What Abigail Did Tha Summer by Ben Aaronovitch (read 50 shades of grey TXT) 📕

bit surprised to find I mean it. ‘Add me on Snapchat.’

And then I give her one of my disposable identities that I use when I want to keep people at arm’s length. Which, if truth be told, is most people most of the time.

‘When they give me my phone back,’ she says.

Now her dad is walking back up the hall to loom at Natali’s shoulder and make it clear that our conversation is over. I give him another attempt at Simon’s smile and thank them both.

The door is barely closed behind me when I hear them shouting.

I walk down the path and I’m not even through the gate and my phone is ringing. I check and the screen is showing an unknown number. I answer and immediately recognise the voice – Simon’s mum.

‘Abigail,’ she says. ‘Is Simon with you?’

‘How did you get my number?’ I ask.

‘That’s not important right now,’ she says.

In the background I can hear elders chatting quietly. Their voices sound flat, as if Simon’s mum is inside a recording studio and there’s sound baffling.

‘What makes you think he’s with me?’

‘Is he?’

‘No.’

‘He was definitely in his room this morning,’ says Simon’s mum. ‘And Angelica heard someone calling his name.’

‘So,’ I say, ‘what about his other friends?’

‘He doesn’t . . .’ she starts to say. Then, ‘His other friends are all away on holiday. Are you sure it wasn’t you?’

No, I went round, called him out to play and totally forgot I did it, which I do not say, because now I’m getting suspicious. What if Jessica or someone like her has been out to recruit Simon again?

‘Did Angelica say where the voice was coming from? The front or the back?’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Front or back?’

There is a pause as Simon’s mum thinks about it. I like that she takes me seriously, but it’s not always a good thing. If the olds are paying attention, you’ve got to be careful about what you say in front of them.

‘From the back garden,’ she says and then, while I’m still thinking it out, ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘Maybe,’ I say, but really I know for certain. ‘If I see him I’ll send him home.’

‘I’d much rather . . .’ says Simon’s mum, and pauses for a moment. ‘If you happen to run into him, could you perhaps bring him home?’

‘No worries,’ I say.

‘Good,’ she says and hangs up.

I add the number to my contact list as SIMON’S MUM.

‘All right then,’ I say loudly. ‘You two can show yourselves.’

7 Ugly, unpleasant.

8 Unless I’m mistaken the best translation for this instance would be ‘wan’, although Abigail herself insists on ‘dodgy’.

12

Surveillance Op #01

I turn to see Simon come out from where he was hiding behind a blue Renault. He has a lead in his right hand and at the other end is Indigo – wearing a collar. They both trot over and give me identical innocent looks.

‘Why are you following me?’

‘We wanted to know where you were going,’ says Indigo, and Simon is nodding agreement.

I point at the lead.

‘Are you wearing a collar?’

‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Indigo. ‘I’m undercover as a dog. Lets me move about in the Brick in daylight.’

What she looks like is a big fox wearing a collar. If she isn’t on Facebook in the next hour I’ll be really surprised.

‘Was this part of your training?’ I ask.

‘Nah,’ says Indigo. ‘Simon thought of it.’

Simon gives me that grin – you could use it to guide jets in at Heathrow.

‘Okay, Indigo,’ I say, and start walking back towards the footbridge. ‘Let’s get you under proper cover.’

‘For operational reasons,’ says Indigo, ‘you should call me Gaspode.’

‘Gaspode?’

‘That’s my cover name,’ says Indigo. ‘Part of my legend.’

‘Def going to be legendary if you don’t get off the street,’ I say.

We walk quickly to the footbridge across the railway line. There’s a dog waste bin here, and in the heat the slope up to the stairs stinks of shit and wee. Indigo lists the dogs whose markers she can smell. Not what their owners call them, unless there are really three dogs called George H-19, George H-15, George H-26.

‘All gun dogs are designated George,’ says Indigo. ‘The H stands for Heath and the numbers are allocated sequentially.’

We walk across the bridge and Indigo explains that collies are Sugar Dogs, dachshunds, terriers and other dogs bred to catch rats are Rogers, while German shepherds were designated Ables, although Indigo didn’t know why.

‘Why aren’t the gun dogs called Golf,’ I ask, because that’s the phonetic alphabet for G, but Indigo says that G is for George. I recite the standard alphabet to Indigo and Simon as we head up the hill towards the Parliament Hill entrance, where we all met.

‘Where are we going?’ asks Simon.

‘I’m going to the Vale of Health,’ I say. ‘But you might want to go home.’

Simon pulls a sour face.

‘It’s going to be boring,’ I say.

His face scrunches up.

‘Why?’ he asks.

*

‘This is so boring,’ says Indigo.

‘Why are you bored?’ I ask. ‘Aren’t you trained for surveillance?’

We’re sitting on a bench opposite the Showmen’s9 winter quarters. From here we can watch the entrance to the Vale of Health. Indigo says this is where Goth Girl and Nerd Boy left the Heath. Because it’s summer, the winter quarters are mostly empty and I can easily watch both routes off the Heath, as well as along the path that runs past the Vale of Health Pond.

‘Still boring,’ she says.

But it turns out Simon isn’t bored. Because Simon loves to people-watch – as long as I make up stories about them. Or, if necessary, I get him distracted by letting him play Angry Birds on my phone. He’s not allowed a phone.

‘You should call Childline,’ I said when he told me.

‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t have a phone.’

His face was so serious it took me at least fifteen seconds to work out he was making a joke.

A fat white girl jogs past in yellow leggings, expensive white trainers and purple Lycra crop top – a phone strapped to her upper arm,