I, pretty luv…?"
Nosty's dry skin prickles and crawls. His veins run colder than the fucking River Thames in January.
He is holding himself absolutely still and rigid, as stony silent as a Trafalgar Square statue, sinking his incisors deep into his inner cheek, drawing out tart, salty blood, just thinking. Thinking.
Please—be still, beautiful, he silently wills, struggling to avoid Belle's frightened, searching gaze. Oh Christ, love, please be fucking calm.
To Marley, he simply says: "Never laid eyes on her before in my fucking life. What—you expect me to do a fucking roll call on all the junkies that come crawling under this bridge, howling my name?"
Nosty turns on his boot heel and forces a cold, disinterested laugh through his clenched teeth. He begins making his way back beneath the bridge, blood pounding furiously in his ears.
"So she's nowt but an upmarket junkie, eh? Well then, I suppose you won't mind if pretty Missy and I get a wee bit better acquainted."
Marley snorts derisively and ducks his ravaged face, pressing his nose against Belle's right temple and rubbing it roughly back and forth. He makes a great show of snuffling at her sweet-smelling hair. Belle's frightened eyes squeeze tightly shut, and when Marley unexpectedly releases his hold on her mouth, she cries out, "Nosty, please!"
Nosty freezes.
Behind him, he hears soft, wretched, hiccuping sobs, and the sound of his beautiful bird weeping nearly bends him double. He turns slowly back around, his dark eyes flat and glassy with unspent hatred.
"See, it sounds to me like the two of you might actually be better acquainted than you fucking realize, Nosty son. You sure you don't want to take a closer look?"
Marley reaches into his front trouser pocket and draws out a battered switchblade. With careful, deliberate fingers, he cuts through the thread that secures the top button of Belle's tweed coat.
Her teeth begin to chatter.
"Nosty," she moans wretchedly, stretching her arms out towards him, her gloved fingers splayed, "Nosty, please help me…"
His too-long fingernails sink further into the fleshy part of his palms. He has chewed a painful gash into the side of his cheek, but Nosty's face remains a mask of grim detachment.
"I don't fucking know you, poshie," he growls, finally meeting Belle's searching, wet eyes. It's a mistake. The helpless fear in her face very nearly undoes him. "How about you run along and find your fix fucking elsewhere, yeah? This gentleman and I have some pressing business matters to discuss." And then, addressed to Marley: "She's a nothing. Just some fucking toff looking to score on the cheap. It's me you want. Let her go, and we'll settle this."
"Just a 'nothing,' eh?" Marley snickers, "You know, I don't think so, Nosty son. I really don't think so. Jimmy and Sean say this is the same swish little birdie they saw you with in the Underground awhile back. Just fucking think of it: Nosty—out on a fucking date. How about you take a closer look?"
With a deft flick of his wrist, Marley cuts another tortoiseshell button loose, exposing Belle's collarbone. "Anything looking familiar now?"
"Nosty…" Belle sobs.
She is still searching his hooded eyes, still reaching out her hands for him, as if—should he only say the word—it would put an immediate end to this entire situation. "Nosty, please…"
Marley scoffs, "Naw, I think you fucking care for her, Nosty son. Maybe just a wee bit? And do you know what you taught us lads about caring for things? Do you remember what you fucking told us?"
Nosty shakes his head, his throat gone dry. He slowly stretches out a hand toward Marley, palm forward: Jesus, stop.
"You told us, 'Find out what a bloke fucking cares about, and you've found the spot to twist the fucking knife.'"
It happens faster than Nosty can move to stop it—the switchblade leaps from its position in front of Belle's sternum and plunges into the right side of her neck. Her horrified scream is cut short when Marley twists the knife with a sharp, brutal flick of his wrist, pulls it lose, and then meticulously wipes the bloody blade on the sleeve of her jacket.
Belle's mouth hangs open, and she grabs at the spurting wound with both hands, her eyes wide and glassy with shock.
"Sorry, Missy," Marley growls, "Nothing personal." He lets her fall where she stands and walks away into the winter night, whistling.
"No!—Nonononono, Christ, fuck, no…" Nosty stumbles and quickly crawls to where Belle lies crumpled on the cold ground. She is gagging and coughing and struggling for each breath of chill night air. His beautiful bird is wearing a veritable apron of red blood, her white wool gloves already soaked through with it. Gasping, she rolls over onto her back and reaches up for him, lifting her wet hands away from her neck. Blood bubbles up and spills over onto the dirt, as if from some gruesome, crimson natural spring.
"No, no, no sweetheart!—keep them there! Keep them there!"
Nosty presses his rough hands over hers, applying pressure to the open artery, looking around wildly for help. "Just—don't try to fucking talk, alright?" But Belle opens her mouth wider, steam wreathing her ashen face. Her tongue is wine-red with blood.
She wants to tell him something.
"Hey!" Nosty screams, his voice cracking, "Hey, somebody fucking get us some fucking help over here!"
A curious crowd has begun to gather, keeping a safe distance and taking in the gruesome spectacle, gaping, jostling, and muttering amongst themselves. At the edge of the rabble, cradling a cheap bottle of gin, Nosty spies Kaz. She is gnawing on her bottom lip, her nose pink with drink and wrinkled with repugnance.
He begs her, "Kaz! Fuck, Kaz! Call us an ambulance, yeah?"
Kaz regards him and Belle with bleary, dispassionate eyes. "I don't want any trouble, Nosty," she says. "Your girl is done for, and I—I'm sorry, I just don't want any trouble with Marley, is all." She fades away into the crowd, taking a long pull from the bottle.
"Jesus, please—will somebody call for a fucking ambulance?"
Belle has worked one hand loose from her slippery neck, and she is feeling around in her jacket pocket, trying to lift her head a little to see. Whilst Nosty struggles to keep pressure against the open, seeping wound, cursing and weeping and calling for help, she draws out the silver bracelet and presses it to his chest, her eyes widening. Yours.
He sees it, the heavy chain link stained with red and gleaming in the moonlight, and it's like a steel-toed boot to the stomach. The air leaves his lungs in a rush, and he tells her fiercely, "We aren't writing your fucking last will and testament tonight, beautiful. I won't let you fucking die here. Stay with me. Jesus, just stay with me, love…"
Belle's blue eyes roll back as Nosty lifts her reverently in his arms and runs toward the embankment, yelling himself hoarse at the taxicabs and lorries driving along the A3211.